JUAN Carlo was, as Michael very well knew, a very passionate man—but he’d never thought him stupid. Maybe a few years in Spanish prison had dulled his sharp senses, because he’d let passion get in the way of common sense, and his desire to see Michael dead lead him to some very bad decisions. Like coming to the United States, for example. And then tracking Michael down. And using Leah to draw him in.
But Juan Carlo was one lucky bastard, the recipient of a little divine intervention, because when Rex arrived, Michael had the gun barrel pressed against Juan Carlo’s head and was debating whether or not he should kill him.
“Hey,” Rex said breezily as he gingerly took the gun from Michael’s hand. “I told you to let me kill him.”
Juan Carlo snorted disdainfully, but Michael stepped back, put his hand to the back of his head where Juan Carlo had clocked him, and smiled maniacally at his foe, at the blood splattered on his expensive blue silk shirt, at his hands, now cuffed with steel. “Your ass is dead, Juan Carlo,” he said, and Rex quickly put his hands to Michael’s chest and pushed him back. “I’ll see you dead before you lay another hand on anyone close to me.”
“Michael,” Rex said sternly, shoving him backward. “It’s over. Shake it off.”
Michael laughed and added in Spanish, “Keep an eye on your back, my friend, because I will never let this die.”
Juan Carlo chuckled. “I would offer you the same advice.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Rex said, and shoved Michael hard into the kitchen, as another agent squatted down before Juan Carlo and began to ask him questions in Spanish. Predictably, Juan Carlo responded with colorful curses.
Michael shook Rex off and strode outside, pushing on the kitchen door with such force that it almost came off its hinges. He stalked off the porch and stood in the bright sunlight, his hands on his hips, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. On the other side of an overgrown yard, Leah was leaning against the trunk of a nondescript rental car, her arms folded tightly around her. There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was a tangle of blond, and her dress . . . well, that dress just made his blood boil.
She was holding her arms tightly around her, staring at the ground as she answered the questions of agents, listened to them tell her not to speak of this to anyone until they said she could, which, of course, they would never do.
Michael turned away, his guilt at seeing her so exhausted and disheveled overwhelming. Rex had walked outside. “Let her go, get her out of here,” Michael said.
“Sure,” Rex said, and left Michael alone to collect his thoughts.
But a moment later, Michael heard an exclamation of frustration from Leah and turned around in time to see her striding toward him, her arms swinging, her eyes blazing. “You aren’t going to pat my head and send me away after that,” she said as she came to a halt in front of Michael, her chin tilted up defiantly, her hands on her hips. “Isn’t there something you want to say?”
“Say?” he echoed dumbly. There were a million things he wanted to say. So many, he didn’t know where to start.
Leah’s eyes narrowed, and she rose up on her toes and leaned forward, so that they were almost nose-to-nose and said, “Say. For example, sorry this happened, Leah? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you there was a crazy murderer lurking around and that you might possibly be in danger?” she added heatedly as they brought Juan Carlo out of the cabin. “Or how about, gee, it really sucks that you were poisoned and a gun was put to your head and you could have died!”
“It was not poison,” Juan Carlo shouted as two agents led him by.
“Oh, really?” Leah shouted after him. “Well, thanks to you I’ll never drink orange juice again!”
Michael caught her arm, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m sorry, Leah,” he said, assuming that was what she wanted. “I am so sorry this happened.”
Dammit if tears didn’t fill her blue eyes. It was one of those moments that every guy knows, a moment of total cluelessness as to what he’d said or didn’t say to cause the tears. Inside, he groped in the dark, searching vainly for a lesson learned somewhere along the way that might fill him in.
And as he floundered, Leah choked on a sob as she hauled off and hit him in the arm as hard as she could. “Sorry isn’t good enough!” she cried through her sobs. “You have used me and hurt me and humiliated me, and now you almost got me killed. Sorry. Is. Not. Good. Enough!” she said, hitting him with each word.
Michael stood there, stoic and unmoving, uncertain if she intended to hit him again, uncertain if he should just take it or make her stop. Leah raised her arm again, but then dropped it. Her shoulders sagged; she dropped her chin to her chest. “I want to go home.”