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  Her escape would require more stealth than a grab-and-run.

  “Help me with these.” Boones handed her several shopping bags and carried the rest into the house and up the stairs.

  There were stores nearby? Close enough for Boones to buy all this stuff and return within a few hours? She still didn’t know what country she was in. Maybe there was a receipt with an address in one of the bags?

  Arturo relayed Tiago’s message about the hair-covered clothes in the kitchen. Then he hung back in the stairwell as she followed the old doctor through the antechamber and down the hall to Tiago’s room.

  Boones heaved the bags onto the mattress and removed the contents. Running shoes, active wear, jeans, t-shirts, underwear… As he separated the clothes into two piles, she realized one of the stacks was meant for her.

  She emptied the other bags and helped him sort, unable to locate a receipt or anything that identified her location. “Are we staying here? In Venezuela?”

  “This place is temporary.” His cloudy eyes glanced at her sidelong. “But we won’t be leaving Venezuela.”

  Finally, an answer!

  “Why is this temporary? Where is he going next?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” he said in a foreign syllabic rhythm she couldn’t place.

  “Is your accent Hindi?”

  He snorted. “No.”

  “British? South African?”

  “No.”

  “Caribbean?”

  “You’re getting colder.” He shifted back to the clothes. “No one ever guesses correctly.”

  “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “No.”

  With a frown, she lowered to the mattress on the floor and helped him remove the tags. “Why doesn’t Tiago sleep on a real bed?”

  “He prefers to live modestly.”

  “But he’s wealthy?”

  A low chuckle creaked in his throat. “He has more money than God.”

  How much of that money came from blood, drugs, and ransom payments? She gritted her teeth. “Is that why you work for him? He pays you well?”

  “Loyalty keeps me here.” All humor vanished from his wrinkly face. “Tiago means a great deal to me, and I’ll remain at his side for as long as he needs me.”

  There was a story there, thickening his accent with deep emotion.

  “Your markings…” She motioned to the vertical welts on his cheeks. “Tiago has them on his arms. Did he give you those?”

  “No.” Boones pushed up the sleeves of his linen shirt, exposing a faded tapestry of scars on his dark forearms. “Where I’m from, we believe scarring connects us with our ancestors. It’s an ancient tradition, one that’s rarely practiced anymore.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “That, I will not say.”

  Somewhere in Africa, if she had to guess. “Did Tiago adopt the practice from you?”

  “I taught him, but his scarification has nothing to do with tradition.” He lowered his sleeves and turned back to sorting the clothes. “For him, the scars convey a message.”

  “What message?” She leaned closer. “What do his scars mean?”

  “Beware, there is pain in the world, and you cannot run from it. But if you endure it, if you accept the suffering, it will stop.”

  “Oh.” She let that soak in. “You’re talking about emotional pain.”

  “All pain. He carries more than most.” He gave her a sad smile and handed her the stack of women’s clothing. “Take these to your room and change out of that dress.”

  She did as he instructed, anxious to wear something other than a transparent rag.

  It was interesting how easily Boones talked with her when she couldn’t pull a word from Arturo’s pinched mouth. Was Boones trying to make her sympathize with Tiago’s actions?

  Clearly, Tiago had a different relationship with Boones than he did with his guards. He and the old man shared a bond, a history, that piqued her curiosity.

  After slipping on cotton panties, jeans, and a soft gray shirt that fit her perfectly, she returned to Tiago’s room and helped Boones fold the remaining clothes.

  She favored Boones’ company over Tiago’s, but it didn’t stop the monster from occupying her thoughts.

  Was he still working out? In his underwear? If she asked him to show her another video of Tate, would the request infuriate him?

  She lifted a pair of gym shorts and eyed the new running shoes on the floor. She could take the clothes to him as a gesture of kindness and weigh his mood.

  The thought of seeing him made her insides float and drop in a roller-coaster of sensations. He provoked every emotion at its extreme. Terror, excitement, hatred, curiosity, attraction… She really hated herself for that last one.

