Chapter Ten

Myla

It’s a short drive and we are at the new Alvarez Clothing location, where a shopping center frames the left side of a two-story red brick warehouse, while the front door is hugged by enough space to hold two hundred cars. “It’s very large,” I comment as Kyle parks us next to the front door, in a reserved spot, while no more than fifteen vehicles scatter the rest of the lot. 

“Not what you expected?”

“We aren’t doing mass distribution right now, so no,” I say. “It’s not what I expected.”

 “Alvarez is doing plenty of mass distribution, and opportunist that he is-”

“He told me he wouldn’t-”

“You talk to him about his business?” he asks, and suddenly he is facing me, looking at me; disapproval in those fierce green eyes. 

“No,” I say, “but I’m no fool. I know who he is. I know what he does and I don’t want to be connected to that.”

“You’re connected to it as long as you’re connected to him.”

“He promised me this would be legal.”

“Of course he did,” he says dryly. “But in case you didn’t know, money laundering is not legal, even if the clothing in the warehouse is.”

My defenses bristle. “I’m pretty sure you working for him isn’t either.”

“I’m guarding you, sweetheart. There is nothing illegal about that.”

“What else are you doing?” I ask. “Because you still haven’t told me who you really are and what you want.”

“What am I doing?” he asks, once again avoiding a direct answer. “Getting us the fuck out of the car before Juan nags me again and ends up dead sooner than I plan.” He reaches for his door. 

I blanch. “Wait. What? Sooner than you plan?” 

 “He’s a dead man walking, of that I can promise you, but right now, he’s a buffer between us and Alvarez, so he lives another day. Stay here. I’ll come around for you.” He gets out of the car.

Okay. New direction here. He can’t be FBI. He wouldn’t be planning on killing Juan if he was. Would he? Wanting a chance to ask something else, anything else, before I can’t, I grab my purse and open my door. Twisting to get out, I find Kyle towering over me, so close I can’t stand up, the warm Texas sun lifting his spicy scent in the air, while I’ve apparently stirred his temper. “What part of “wait” do you not understand?” he demands.

“I can get my own door.”

“And get out of the car, just in time for someone to grab you?”

“Oh, I-”

“Oh is right,” he says. “You wait when I tell you to wait.”

“Right. Asshole mode now in full force.”

“You haven’t seen asshole yet, sweetheart. This is me keeping you alive.”

He’s taken me full circle back to my worries in the garage. “Is there a threat to my life I don’t know about?”

“You’re his woman. Isn’t that the only answer you need?”

That jolts me and I react instantly. “Fuck you, Kyle,” I say, before I can stop myself. “And move so I can get out.”

“That was a test,” he says. 

“Isn’t everything with you?”

“Don’t react to anything I say like it matters to you,” he warns, taking a step backward and giving me space.

The test was not the test I thought it was, and I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “Damn it,” I murmur, inhaling and shutting my eyes a moment, envisioning myself stepping into the invisible box that I live in when I am her, when I am his woman.

“Myla,” Kyle says, and I open my eyes, standing to face him. 

“I get it. I failed the test.”

“You failed one, but you passed the one that matters.”

“What? No, I-”

“Passed.” 

“What test?”

“Think about it,” he says, taking yet another two steps backwards, aligning himself with the door, but I am thinking about his second test and the meaning hits me. I reacted with honest distaste to him calling me Michael Alvarez’s woman, I’d fret that, but really, he was right. If he wants to hang me out to dry, he could do so with little or no, facts.

I inhale a calming breath, that isn’t calming at all, but I don’t let nerves delay my departure. I step out of the Mustang and walk toward the door, by the time I’m there, Kyle is with me, holding the door. “Don’t look at me,” he warns softly, and the very fact that he a) needs to tell me this, and b) knows what I will do already, is compelling proof of…I don’t know what. But it’s big and I’ll figure it out later. I have to figure it out. 

Entering the glossy white lobby, I observe the pictures of stylish, bright colored clothing painted on glass windows, unbidden, the elation of a dream realized, if only for these few fantasy moments, washes over me. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur, turning in a circle to take it all in. 

