“She-devil. Perfectly befitting a woman who lies about being a woman of God.”
She sniffs and rolls her eyes before taking another sip of water.
“I’ll let you have the shower first, Diabla. You look like you could use it more than me.”
Her eyes snap back to me, suddenly suspicious.
“Don’t worry, I’m far too exhausted to try anything.”
The wary expression doesn’t leave her face, but her eyes fall to her clothes, which are filthy with sand and salt from today’s adventures. She picks at the curls of her hair that fall down her back in wild, frizzy coils, and then frowns. When her eyes come back to me, she twists her lips and gives me a reluctant nod.
I wave toward the bedroom where the bathroom is attached. It has a shower. “There should be a towel in there.”
There’s only one towel, but I’m happy to let her have it. In fact, I doubt I’ll even bother with a shower. A simple change of clothes and washing my face and hands should do the trick.
When I hear the door to the bathroom close, and the water turn on, I head into the bedroom to rifle through my closet. I keep a few changes of clothes and shoes here, just in case. Most of it is as casual as what I’m wearing now.
After pulling out a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans for myself, I consider the rest. My lips twist as I try to imagine something fitting for the woman in my shower. I wear my t-shirts to size, unlike the Americans who seem to prefer a looser fit. Mine would barely cover that perfectly round ass of hers. I smile as I imagine that, then I snuff it out before my dick starts picturing it as well.
The one exception is a dress shirt I keep in case the occasion requires something a little more business casual. Formal rarely, if ever, enters the equation on this island paradise.
I pull out the white, button-up shirt and tilt my head to the side. It’ll have to do. There’s no way I can take her into town in that nun’s outfit. The attention it would draw is too risky.
I lay the shirt on the bed so she sees it when she gets out of the shower. I change into a new pair of underwear and jeans, then grab a t-shirt and head out to the kitchen. There, I rinse my face and hair free of saltwater and then put the clean shirt on.
I pull out my phone to look at the photo I snapped of her. The look of surprise on her face dials it down from “erotic” to “ridiculous.” Frankly, her covering herself with her legs and free arm was much more of a turn-on, reminiscent of those flirty, mid-century pin-ups. But there’s enough on display in this photo for her to be worried about it being made public.
The first tinge of guilt hits me before I remember myself.
I’m no good guy—no hero.
So long as she behaves, she has nothing to worry about. Whoever she is.
The first question that I asked her back at the lagoon pops into my head once again and I mutter it to myself.
“Quién eres?”
Chapter Twelve Leira
The water feels amazing.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted a shower so badly. After a swim in the lagoon, I typically let the sun dry me off, and I’m good to go by the time I make it back to the convent.
But wading through the waves, the sandy beach, and the hike up to Ricardo’s apartment have taken their toll on me. I relish the relaxing feel of warm water against my tired muscles almost as much as I need it to cleanse away the sweat, salt, and sand.
Ricardo.
Yeah right.
And he accuses me of lying.
Of course, he’d be stupid to give me his real name, so I don’t hold it against him.
Diabla.
I laugh under the spray of water. She-devil? That’s what he thinks of me? Or maybe it was just an ironic contradiction to my claim to be a nun-in-training.
If I’m a lying she-devil, just what does that make him?
The sparse state of this place only adds to the mystery of him. It looks exactly like the kind of secret hideout where professional kidnappers would keep a hostage as they awaited the ransom—or maybe just the torture victim of a serial killer, like that guy in that TV show Dexter. Frankly, I fully expected him to have duct tape, ropes, and mouth gags hidden away in a drawer.
That has me thinking about my father. It’s late afternoon, which means the alarm has certainly been sounded back at the convent. I wonder how long it will take them to tell Dad.
He’d be on the next plane to Spain, then on the same boat that first delivered me to the island. Mother Agnes is certainly enough of a force to handle even someone like him—a man who I’ve personally seen make men twice his size tremble in fear.
How much would Ricardo ask for if he knew whose daughter I was?
Then again, there was no ransom demand for either Layla or Lucinda.
I frown and turn off the water, no longer enjoying the shower. While I stand there, the water dripping off me, I organize my thoughts.
Ricardo is obviously hiding something—something that has nothing to do with me, my father, or the people who took my sisters. If I can figure it out, perhaps I can use it as leverage for him to let me go…and delete that damn photo he took of me.
“You can do this,” I say to myself.
I may have had an overly sheltered upbringing but that doesn’t make me stupid. I’ll wait in silence while he slips up talking to me.
It should be easy.
I smile to myself and step out of the shower, grabbing the one towel to dry off. I look at myself in the mirror as I do. The equal blend of my
