“In the meantime, there’s a discussion that needs having,” I say, forcing myself to focus on what comes next.
Leira puts up a little resistance as I grab her hand and practically drag her to the couch. I let go of her and she falls onto it, setting her own flimsy weapon down on the coffee table. I set mine down next to hers as I sit only a few feet away.
She drops the bra she still hasn’t had a chance to put back on. Next, she steps out of her shoes then brings her legs up, shifting them as she leans sideways against the back of the couch facing me. I force my attention away from how much brown skin the movement reveals, cursing myself for deciding nothing but that shirt would be appropriate attire for the day. If I’d known I’d be stuck in a hotel room with her for the evening, I wouldn’t have chosen something so damn sexy. It didn’t even do the trick of keeping her from standing out here in Ibiza, at least not after she decided on shedding it to go for a swim.
Not that the nun outfit is any less mentally stimulating. If I really was a faithful Catholic, I’d have to spend an eternity in confession considering where my mind diverts to just at the memory of it.
I swallow hard, reminding myself of the danger at hand. That’s enough for me to focus.
“Okay, I’ll tell you just enough to let you know what kind of danger you might be in. You do the same.”
I wait for her to nod in agreement.
“Good, you go first.”
Chapter Twenty Leiria
I don’t like the idea of speaking first at all.
But Enrique seems insistent. I suppose he did give me that much, his real name. This time I actually believed it was his name.
“Any moment now, the men after us will figure out where we are. I need a nap and so do you. The longer you drag this out, the less either of us get in terms of rest. Trust me, you want me as alert and well-rested as possible.”
I look off to the side, the muscles in my jaw ticking as I mull that over.
What would it mean if I told him? Not everything, but just enough to let him know what kind of danger he might be in. And he’ll do the same.
Telling him about my father and his mysterious enemy, along with what happened to my sisters, seems safe enough. If he were one of the men involved in that, which I highly doubt at this point, he’d already have all the information. If he isn’t, I don’t see him going to the trouble of figuring out who they are and letting them know he has me. He doesn’t seem to need the money, and it doesn’t look as though he’s interested in attracting more drama and danger into his life.
Because whoever these new people are, they’re definitely after him.
“Okay, I’m in hiding from one of my father’s enemies. He never told me who it is,” I roll my eyes and feel my mouth tighten before continuing. “He never tells me much of anything.”
Even the secret Dad entrusted me with, one that I’m damn sure not telling Enrique about, he never explained fully. Just information he gave me, should anything happen to him. My very own life insurance, he called it.
“These men, they…murdered my older sister. The second youngest before me, she was recently kidnapped by them as well. Dad never confirmed it, but I’m pretty sure they killed my mother and oldest sister as well—”
“How many sisters do you have?” Enrique asks, his brow creasing with incredulity.
I laugh softly. “Six—my parents are Catholic. Well, I had six.” A sudden frown overtakes my face. “Two are dead, one is probably dead by now. The other three are—”
I stop, realizing that I’m telling too much. Perhaps.
Still, the sangria is still too fresh in my brain for me to start rambling, especially about family.
“The other three are alive.”
He seems satisfied enough with that.
“That’s why Dad had me sent to the convent,” I continue. I give him a level gaze before adding, “I suppose he thought I would be safe there, my posing as a postulant.”
“Perhaps if you’d stuck to the script of playing the good little nun, you still would be.”
I scowl at him, which earns me a laugh in return.
“So he didn’t tell you who it was that is after you?” Enrique confirms, wrinkling his brow with frustration.
I shake my head, no.
I’m sure he’s probably wondering the same thing as I always have. Why the hell would Dad keep that kind of information from me?
“Who is your father? What does he do?”
I stiffen in response, even though I know it’s probably relevant information for Enrique. I’m just touchy when it comes to my father.
“He’s an importer-exporter, he owns several ships that operate in the Americas, from Canada to Argentina,” I say, hearing the note of pride in my voice.
Enrique coughs out a laugh. “So, that’s it.”
“What?” I ask, straightening up and giving me an indignant look.
“It’s never occurred to you that your father might just be a—”
“He is not a drug dealer,” I snap.
“No, he just facilitates the movement of their goods.” His voice oozes sarcasm.
I feel that anger boil inside of me once again. Many a catfight was had in my elite girls’ school over classmates suggesting such a thing about my father. Don’t even get me started on the things said about my mother being born in Africa. Usually, it came in snickers and whispers from the rich white girls firmly riding the wave of generational wealth. My fellow Latina classmates were sometimes even worse about it, never really counting me as one of their own because of my mixed heritage. The very few black Catholic students were at least empathetic, but their fathers still had “legitimate” careers they could point to that had no hint of an underworld stench tainting it.
Anyone