“Myla!” 

At my name, I face forward and blink the pretty blonde behind an oval stainless steel desk into view, finding her standing up to greet me, her suit dress as white as the leather chairs and couch behind me. It’s also mine. Mine. Mine! “It’s your creation,” she says of my dress, speaking as if she knows me. 

I have a rock star kind of moment, like I’ve made it to the top, and a thrill slides up and down my spine. “Do you love it?” she asks, rounding the desk. “I love it!”

I do love it, but just as unbidden as the misplaced joy I’d felt entering the lobby, I find myself assessing her in an unwelcome way, finding her twenty-something, model-gorgeous, and exactly the kind of woman that would be a target for the cartel for very bad things. All elation is gone and it’s all I can do to maintain my smile. “It’s stunning on you,” I say. “You are beautiful and I am honored to have you wear it.”

She beams. “Okay now,” she says. “You are officially so very nice.” She glances at Kyle as he steps to my side, a tiny hint of admiration in her face, which bugs me. “Hi,” she greets, flirtiness in her tone. “Can I help you?”

“No help needed,” he says.

Her brows furrow, her admiration starting to turn to discomfort. “But…who are you, please?” 

“The bodyguard,” he says flatly, and the rush of awkwardness in the room is instant, as is his success at turning her admiration into intimidation, which has me feeling guilty for my hint of jealousy. She is young and he is older, good looking, and overwhelmingly…him. Just him. That’s all I have to say or think on the topic. 

 “I’ll let Barbara know that Myla and her bodyguard are present,” she says, heading back to the desk, and seeming like she wants a barrier from the awkwardness, she nervously adds, “And my name is Heather if you need anything.” She flicks Kyle a look that gets her nothing but a hard stare. 

Trying to ease her discomfort, like I have others before her, like I want to do for so many more, I say, “He’s Kyle, and a robot actually. He looks very real, right? That’s why he’s so big. It takes a lot of space to make it look like he has muscles when he doesn’t.”

She gives him a curious look and Lord help me, she inspects him like I might not be joking. The man has rattled the poor girl and he and I will be chatting about that, very forcefully. “He’s very authentic, right?” I ask, holding out my hands as if presenting my specimen and Kyle either doesn’t care or play along, just standing there. Finally, she gets it, and bursts out laughing. I laugh, too, while Kyle says, “I need to do a walkthrough of the building with Myla in a secure location.” 

“Our building is secure, I assure you,” comes a female voice and now I have a genuine thrill with no guilt because I am staring at The Barbara Van Gleek, who is sixty, silver haired, and somehow elegantly sexy. She’s also been the assistant to some of the biggest names in fashion.

I want to gush. I want to hug her. I want to act like a school girl, but I know, that won’t get me respect, which I need at all levels to keep surviving. 

 “Forgive me, ma’am,” Kyle replies, “but my responsibility is to Myla’s safety and I will be making that assessment myself.” 

Barbara purses her pink-painted lips. “Men. They’re all the same. They have to be in charge. Well, you’re not in charge young man, but if it makes you feel better, do whatever you need to do. I’ll take Myla into my office. No. To her office.” Her gaze lands on me. “Why am I talking to him and not to our superstar? Come.” She holds out her arms. “I must hug the future of fashion.”

Oh god. I’m having a mixed moment of fan girl and dream girl, both of whom want this to be real, not a money laundering operation for a drug cartel. And I let myself. Just for these few beats, when time stands still as I’m wrapped in Barbara’s arms. I mean, she is hugging me, after all, and she smells like cinnamon of all things, and I really like cinnamon.

She pulls back and looks at me. “You look uncannily like your mother.”

“I do?” I don’t give her time to answer because I’ve never met anyone who knows my mother. “You knew my mother?”

