“We’re going back to your apartment?” She asks in surprise.
“No, we’ll get something in one of the shops downstairs,” I say as I head to the bathroom to get my jeans and t-shirt to put on until then.
“Then what?” she asks, sliding to the edge of the bed.
I stare at her, wondering how much to tell her about my plan. I knew exactly what I was going to do today last night, but this morning only makes me more sure of it.
“Let’s just worry about breakfast for now.”
* * *
“Okay, so what exactly is the plan?” Leira finally asks, setting her slice of toast down.
We’ve ordered room service once again. They cleared away last night’s dinner and replaced it with this morning’s meal.
I finish my sip of black coffee and lean back in my chair.
“I’m going to my apartment.”
“We are?” she asks, sitting up straighter as panic overcomes her.
“I am. You are going to stay here.”
“What?” she cries, more panicked than ever.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
“How do you know that? Wait, what about you? What if they kill you? Aren’t you even worried?”
I feel a hint of a smile touch my face. For someone who was so eager to be free of me, it’s touching that she’s concerned for my welfare as well as hers.
“They aren’t killing anyone.”
The note of confidence in my voice seems to settle her a bit. “How do you know?”
“If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. Last night confirmed that. Which means, either they don’t want us dead, or they are incompetent. We were practically sitting ducks here.”
“We were?” she asks, a note of outrage touching her voice.
“With weapons.”
“Two broken bottles against God knows who?”
“All the more reason not to be concerned. It’s not our lives they want, it’s something else.”
“What else could it be?” she asks, her eyes darting away as she’s reminded of her own family troubles.
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
Chapter Thirty Leira
“This one,” I say, pulling out a long, flowing, sleeveless dress with a tropical, flowery theme. It seems fitting enough for our surroundings.
Enrique’s expression airs his disapproval well before his voice does.
“You aren’t some retired ex-pat from Britain on vacation.”
I don’t even know what that means, but the way he takes the dress from my hands and places it back on the rack tells me it isn’t anything he finds favorable.
I narrow my eyes with resentment, but before I can retort some smart come-back, he’s reached for another dress. It’s a white billowy thing, with thin straps, and a skirt that floats like delicate flower petals.
I tilt my head to consider it, but Enrique stares at it like he can already picture me in it.
“It’s perfect.”
Something in his voice catches my attention, and my eyes flash to him. There’s something on his face that has me feeling self-conscious, and I haven’t even tried the damn thing on yet. In fact, if my skin weren’t so dark, now officially bronzed by the sun, I’d probably be blushing.
“I’m paying, so I get the final word,” he says in a gruff voice as he snatches his gaze away from me.
I purse my lips and grab the dress and enter a dressing room.
What the hell was that about?
As I remove his shirt, my current “dress,” and put the new one on, I think about it. Yes, he’s paying, only because I don’t have any money of my own. In fact, I don’t have anything of my own with me. The dress is pretty, but it’s not even all that practical. White? The perfect canvas for the blood I’m sure to shed if they are in fact out to kill us, despite his reassurances. Then, again, I’ll be sitting in the hotel room twiddling my thumbs while he’s off doing—
My mind goes silent as I finally zip up the dress and get a good look at it.
He was right, it’s perfect.
Well, at least as far as how I look in it.
I note the tag hanging from the side and reach over to look at it.
“Are you shitting me?” I hiss in a whisper when I see that it’s €500.
My eyes roll back up to my reflection. It serves him right, even though I suspect the amount is meaningless to him.
At least I’ll die looking perfectly lovely. Though I doubt even this thing could get me into heaven.
I walk back out to where Enrique is leaning against a column with a bored expression on his face.
“How do I look?”
He’s pulled out of his daze and turns to look at me with the remnants of irritation still on his face. It evaporates as his eyes go slightly wide and his mouth more slack.
“Like a fucking goddess,” he mutters.
I feel the heat sizzle my skin and rise to my face as my blood rushes, spurred on by that confession.
Enrique blinks and grows even angrier. “Pick a pair of shoes so we can get going,” he snaps.
I frown and spin away to go try on some of the sandals. I halfheartedly pick a pair of silver flat sandals, while he goes to pay.
“She’ll be wearing her clothes out of the store.”
“I’m afraid there are no refunds if—”
“Fine,” he snaps, taking his irritation out on the poor woman just trying to do her job.
Asshole.
By the time I come to join him, I’m met with nothing but a glare from her, seeing as how I am paired with the jerk.
Lovely.
Instead of taking me back upstairs, he guides me out the front of the hotel.
“Where are we going? I thought I was staying here.”
“I’m taking you to the police station first. If they are watching, I want them to see me doing it.”
I suppose that makes sense. At least one of us seems to be thinking straight.
When we get there, he stops me a few
