“Who are you?” I try to keep my voice level—not an easy feat with my heart pounding in my throat. I’m still weak from my illness, and though the doll-like creature in front of me doesn’t seem like much of a threat, I know looks can be deceiving. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Nora Esguerra,” she says in unaccented American English. Her dark, thickly lashed eyes regard me with cool derision. “You’ve met my husband, Julian.”
I blink. That explains how she got into the house—she must have the same master keys as Rosa—and why she looks familiar. Her picture was in the files Obenko gave me in Moscow.
Also, I’ve seen those dark eyes once before.
“You were looking in the window the first day I was brought here,” I say, tugging Lucas’s T-shirt down to cover more of my thighs. Had I known I’d have visitors, I would’ve put on some real clothes. “With Rosa, right?”
The girl nods. “Yes, we looked in on you.” She doesn’t apologize or explain, just studies me, her eyes slightly narrowed.
“Okay, and you’re here today because…” I let my voice trail off.
“Because I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you, and this is the first time Lucas has left the house in several days,” she says, and approaches my armchair.
Feeling uneasy, I stand up. Though my legs still feel like cooked noodles, I’ll be better able to protect myself on my feet—if the need arises.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask, keeping a careful eye on the girl’s hands. She doesn’t appear armed, but something about her posture tells me she might not need weapons to inflict harm.
She’s had some fighting training, I can tell.
“Rosa,” the girl says. Her small chin lifts as she gives me a hard look. “Specifically, what you’re going to tell Lucas and Julian about her.”
I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“They’re going to want to know how you escaped and who helped you,” Nora says evenly. “And you’re going to say that it was Rosa acting on my instructions. Do you understand?”
“What?” That’s the last thing I expected to hear. “You want me to blame you?”
“I want you to tell the truth,” she says coolly. “And yes, that means telling everyone that Rosa was helping you on my request.”
“She didn’t say anything about it being your request,” I say, my mind racing. It sounds like the maid is in trouble, and Esguerra’s wife is trying to protect her by admitting her own involvement. Except—
“It doesn’t matter what Rosa said or didn’t say.” Nora’s voice tightens. “I’m telling you now that Rosa was acting on my orders, and that’s what you will say when Lucas and Julian ask you about it. Understand?”
“Or what?” I can hear the threat in the girl’s tone, but I want to see how far she’d go. “Or what, Mrs. Esguerra?”
“Or I will personally ensure that Julian flays every bit of flesh from your bones.” She gives me a cool smile. “In fact, I may do it myself.”
I stare at her, trying to recall what I know about the girl. She’s young—a couple of years younger than me, according to Esguerra’s file—and recently married to the arms dealer. Before that, she was supposedly kidnapped by him; there was an FBI investigation that lasted more than a year. But regardless of her background, it’s obvious to me that she’s not all that different from her husband now.
She’s not making an idle threat.
“All right,” I say slowly. “Let’s presume you did suggest to Rosa that she help me. Why? What would’ve been your motivation? Lucas will want to know.”
“He’ll understand my motivation. All you need to do is tell the truth—the full truth, including my involvement.”
My lips twist. “Right. And I assume the full truth doesn’t include your visit to me today.”
“Correct.” Her dark gaze is unblinking. “There’s no reason for Rosa to pay for my actions. I’m sure you agree with that.”
“I do.” If Esguerra’s wife wants her notoriously ruthless husband to think the whole thing was her idea, I have no intention of standing in her way—especially given this little chat. “Now, is that all, or can I help you with something else?”
“That’s all,” she says, then turns and starts walking away. But before I can exhale in relief, she stops in the doorway and looks back at me. “Just one more thing, Yulia…”
I lift my eyebrows, waiting.
“From what Julian’s said, Lucas seems… unusually enamored with you.” Her voice is oddly flat. “It’s fortunate for you, given what’s occurred.”