  The reality was she couldn’t avoid him. She was stuck here, stuck with him, until she found an opportunity to escape.

  “I’m going to run these down to him.” She didn’t look at Boones as she gathered the exercise gear and headed out of the room.

  Arturo waited at the top of the stairs. He let her pass before trailing on her heels.

  In the living room, the mattresses sat empty. Where did the woman go? Where was everyone else? She strained her ears, listening. Then she heard it. The deep, gravelly rumble of Tiago’s voice in the backroom.

  He was speaking to someone in Spanish, the words flowing so melodically it sounded like a sensual song. She followed his timbre, marking the pauses between sentences. He must’ve been on the phone.

  She hit the hallway with Arturo in tow, passing a bathroom. Then a bedroom, where a mattress sat in the corner on an actual frame. Was that where Boones slept?

  Moving on, she stepped through the last doorway and slammed to a stop.

  Tiago stood near a rack of free weights, one hand braced on the wall in front of him, and the other holding a phone to his ear. With his head tilted back and eyes closed, he intoned a string of Spanish between heavy breaths.

  He wore only a pair of tight black boxer briefs, his muscles pumped, veins bulging in his arms, and sweat clinging to miles of shredded, bronze skin.

  It was a carnal, painfully arousing sight, potent enough to send her into cardiac arrest. But that wasn’t what stopped the blood from pumping to her brain.

  A woman with short black hair knelt before him. Her mouth pressed against his abs, teeth scraping skin and tongue tracing the V-shaped indention near his hipbone. Her hands wandered everywhere, gliding down his back, kneading his ass, and trailing his waistband back around to the swollen bulge between his legs.

  Every muscle in Kate’s body tensed to turn heel and run. Her vision clouded, and adrenaline flooded her system. If he wanted to fuck his security guard, fine. Good. Better that woman than Kate. But why leave the door open? What the fucking fuck?

  She burned to smash his face in. With one of those heavy barbells. At the same time, she trembled to scurry away like a simpering, prissy, little virgin.

  Fuck.

  She hovered in the doorway, holding his sneakers and gym shorts, while Arturo breathed down her neck. Her chest hurt. Her throat filled with cement, and nausea seared her stomach.

  There was no rational explanation for her raging disgust. But as his breathing grew deeper and roughened his voice enough to affect his phone conversation, she saw red. The whole fucking thing was making her stabby as hell.

  The woman lowered her hand to stroke along his rigid length, and thoughts of murder were eclipsed by the need to vomit.

  Tiago’s eyes snapped open, and he stepped out of the woman’s reach before she made another pass over his cock. Then his gaze flicked to the doorway, locking on Kate.

  Fuck him.

  She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and stepped into the room.

  He barked a few Spanish words into the phone and tossed it aside.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” She set the clothes on the rack beside him and met his hungry stare head-on. “Boones got you some clothes, and… You should
really wear foot protection while working out.”

  What the fuck was she saying? She needed to get the hell out of there.

  She turned toward the door.

  “Kate.” His stern voice pierced through her. “Come here.”

  Her ribs squeezed, and her fingernails pierced into her palms. After a few slow, deep breaths, she relaxed her hands and forced herself to face him.

  “This is Iliana.” He glanced down at the kneeling woman. “Stand up.”

  Iliana didn’t just rise to her feet. She slithered up his body in a sexual undulation of hips and tits. With a nip at his chest, she pivoted and held out a hand to Kate. The same hand that had rubbed his dick.

  No, thanks.

  “Do you shake hands with all the prisoners?” Kate asked.

  “No, I…” Iliana dropped her arm. “I guess not.”

  She smiled sweetly at Kate. It seemed genuine. As did the lust in her eyes when she sidled up to Tiago and tiptoed her fingers across his flat stomach.

  The woman embodied all the allure of a gorgeous Latino fantasy. Fit body, great skin, beautiful hair, exotic accent, and sexual confidence. She and Tiago looked outrageously perfect together.

