I lock the bathroom door and run my fingers all along the sink and under it, then check the lip of the tub and even in the faucets. I find a tiny listening device hidden under one of the faucets and smash it, then flush it down the toilet. When I don’t find any others, I suck in a breath and open the purse.
I’m always a little wigged out at the thought of looking inside the purse. I don’t know why. I guess I’m afraid I’ll find something worse. Like nuclear missile codes or a murder weapon. Hell, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put anything past these guys.
Fouquet always comes and checks the purse when he shows up, though. I don’t know why, but when he checked it again today, I started to get suspicious. Everything looks as it normally does, though. The five colorful folders are tucked into the center, dotted with sticky notes and tiny flags. A few loose flyers are inside, of local events and printed spreadsheets. Garbage information, all part of my cover. I even have an iPad with Wi-Fi disabled as part of my “businesswoman” shtick. There are lipsticks, pens, and a sanitary pad to make it look legit. I even have a few keys on a key chain, but they don’t belong to anything that I know of. I ignore all that shit. Something’s nagging me, and I think of the many bugs I’ve found in the room. I check the purse, pulling the folders out and setting them on the counter. Out go the papers, too. When the bag is empty, I run my fingers over the lining. I might just be paranoid.
I find another listening device, though. Not big. Not thick. Just a small, hard circle stuck in one corner behind the lining that tells me that nothing I say is safe, no matter how many bugs I remove from my room. Shit. I leave it there, so they won’t know that I know it’s there.
But now, I feel more trapped than ever.
I have to get out. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got an hour before I meet my next contact. The room is stifling and unbearable at the moment, and I just want to get away. I grab the bag and check my wallet. It’s got money in it because I am meeting these men at cafés and restaurants and other public places.
I’ll go to one by myself. It won’t matter because they can hear everything I say, right? A mirthless laugh escapes my throat, choked back by a sob. I want to fling the purse away from me and leave this place.
But since I can’t . . . I’ll just run from the hotel room instead.
? ? ?
Five minutes later, I’m walking down one of the busy Miraflores streets, looking desperately for a warm, friendly place to go. The district is pretty, but it’s also busy. With my halting, barely remembered high school Spanish, I’ve been able to navigate the area. I’m getting fairly good at miming things such as eat, money, and where’s the potty room?
I pass a café that looks too crowded to be comforting and pause by a street vendor with a bright blue umbrella over his fruits and snacks. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll just walk for a bit instead of eating. But Fouquet and Duval are shitty captors and they forget to feed me half the time, and I’m starving.
When I’m not too anxious to eat, that is.
I contemplate a hot churro and pull out my wallet, when a man comes and stands next to me.
There’s a saying that shoe salesmen notice everyone else’s shoes. I guess I notice everyone else’s hands because I’m a hand model. This man has nice hands. He’s got a paper cup of coffee, and the fingers gripping it are long, tapered, but strong. Nice knuckles. His nails are well trimmed, too. The men that I have been meeting have bitten nails, short, jagged. Those are the signs of an anxious person. This man is not anxious.
He’s safe.
He looks over at me, and gives me a dazzling smile. In perfect unaccented English he says, “Need a recommendation?”
An American! I nearly throw myself at him and not simply because of his smile. He’s gorgeous. Thick, black hair, bronzed skin and a grin that could make panties melt from a hundred feet. And he’s standing right next to me? At the worst possible moment of my life? I can’t decide if this is the worst timing in the world or the best. “Just contemplating what I want to do about lunch,” I tell him, my voice breathless. I don’t know if it’s fear or attraction that’s making me all husky and soft-spoken but I don’t care.
I clutch the Louis Vuitton bag under my arm tightly as he leans in. “I know a great place around the corner,” he tells me. “Want company?”
CHAPTER THREE
RAFAEL
She is terrified.
The smile she so desperately tries to project trembles at the corners. And because I’m a sick fuck obsessed with her, I get hard. Granted it’s not because she’s scared witless, but because she’s standing so close I could touch her. If I were her lover, I’d wrap my hand around her waist. I would tug her close, grip her shirt, and tongue her so deep she’d feel it in her toes. And since this is clearly a fantasy, the cars around us would keep moving past, the pedestrians would circle around us like an iceberg in the waters, and life would carry on uninterrupted.
It is only for me that the world would stop.