“I did. She was a beauty with quite the eye for design work. Which brings me to the surprise I have for you.” She takes my hand, Barbara Van Gleek takes my freaking hand, and leads me down a curvy artsy stone encased path, but there is a sudden, odd fizzle of unease in me, and I don’t know why. Where is it coming from? Why am I so on edge that I can feel Kyle behind me, close, connected, and yes, looking out for me? Once again, he makes me feel safe. No. He always makes me feel safe, and despite knowing I am responsible for my own safety, I welcome the sense of not being quite as alone with him around. I revel in the cold steel between my breasts, and it hits me then that even having it, should equal trust in Kyle, a detail so obvious, that I don’t know why it hasn’t registered. 

Our travels, and my fizzle of unease, continue to the right and down another hallway, this one’s walls layered with fashion magazine covers as if they are embedded in the stone, I love it, but that fizzle is becoming a bubble. I try to tame it by reminding myself that thanks to Kyle I could shoot any enemy that attacked me if I had to do it, and it’s that thought that brings us to a halt at a corner office.

“Your castle, madam,” Barbara says, motioning me forward and bowing dramatically. 

I smile, but I don’t quite feel it, aware this isn’t the dream. Aware now that the bubble is a well of emotions over wanting, but not wanting, so many things. I know then that these feelings had been building with today’s approach, and I can no longer blame Kyle for last night. I’d been ripe for that cry. 

“Go in!” Barbara urges when I still stand in the hallway, aware of Kyle behind me, wishing she was gone, and he was the only one here now. I don’t analyze why he’s okay. He just is. He’s the only one that is or has been for a very long time. 

Forcefully, I step forward, entering my new place of work, and when I do, I feel nauseous, not elated, at the perfection of the space. I take it in, try to comprehend it and form the positive reaction it deserves. I mean, it is fabulous. Not only is the desk this stunning, shiny dark wood, the floors are a pale tan contrasted with walls that mimic their color. But what steals my breath, what guts me, are the life-sized fashion shots of my mother lining those walls. 

Barbara steps to my side, sliding her arm over my shoulder. “Do you love it?”

“Yes,” I whisper, unable to find my voice, that bubble of emotion now in my throat. “Yes, I do. I love it.” And truly I do love it, just not what surrounds it. Not what got me here.

She turns me to face her, her hands on my shoulders. “Soon this place will be filled with the visions I am certain she inspired.”

“She did. Very much so.”

“I see her in your work.” She releases me and eyes her watch. “How about a tour in thirty minutes? I moved our meeting back to give you time to be settled, so we start in an hour.”

“That’s perfect.” 

“Great,” she says, “then make yourself at home and you will note that there is a Keurig right here in your office.” She indicates an adorable round glass table in the corner right next to a bookshelf and a cozy looking brown leather chair. “And,” she adds “I hear we stocked your favorite chocolate coffee.” She turns and stops in her tracks at the sight of Kyle standing in the doorway, his shoulders all but touching the frame. “Is this a safe stop for her?”

“It’ll do for now,” he concurs, “and I’ll need full access to the facility.”

“I was told you would,” she says, “and there are no deterrents to keep you from looking around anyway.”

“Then I can already tell you security changes are coming.”

“You won’t get any complaints from me about making things safer, but I do not want my staff feeling as if they have something to fear. Understand, Mr.—?”

“Kyle,” he says. “Just call me Kyle. And I’m discreet.”

She gives him a once over. “Nothing about you says discreet, sir.”

He arches a brow and then amends his words to, “Diplomatic.” 

“That I can accept and live with,” she approves.

He gives her an incline of his head and steps just inside the door while she accepts the invitation to depart, quickly crossing the room and disappearing into the hallway. Kyle shuts the door and immediately removes the same box he’d used to scan the hotel for listening devices. I face the largest photo of my mother, her dark hair draping her naked shoulder, a sleek silver formal gown hugging her curves, my heart squeezing with the sight of her. She was beautiful, but she doesn’t look like me. She looks like my sister. 

Kyle steps to my side. “The office is clean, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that changed tomorrow, when they think I’ve already cleared it. The same goes for the hotel room.”

“That’s good,” I murmur, only half listening, Kara on my mind. My mother on my mind. 