  “You didn’t come in here to bring me clothes.” He grabbed the shorts, lifted them for inspection, and slid them on. “Tell me what you want.”

  She wasn’t inclined to ask for anything in front of his lover, but Iliana didn’t appear to be leaving.

  “I was hoping…” She smoothed a hand over the coarse tangles of her hair. “I want to see a live video of Tate.”

  “No.” He shifted away, punctuating the finality of his answer.

  Making the rejection even more unbearable was the woman pressing up against his back and pawing at his body.

  Hatred sizzled in her gut like a hot ember.

  She hated him.

  Hated Iliana.

  Hated her illogical jealousy.

  She held tight to that hatred, let it carry her out of the room and into the hell that followed.

  Every day was the same. Same prison. Same guards. Same hell.

  The ruler of hell spent most of his time working out. When he wasn’t grunting and clanking weights in the backroom, he was holding meetings with Boones and his minions in languages Kate didn’t speak. Every foreign word was meant to exclude her, to keep her isolated and uninformed.

  Her hatred for him endured, strengthened, and all that animosity sharpened her focus.

  The problem was, while she never took her mind off escape, her captors never took their eyes off her.

  Arturo trailed her relentlessly. The other guards formed a vigilant wall around the property. Then there was Tiago. He ate his meals with her, shared the second-floor with her, and watched her with an awareness that raised the hairs on her neck.

  Even if she managed to sneak past his sentinels, he would hunt her down before she made it to safety. Then he would kill her. Slowly and horrifically.

  She thought a lot about her phone conversation with Liv. Had she been too convincing? Had her friends completely given up on her? They probably had all their resources tied up in looking for Tate, as they should. Thinking about him sitting in that shack made her heart hurt.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” Iliana sat across the kitchen table from her, smiling over the lip of a coffee mug.

  “Nope.” She pushed the syllable past the thousand vindictive things she wanted to say.

  A week had passed since she walked in on Tiago and Iliana. Every time she saw them together, Iliana had her hands on him, touching him in a suggestive way. He tolerated the attention to a point.

  When she tried to kiss him, he jerked away. If her fingers dipped below his belt, same response. But none of that was required for fucking. Which they were doing. Why else would they be in the backroom together every day?

  Iliana didn’t hide her intentions. She was obnoxiously flirtatious, not just with Tiago but with everyone, including Kate. Sex dripped from every glance and gesture, but Kate sensed something reserved and steely behind the bawdiness.

  “You have great tits.” Iliana cocked her head. “Every time those little nipples harden, I get wet.”

  The wardrobe Boones had bought didn’t include bras. It wasn’t her fault she nipped out, and whenever Iliana brought attention to it in front of Arturo, Kate wanted to rip out the woman’s tongue.

  Pushing away from the table, she grabbed her dishes and rinsed them in the sink.

  “Hey.” Iliana caught up with her, leaning close to tuck a lock of hair behind Kate’s ear. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t touch me.” She ground her molars.

  “Shit, Kate. It’s just…” Soft brown eyes blinked beneath long lashes. “You’re so beautiful. I totally get why he’s crazy about you.”

  “What?” Her pulse quickened. “Who?”

  “El jefe.” Iliana scraped a hand over her black pixie cut and sighed. “Your naivety makes you even more desirable.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn. Gotta run, babe. I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned and winked at Arturo. “You, too, handsome.”

  Kate gripped the edge of the sink and waited until the front door shut before releasing a heavy breath.

  “She has no off switch.” She peeked over her shoulder and met Arturo’s eyes. “Are you fucking her?”

  He shrugged, expressionless.

  “Well, your boss is fucking her, too, so enjoy those leftovers.” She twisted to face him. “Why did she say he’s crazy about me?”

  The only thing that moved was his eyes. One slow blink.

  “I’m not naive, Arturo.” She crossed her arms. “Tiago doesn’t get crazy about people. He’s just crazy. Period.”

