I flinch away, holding the purse in front of my face. “What? Yes I did! He was nice and bought me lunch. I didn’t say anything! I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t risk Rose!”
“You met Rafe Mendoza. Do you know who he is? How dangerous he is?” He pushes at the purse clutched in my arms, slamming me into the wall.
“No!” I cry out. Rafe Mendoza is a name that means nothing to me. “Of course not. Who is he?”
“A hit man,” he hisses. “You flirted with the enemy. Are you too stupid to do this job? Shall I find another mule?”
“No,” I say quickly, ducking out of the way before his swinging fists can hit me again. “I can do this. I can.” Rose is depending on me. I have to do this.
“You might have cost us a buyer. The Turkish buyer is pulling out now that Rafe Mendoza is here.” He grabs at the purse and tosses it toward the bed. I immediately lunge to catch it, and he slams me backward onto the bed. I immediately scramble to get up, because on my back with this man? Not where I want to be.
He grabs my ankle and I kick at him, panicked. “This is not part of the deal!”
Fouquet laughs. “I do not want you, idiot girl. Not with your ugly eyes.” He drags me back down onto the bed and his hand goes to my throat, pinning me. “Now. Tell me what Rafe Mendoza said to you.”
I stare into his pale eyes and for a moment, I’m hit with a surge of hate so strong that I’m tempted to shuck all responsibility and tell him to go fuck himself. I think longingly of the knife back at the café that Mr. Mendoza nudged toward me. I should have slipped it into my case.
But my best friend, the person I love most in this world and owe everything to, is being held by killers.
So I swallow my anger. “He said his name was Rafael Mendoza. He’s American. From Arizona.” I detail our conversation as best I can. I want to point out that they have me bugged and they could hear everything, but it’ll sound bitchy and confrontational. I need to be nice, sweet Ava so they don’t take their anger out on Rose.
Fouquet’s face tightens as I speak, and the hand on my throat grows punishing. His thumb is right over my windpipe, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to choke me. “If you kill me, you have to mule your own purse,” I tell him in a raspy voice.
The hand loosens. “Did he say anything about the bag? The buy?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Did he think I got some sort of silent signal? The only thing he did was nudge a knife toward me. “I told you everything.”
Those pale eyes narrow again. Fouquet delivers another ringing slap to the side of my face. This one smacks my teeth against my lip, and I feel it split, taste my blood in my mouth. “If I look like shit, people are going to notice,” I warn him.
He narrows his eyes at me and grips my chin, puffing my cheeks like a chipmunk’s. Then he says, “You had best clean yourself up nicely, then.” And he releases me and crawls off the bed.
I sit up and scramble backward, ignoring my aching wrist and my throbbing face. “What now?”
Fouquet straightens his jacket. “Now I must go apologize to the Turkish buyer. I will try to convince him he is still interested.” He glances back at me. “You will see me again when decisions have been made.”
I slide to the corner of the bed. “Can you send up some food?” I’m starving. “And a first aid kit for my face?”
“Later,” he says dismissively. He shuts the door behind him and then I’m in the room alone again.
I exhale in relief. Touch my throbbing lip. The longer I’m here, the more Fouquet hits me. By the time I’ve met with all the buyers, I’m going to be a freaking bloody pulp. It just reminds me that I’m expendable to these men. I have to be more careful.
I get up from the bed and begin my regular check for bugs and listening devices, running my free hand along windowsills and lampshades. As I do, I think about Mr. Mendoza. I think about him nudging the knife toward me. Was it a signal I somehow missed?
Is he on my side? Or just using me because I am a tool to be used?
Either way, he might be my only hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
RAFAEL
On the way back to the hotel I stop by and pick up some soft bread, cheese, and sliced salami. She probably doesn’t have a knife in that room. I’ll leave it outside her door. She can think it was Fouquet who left it for her or that it was dropped by some other resident. I don’t care. I just want to get some food inside her before she collapses from hunger. I add a box of macaroons. She was eyeing the table next to us who had an order of them.