“Gracias. I can see why the masses are against slavery. They’ve seen the very worst of it displayed in documentaries and news reports. But is there a documentary for how my slaves were saved from unfortunate circumstances? I’ve taken them in like strays on the brink of death, and given them good lives here.”
Tequila had loosened Marco’s tongue. His eyes were bright. Full of zeal. And Colin stared back with just as much ardor, because transitioning a human from a terrible life into a life of luxurious slavery did not make their lives “good.” Not to mention the bastard forgot to account for the one slave who hadn’t come from unfortunate circumstances.
Marco sat back, apparently realizing he’d gotten himself worked up, and chuckled. He ran a hand down his mustache.
“The world is so quick to judge. But send any man to my home and let him experience the natural rightness of it. Men come here with stresses and anxieties that the world piles on their backs, and when they leave they are as they should be: empowered. Relaxed. Self-assured.”
“Exactly.” Colin finished his last drink. He had a buzz now, so he wouldn’t drink more.
Marco’s head inclined toward Colin’s forearm, where his tattoo showed:
“Do you mind if I ask what it says?”
“Not at all. It’s a Scottish Gaelic proverb. It is better to try than to hope.”
“Ah, sí. A man of action rather than words. I like that.” Marco grinned.
Colin snuffed out his cigar. “I owe you many thanks already, Se?or, and my week has only just begun.”
The two men stood and clasped hands.
“I hope you’ll join us for breakfast in the morning, Se?or Douglas. We’ll eat right here, weather permitting. And if work calls your attention, I will have breakfast sent to your room.”
“You are a Godsend,” Colin said, inclining his head, and with that the two men parted for the night.
That went well, Colin thought. He couldn’t say getting in the mind of a madman was a favorite past time, but he did feel accomplished that Marco Ruiz had confided in him. He’d moved his pawn one step closer, though how he’d get the girl out of this fucking place was still the question of the hour. And he’d sure as hell better figure it out soon.
I hadn’t been outdoors in two years. Of all the things I’d been denied in my time at the villa, the right to be outside saddened me most. My body became accustomed to less food—I’d even stopped craving things I couldn’t eat, such as pizza and Dove bars, because I knew I’d never have them again. I’d numbed myself to the sexual encounters, and took affection in the small, fleeting doses they came to me. My body and mind had adjusted to all circumstances out of necessity. But I hated not being able to go outside. Especially since I was the only one denied that simple privilege.
I craved sunshine and night sky. I longed for the wide, open world.
And that loss, more than anything, had become a symbol of my lost freedom. The outdoors became a metaphor for everything I’d once had. Things like family and holidays, friends and school. Driving. Flirting. Shopping. They were all fantasies to me now. Fairy tales. When I thought about the sky, a painful, heavy depression threatened to settle on my soul.
Being stuck in a windowless room most of my days didn’t help.
I sat on a throw rug of the tiled floor in the slave quarters doing stretches. Alone. I pushed myself, enjoying the burning sensations in my muscles. It was hard not to think about how all the others were outside at the pool. Sure, it was more work time, and I didn’t envy that. But I would have done anything to be out there.
Marco was paranoid. Any sailboat floating by was assumed to be spying. He didn’t care if they saw people screwing poolside, or snorting coke on his veranda. Just as long as they didn’t spy his precious stolen American girl.
I was still kind of surprised he’d let the Scottish man see me. Mr. Douglas. Just thinking of him sent warmth shooting through me.
Was another slave servicing him right now? In the hot tub or pool? Did he enjoy them better? An acidic feeling sliced at me.
I bent until my nose was almost touching the floor, and hissed from the pain of the stretch up the back of my leg. Jealousy over a patron was stupid and ridiculous and unheard of. What was wrong with me?
I jumped to my feet at the sound of the door opening. Luis stood there.
“Ready yourself for lunch,” he said in Spanish.
I nodded, feeling entirely too enthusiastic. Strange, strange, strange. Maybe Josef was right. Maybe I should be more careful. Tone down the excitement. Mr. Douglas wouldn’t stay forever. Most patrons only stayed a couple nights. Some a few weeks, but that was uncommon. For all I knew the Scot could be long gone. And damned if that didn’t send a flare of disappointment through me.