The Don's Rose Page 7

  "Why?" she gasped, still in shock that he'd taken her gun, not quite believing he was helping her.

  "Later," he grunted, then shoved open the window. Below, a low tile roof shielded the entryway. A single light at the corner led to a more public square, but all was quiet, so he ducked out onto the tile roof.

  Bea swallowed hard. She hadn't expected to escape; she'd imagined, when she let herself think it through, that she'd be either killed immediately or raped repeatedly then killed. Neither possibility had deterred her in the least. Her hands shaking, she gripped the frame and swung over the sill, holding her breath as he headed for the corner and jumped confidently into the street. Looking up, he gave her an impatient gesture that would have made her humph under other circumstances, looked about and back at her.

  One deep breath and she jumped. He was there to steady her as she landed.

  Almost before she got her breath, he took her hand again and rushed her away from the front of the cantiña into the darker shadows, below low-slung roofs built so close they almost touched. There were no streetlights, but dull glows from open doors and windows spilled enough light for them to make their way into the warren of tiny, nameless alleys and side streets until finally he stopped, pushed open a rear garden gate and dragged her inside, slamming it shut and bolting it from inside.

  Bea gaped at him, breathing hard, her vision blurring. She had no idea how far they'd run, but she'd kept up with his impatient pace, despite her shock. He narrowed his eyes, practically glaring, then whipped out a hand and jerked off her wig.

  "Oh, no!" she wailed, the hairpins pulling painfully in her scalp as he rolled his eyes.

  "You can't go around in that hair color. You'll be recognized," he ground out derisively. "Now, what the fuck foolish thing was that?"

  Bea paused, blinking, fighting back the tears and lifting her chin as she got her breath. "Revenge," she said fiercely. "That asshole –"

  "Deserved to die a thousand deaths," he broke in waspishly, waving his hand dismissively.

  Bea gaped again, and now he scowled, his nose wrinkling and his high cheekbones burning. "What –"

  "You're a goddamned female. An American woman, for Christ sake. He would have –"

  "It was why he opened the door to me," Bea said, lightheadedness making her sway. It was the wrong time, she knew, but the nights of following the trafficker from Tijuana to Mexico City and the long, anguished day of waiting after she knew where he'd gone were over.

  "Fuck!" he practically yelled into her face. "I ought to –"

  Bea missed whatever he ought to do. The dizziness spread from her brain to her stomach, and she turned and vomited, her head dipping forward until the world turned black.

  * * * *

  Bea came to life on a futon. She could feel the lumpy cushion beneath her, the pillow solicitously tucked beneath her head. Her nose wrinkled, the stench of vomit was overwhelming. She winced as she began to open her eyes and nearly cursed at the bright light, but then sank back feeling foolish. The room, an office or study, was only dimly lit.

  She blinked twice more, then peeked out under her lashes as she heard him pacing. He had a cell phone. Unashamed, she listened, shock keeping her head on the pillow. "It's Jesse. Manuel's dead. Shot up the nose." The words were terse, but then he heaved a sigh at the reply and went on. "No, I would have if I'd gotten to him first but apparently we're not the only ones who wanted him dead." He paused again, listened, then he gave a grunt and added, "No, I can't come home now. There's something else to finish here, before I'm sure justice has been served."

  Bea swallowed hard. His easy, familiar cadence relaxed her, but truthfully she had no idea what he intended to do with her, where she was, or how she would get home. She hadn't expected to get home, if such a place still existed. Her heart beat harder as she thought of her aunt and uncle. They'd begged her not to come, but in the end had understood if not blessed her hunt, storing the contents of her apartment in their basement.

  Her backpack rested against the futon, her wig thrown on the chair across from her. She couldn't see the pistol but he had it. Jesse turned, flipped the phone closed and his loose linen jacket swung open to reveal a shoulder holster.

  His high cheekbones were dusted with a half-grown coat of black hair down to his chin, his short locks were just barely long enough to wave when he turned. His eyes – light, light gray – narrowed accusingly at her when he saw her eyelids half open, watching him.

  He came to stand beside her and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

  Bea shifted; obviously he was hiding her. He'd had plenty of time to summon the officials, kill her himself, or call in Manuel's minions. She shuddered at the thought, even if she would have accepted any of these fates for the privilege of doing away with the predator she'd hunted. "He seduced my twin sister at a bar in Nuevo Laredo. I saw them leave together, and when she didn't come back to the hotel, I knew. DEA agents found her two months later. The men she'd been sold to –"

  Bea broke off, but his face changed and he looked away. "She was alive?"

  "No," Bea said woodenly, pain piercing her heart and head. She nearly rolled to the floor and battled the urge to vomit again. "No, she wasn't alive. They'd left her – abandoned her – in a cage. To rot."

  He closed his eyes, paling a little. Her voice a whisper, the tears streaking her cheeks, she continued. "After she was buried, I started tracking Manuel. I knew he'd do it again. I was in the bar when she left with him – I knew perfectly well who I was hunting."

  "He took one of my sisters," he said tightly. "In Tijuana, four years ago. We found no trace of her anywhere, not until a year ago. She was abandoned on a beach south of Corozal in Belize, apparently of no further value. She'd been tortured to a catatonic state."

  "So she's alive," she whispered.

  "If you call it living," Jesse rasped, stalking away and slamming his palm against the adobe wall. "I followed him here with another girl. The buyers were waiting. I –"

  He stopped abruptly. Bea waited, sitting up carefully, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

  "I couldn't take him and rescue her," he finally said coolly, "So I followed the buyers, took them out, and put her on a plane home. By then, Manuel was gone. But I knew he'd eventually come back."

  "So you waited," Bea concluded. "And wondered who he was profiting off – like my sister – while you sat with your hands tied."

  He nodded, then cleared his throat and held out his hand. "Jesse," he offered.

  Bea looked him over carefully, shifting her head to watch him with genuine interest. Her internal verdict was absolute: she'd fuck him in a heartbeat if she wasn't a wanted criminal and still in shock. "Bea," she finally acknowledged, wondering if Jesse was truly his name.

  "The locals who know me call me Angel," he admitted, crooking the corner of his thin lips.

  "Are you going to give my gun back?"

  "No," he raised a brow and scowled. "I'm not. If we're caught, it's going to be in my holster, not in your backpack. You're not ending up in a fucking Mexican prison."

  Bea studied his scruffy face, his cultivated low-life image and knew that whoever Jesse was in the other world of the United States, he expected to spend his life as an imprisoned murderer. He understood the consequences.

  "We?" she finally asked.

  "How the hell else did you expect to get out of this country?" Jesse mocked, and Bea sighed, turning her head toward the futon. If she wasn't so damn grateful already, she'd consider kicking him. If she could be a little less grateful, she'd kiss him.

  "I'm thinking the airport," she returned.

  "No fucking way, princess," he laughed. "Even if the authorities aren't looking for you, you can be sure Manuel's best customers are."

  "Damn it," she sighed. "I can't shoot them. At least not in the airport."

  "Precisely," he drawled.