He places himself in front of me, blocking the wall from my view. “Myla, you do know that all of this-”

“Is fake. Yes. I know.”

“No. It’s not fake. That woman, those women, and the love for your work, that is not fake. Your talent is not fake.” He reaches up and caresses my cheek, sending goosebumps down my spine, but this time, his touch is calming in ways I don’t try to understand, but welcome. “I need to-” he begins. 

“I know,” I say. 

He hesitates, as if torn about leaving me, before he walks toward the door, and then pauses there, turning to look at the photos of my mother. “She was beautiful,” he says. “And you do look like her.” He opens the door and exits, shutting me inside as he leaves me with a compliment that means more to me than he knows. Or maybe he does know. Maybe he really does see the me I’ve successfully blocked everyone else from seeing.

My cellphone starts ringing in my purse, and I know without looking who it is. I dig it out, and answer, “Hi Michael,” sounding cheerful, which is just one of my practiced emotions.

“Bella,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rich, but oh how I know the way it can whip and cut. The way, quite literally, he can whip and cut. “Do you love everything? 

“I do,” I say, walking to sit at my desk, a cushy high backed velvet chair my new, but wobbly, throne, my briefcase on my desk where Kyle left it. “The lobby is stunning. Barbara is as wonderful as I’d hoped.” I laugh. “You got me chocolate coffee.”

“I know how you love your coffee,” he says, his little gifts part of his way of making me his pet. “I hate that I am not there to enjoy this with you, but business must come first.”

“Where are you exactly?” I ask, gauging the time I have to enact my plan.

“South America, but I should be home in a week rather than three.”

This news twists me and my plans in knots. “That’s wonderful,” I manage. “Three was forever.”

“It would have been an eternity without you otherwise,” he says, though I worry his motivation is really about assessing my loyalty and dealing with me. “How do you like your new bodyguard?” He asks.

“He just stares at everyone and he freaked the poor receptionist out. When I joked that he’s a robot, his reply was to simply stare her down yet again.” 

He chuckles, something I always welcome, as it means for that moment he’s content, a state of mind we all want him to have. “No personality,” he says, “but that’s fine. I’m paying him to protect you, not make everyone feel at ease.”

“His coldness and constant monitoring is rather suffocating,” I say, knowing this will actually make him want to keep Kyle, not the opposite. “I don’t like it.”

“You always have guards. I always have guards.” 

“I know, but…is there a threat I don’t know about?”

“There’s always a threat, but with us separated and you on your own in a new place, the chances of you being targeted are higher.” 

“Why not use your men?”

“Kyle fits into your fashion industry more discreetly, and he’s from Dallas. He knows that area and his references are exceptional.” There are voices in the background and he answers in Spanish, which I’ve pretended not to understand, but do. “Tell him he’s dead,” he says to the other person. “See how he replies then,” he adds, before returning to me, to say, “Negotiations on a deal are heating up. I need to go.”

“Okay. Thank you again for all of this.”

“The world will know your gift, as we do,” he promises, but unlike Kyle’s, his are jagged edged, promising to cut me and make me bleed. As is his pause, which is followed with, “You haven’t mentioned the photos of your mother.”

That fizzle of unease starts up again. “No, I…they choked me up. I feel emotional, so it’s hard to talk about them, but they are wonderful. It’s such an amazing gesture.”

“It’s a connection to family that doesn’t risk death. It is something I thought you would like.”

The fizzle becomes bitter cold ice at what I know to be a threat, and I go into auto-pilot, barely remembering what he says next or what I say. Suddenly, the call is over and I am standing when I had been sitting. Family that doesn’t come with the risk of death. He was threatening Kara. Wait. My God. I’ve been a fool. If I am front and center in this fashion business, she will come for me. She will find me. And he knows it. He didn’t hire Kyle to keep her away. He hired him to know when she arrives. To know when the time to kill her has arrived. I consider a moment, to wonder if Kyle is involved, and I don’t think so. I really don’t. But this is my sister’s life I’m playing with. I have to find out for sure, because it’s time to accept the fact that my plan can’t work when she’s in danger. I need help.