“My mother,” I mutter matter-of-factly, though I’m certain a deeper pain exists somewhere inside me.
“She was a really sweet woman. You were close. I stayed with you for a couple weeks after she died. My parents were pissed, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t leave you alone.”
When Isabel’s soul-piercing stare creeps under my skin, it’s my turn to gaze at the church. The bright cerulean blue fence around it matches the sky, a vibrant distraction from the darkness of my dreams. Whoever my mother was, I know she died in my arms. If the recurring nightmare hasn’t confirmed it, Isabel just did.
If these are my memories, who needs them?
“Maybe my nightmares are better than the truth. I should just be happy with an abridged version, the version my mind lets me remember.”
“For what it’s worth, you don’t seem happy at all.”
I laugh at the ridiculousness of her statement. “I’d agree with you if I had any sense of the word.”
“You never feel joy.”
I shake my head, feeling nothing as I do. “I survive.” I try not to get killed.
The glimmer in her eyes seems like it might spill over into actual tears. She blinks them away rapidly and points toward the church. “I’m going over there for a few minutes, if that’s okay.”
My immediate response is Hell no, but I can’t get the words out before she rises and gets several paces ahead of me. She leaves the restaurant and crosses the street to the gate that separates the building from the curb. I chase her and catch up as she reaches for the latch on the gate.
“Wait.” I cover her hand with mine, trying to ignore how the smallest touch affects me.
“Wait for what?”
There’s peace in her eyes. Sadness and confusion too, but under it all is a layer of stillness that I can hardly understand.
“I’m not going in there,” I say firmly.
She stares steadily at me. “Are you afraid?”
I grimace, both at her question and the odd twist of emotions it inspires. Afraid? Of a church? It’s all I can do to hold back the nervous laugh that wants to break free.
“No, but I’m not letting you out of my sight, which means you’re not going in there.”
I curl my fingers over hers, reveling in the silkiness of them as I struggle with her request. “Let’s just go back—”
A door creaks loudly. “Posso te ajudar?”
An elderly man steps down from the entrance toward us. He’s in black garb, and a string of rosaries dangles from his neck. His skin is mottled and lined with age. One eye is clouded white. Both lower when the high noon sun catches the silver circle at Isabel’s neck.
“S?o Paulo,” he says with a kind smile.
Isabel fingers the delicate pendant of St. Paul that rests at her clavicle. I noticed it before, briefly. Noticed it first when she was moaning my name two nights ago. When I was a reflex away from ending her life. I haven’t given it much thought until now.
I can see her pulse ticking beneath the thin chain. The charm interrupts the bare beauty of the woman who wears it. Her skin shimmers like a sea of Moroccan sand. The sharp line of her collarbone slopes to her shoulder, disappearing under her shirt.
I memorize her. Desire I can’t understand inspires dangerous visions. Trapping her against me in the middle of the street. Declaring war with the barriers of her clothing. Baring her. The rest of her perfect skin. Inch by inch, I unveil her in my mind. The sounds she’d make under me. The fear and desire I’d recognize with a single taste.
Something tightens in my gut at the memory of her taste. Something beyond the eagerness of her kiss. The desperation. The asking in it. No, the pure taste of her. The melding of our mouths. The familiarity of it. The way I knew her lips were mine the minute I felt them. And her tongue. The hot and greedy cavern of her perfect mouth.
I’m ready to turn the wanton cravings into truth when her rose-colored lips curve into a soft smile for the old man. In that moment, I force myself to see her as he does. Innocent next to the likes of me. A beautiful young girl. Full of life. Clinging to faith. Hope.
“Me chamo Antonio. Qual é o seu nome?”
“Isabel.”
He nods, rests his gaze on her for one thoughtful moment before lifting it to me.
“E você. Qual é o seu nome?” he says, as if I can be lured in with such a simple request.
The warmth I felt a moment ago in my visions of Isabel and all the carnal things I yearn to do to her crashes like a deluge to the ground beneath my feet, leaving me cold and sober.
I’m me again, and I have no business here.
I step away, dragging my hand away from the gate latch, disconnecting from Isabel’s defiant hold on it.
“Tristan,” she says. “His name is Tristan Stone.”
Isabel’s eyes storm when they meet mine, like some sort of mystic who knows all my darkest secrets. Or just a beautiful woman who knows my name…
ISABEL
Any fleeting comfort I felt on the doorstep of the church is swiftly ripped away when Tristan takes my hand, his grasp firm, and pulls me away from the half-blind father who would have welcomed us with open arms. I don’t know what drew me there. Perhaps a moment’s peace, but that’s become impossible now.
I glance back at the old man, gulping down emotion I fear has no place in my current predicament. The priest draws his hand up toward the gate latch, lingering there, his eyes wide and more alert than they’d been moments ago. Tristan doesn’t give him a chance. We’re down the street. I’m tucked into the car seconds later. And we’re off, speeding through town.
I stare at Tristan, regret and misery lodged in my throat. “Who are you?”
“No one you know.” He jerks the gear shift, lurching us forward at a faster speed. “If you knew me, you’d know that’s the last place I belong. And what in the hell were you thinking? Do you think this is a joke? Do you think there’s a chance someone isn’t out there right now on our scent, trying to figure out where I’ve taken you?”
“He’s a priest. He’s harmless.”
“Everyone can be bought. Everyone. I don’t care how compassionate or kind you think they are. Everyone has a price.”
“You really believe that.”
He stares blankly ahead. “Words to live by. It’s not a hard lesson. I’d suggest you learn it before you get us killed.”
I shove a hand through my already tousled hair, incensed. “Tristan, why don’t you just take what you want from me and let me go home? If you don’t already know who my father is, believe me when I tell you that he can protect me.”
“The people who want you dead don’t care about your father’s security clearances in DC.”
I hesitate a moment. “If we’re not safe here, then send me home.”
My panic climbs with his silence.
“Tristan…”
He turns onto the dirt road that leads to Mateus’s compound. My prison.
“No,” he says firmly.
The rumble of the car quiets beneath the thrumming of my blood in my ears. I’m afraid and angry. And I’m suddenly aware of what might have possessed my mother when she fought with my father. Late at night when they thought I was sleeping, I would hear her words flying—a mix of language, her voice imbued with the kind of rage I could never comprehend. Then, sometimes, I’d witness her violence. From the upstairs hallway, hidden by darkness, I’d watch my father restrain her, calm her. Beyond that, he never retaliated.
Until this moment, I never believed I could be capable of such intensely negative emotions toward the man I loved. As I dig my fingernails into the car’s seat, I imagine doing the unthinkable. I have to get away.
I reach for the door handle and unlatch it.
“Isabel!”
We swerve as Tristan reaches across the seat to pull me back. He slams on the brakes and eases the car onto the side of the narrow road.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His proximity and anger should frighten me, but I’m too fired up. I match his furious stare and yell, “What do you want from me?”
His nostrils flare. “For starters, I want you to stop trying to jump out of the goddamn car.”