He started as if she’d struck him. “Jesus, Mia.” When she added nothing, merely sat there watching him, he settled back against the counter. “No. I have not.”
Something in his stance, his face, told her that was the truth. She relaxed slightly. “What should we do about Daisy and her son?”
“Not a damn thing. Not only is it none of our business, but we’re not even sure she is being abused; she might just be clumsy.”
“And she might not be clumsy at all. Her dick of a husband might be hurting her. So, yes, we are ninety-nine point nine percent sure he’s hurting her. But you’re right. I’m going to damn well make sure I’ve assessed the situation correctly before I take action.”
“Fire Latour and you’ll be rid of the problem.”
“Fire Latour and the problem will be ongoing, and I won’t know about it, so I can’t take action. My God, don’t you have any compassion?”
“I’ll leave the hearts and flowers to you. I’ve got work to do.”
Mia stared at his awe-inspiring damned back as Cruz stalked out of the room. Then shook her head as she heard his heavy footfalls disappear down the hallway, followed by the slam of the back door. “Asshole.”
Chapter Eight
Long day. Made longer by trying to function with a boner that only pounding into Mia would alleviate. Cruz knew he couldn’t put off killing her any longer. He had to do the job. Shoving his wet hair off his face, he turned on his computer. After he’d spent the afternoon with a steamer, stripping wallpaper, he’d declined her tempting dinner invitation, opting for a cold shower in her downstairs bathroom and time with the information he’d placed on a thumb drive.
The camper still smelled of the previous owner’s cigarette habit and was cramped as hell. Especially with Oso as close to his feet as possible without actually occupying the same space. Cruz absently leaned over to give the dog an ear rub as his computer booted up.
The camper, like the dog, were merely props.
Once the job was done, he’d abandon the camper and return the dog to the pound. He didn’t do attachments. He’d already delayed the inevitable too long.
Earlier, she’d rattled the doorknob of the bathroom when he was taking a shower. Damn it to hell. He was relieved that he’d thought to engage the lock, at the same time berating himself for being a pussy. The only way he could accomplish this fucking job was to keep his hands off her and his dick where it belonged, and the only guarantee of that was to bolt a flimsy hollow-core door? Yeah. Pussy. With a capital P. Well, this time tomorrow it would no longer be an issue.
She was the witch with the pretty, shiny red apple. Delilah with the scissors hidden innocently behind her back. The beautiful vampire sleeping at night, mouth closed, fangs covered. It was damn impossible not to want to touch her. And more. Cruz knew fucking her “one more time” could cause him to overshoot his deadline by several years.
No. More. Sex.
Kill her now.
Brazil waited.
Balance of the money padding an already healthy offshore account.
No regrets.
No entanglements.
She met his stringent criteria, even though she claimed she’d never been to China. He was staring at the proof on his monitor. In the photo, Mia-Amelia stood in the customs line at Beijing International. He compared a side-by-side image of her on arrival in Switzerland a month earlier. Same straight nose, same stubborn chin, same slender throat, same classy chignon, her dark hair swept up off the slender column of her throat. Cruz enlarged each image, then frowned.
Glancing at the Beijing airport images, Cruz realized something was missing. Where were the three sexy freckles on her collarbone? At this angle he should be able to see them clearly.
He went back to the Swiss image.
Three freckles on her creamy skin, evident even on the slightly grainy enhanced version of the airport security tapes.
Covered with makeup? A doppelgänger for security purposes?
Absently he brushed a trickle of water off his forehead, then glanced up to see that his damned roof leaked, too. Great. He went back to his file on her and checked out several dozen of the candid shots taken by the paparazzi over the past six months. Three freckles in every one. So she didn’t habitually cover up the small, sexy marks with cosmetics.
He looked at the screen full of photos.
All Amelia. But not.
• • •
With everyone gone, the house was way too quiet, even though she had her iPod attached to her Bose computer speakers. Blasting Pink’s “Raise Your Glass.” Fast and upbeat was exactly what Mia needed tonight. Edgy female rock and roll, fun and upbeat, that she could dance to as she stirred batter. Lemon bars.