  No response.

  “Great talk.” She swiveled back to the sink and tackled the rest of the breakfast dishes.

  A few minutes later, something thumped in the hallway. Footsteps sounded, staggering from that direction and closing in. She turned just as Tiago stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Mierda.” He gripped his head, his face creased with pain. “I need…”

  He pitched forward with a lurch. She tried to jump out of his way, but he landed against her, trapping her back against the counter.

  Did someone attack him?

  She scanned his sweaty, half-naked frame for blood and found none. “What do you need?”

  “Goddamn head. Fucking kills.” He let his weight slump against her, holding his skull in one hand while swinging the other across the counter behind her and knocking dishes to the floor. “Agua…”

  He looked like he needed more than water. He’d pushed himself too hard. Even the healthiest man would eventually collapse beneath the rigorous exercise he’d been putting himself through. But what did she care?

  “You’re crushing me.” She shoved at his steel chest.

  “Jusss a minuto,” he slurred, dropping his brow to her shoulder and breathing heavily.

  His proximity saturated her senses, the length of his body smothering her from head to toe. His thighs against hers, the cage of his arms holding her in place, she couldn’t evade the heat of his flesh, the stroke of his breath on her neck, and his scent…

  Sweet hell, he radiated the scent of a man when the exertion of work warmed his early washed skin. She tasted the potency of it on her lips, breathed him into her lungs, and somewhere low in her core, she throbbed.

  “Drink.” Boones appeared out of nowhere, holding a glass of water to Tiago’s mouth.

  Tiago pushed off her and gulped down the fluid as Boones rattled off a string of short, unfamiliar words. Despite the calmness in his voice, the old man’s eyes flashed with ire.

  A conversation ensued between them. It sounded casual to the ear, but she sensed the undertones of a heated argument. It ended with Tiago staggering toward the stairs alone.

  Boones watched him go and gripped her arm. “I’ll make lunch, and you’ll deliver it to him.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “
That’s an order. His order.” He pointed at the far cabinet. “Grab the medium pot.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she trudged into Tiago’s room, carrying a tray of heated soup for two, crusty bread, bottled water, hot tea, and various pills.

  Her stomach tumbled as she searched the empty space and paused on the bathroom. Steam drifted from the doorway, bringing with it the aroma of masculine soap.

  “Tiago?” She willed him to be dressed, even as her mind entertained erotic images of his sculpted, nude physique.

  He emerged from the bathroom and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, his hair wet and body clad in sweatpants.

  “Where do you want this?” She held up the tray, staring too long at the mist beading on the hard ridges of his chest.

  He gestured at the mattress and gripped his forehead. A hiss pushed past his clenched teeth.

  “There’s some medicine for the headache.” She set the tray on the floor near the lamp and backed toward the door. “I’m sure Boones will come—”

  “Sit. You’re eating in here.” He made the short walk to the bed, dropped to his knees, and collapsed with his face in the pillow. “Fuck.”

  “Maybe you just need to sleep.” She lingered by the exit, rubbing clammy palms on her jeans.

  “I won’t repeat myself.” He angled his neck to glare at her.

  “Fine.” She strode toward him, grabbed the food, and sat beside him on the mattress. “I don’t understand why Iliana isn’t in here with you instead?”

  “I don’t trust the guards in my personal space.”

  She jerked her head back. “But you trust me?”

  “Not at all. Pass me the water.”

  He drank, refused the pills, and after some grumbling in Spanish, he accepted the soup.

  They ate in silence, and with each bite, the pain lifted from his face.

  Over the past week, he seemed to be on the mend. She’d caught him holding his head a few times, but he hadn’t slowed down his workouts or shown any signs of weakness. Until now.

  “Why are you exercising so much?” She collected the empty dishes and set the tray aside.

  “I need strength to return to Caracas.” He rolled to his back and closed his eyes. “Too many people want me dead.”