She’s talking about the plane crash, I realize. Esguerra’s wife would naturally blame me for that. At least I didn’t succeed in seducing her husband; I have a feeling if Nora knew Esguerra was my initial assignment, I might’ve woken up with my throat slit.
“I’m sure you were just doing your job,” she continues in that same flat tone. “Carrying out your superiors’ orders.”
I nod warily. I have no idea what she wants me to say. I didn’t know that my intel would be used to bring down her husband’s plane, but even if I did, I’m not sure that would’ve changed anything. I might’ve tried to get Lucas to stay off that plane, though he had still been a stranger to me at the time, but I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save Esguerra. I still wouldn’t.
Given everything I know about the man, the world would be better off without him—and so would his wife.
“Good. That’s what Lucas told Julian,” Nora says. “It wasn’t personal, so to speak.”
I nod again, hoping she gets to the point soon. The lingering tiredness from the illness is making my legs tremble, and I’m sweating from the exertion of standing for so long. I don’t want to show vulnerability in front of Esguerra’s wife, though. It would be like baring one’s throat to a small but deadly she-wolf.
“Okay, Yulia…” The she-wolf’s eyes gleam with a peculiar light. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, for your sake, I hope you share Lucas’s feelings. Because if he ever withdraws his protection…” She doesn’t complete her sentence, but I understand her perfectly.
My brother is not the only one who doesn’t belong on this estate.
“Understood,” I manage to say calmly. “Anything else?”
She gives me a tight smile. “No. That’s all. Hope you feel better soon.”
She turns and disappears through the doorway, and I collapse back into the armchair, as exhausted as if I’d just fought a war.
35
Lucas
It takes me longer than expected to catch up on everything I’ve neglected over the past several days, and by the time I get home, it’s almost seven-thirty.
The first thing I do upon entering the house is go to the library. To my surprise, Yulia is not there.
“Lucas?” she calls out, and I realize her voice is coming from the kitchen. Frowning, I backtrack and go there.
“What are you doing?” I say when I see her carrying two spoons to the kitchen table. Approaching her in two long strides, I grab the utensils from her hand and clasp her elbow. “You need to be resting.”
“I’m all right,” she protests as I guide her to the table. “Really, Lucas, I’m much better. I got tired of sitting on my butt all day and wanted to set the table for dinner.”
“Tough shit.” I pull out her chair. “Sit, and I’ll take care of that. Your only job right now is to recover, got it?”
Yulia gives me an exasperated look but obeys. For the first time since her illness began, she’s wearing her normal clothes—a pair of jean shorts and a tank top—but the skimpy outfit only emphasizes the severity of her weight loss. Her stomach is concave, and her arms are reed thin. I don’t know why she’s pushing herself so hard, but I don’t like it.
“You are not to move a muscle,” I say as I wash my hands and take out a pair of bowls. Yulia must’ve already turned on the stove to warm up the stew, because when I check, I find it simmering on a low setting. I pour each of us a generous portion and bring the bowls over to the table. “I don’t want you to have another relapse,” I say, sitting down across from her.
She sniffs at the stew instead of replying. “You made it?” she asks, looking up, and I nod, curious to see what she’ll think. I tasted it earlier and liked it, though I still have far to go before I can rival Yulia in the cooking department.
She dips her spoon in and tries a little of the broth surrounding the veggies. “It’s good, Lucas,” she says, and I can’t suppress a smile at the surprise in her voice.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, digging into my own portion. “It wasn’t difficult to make, so I should be able to repeat it.”
Yulia begins eating with evident enthusiasm, and I watch her, pleased to see her enjoying my efforts. There’s something oddly satisfying about seeing her at my kitchen table, eating the food I made and wearing the clothes I got for her. I never thought of myself as the nurturing type, never considered that I might want to take care of someone, but that’s precisely what I want to do with her. It’s particularly strange because, this illness aside, Yulia is one of the most capable women I’ve met.