Page 21 of Temptation and Treachery
Chapter Ten
Rio’s gut churned as he dragged the makeshift hood over her head. Celeste, the woman he’d expected to never see again, was at an Ayala safe house. Not tied up. Not terrified. Not hoping for rescue. No, she had to be the blonde Gatlin had seen lying out by the pool. What were the fucking odds?
She’d taken him for a fool, because he’d never suspected she’d be a plant. Someone sent to throw him off the trail. But he’d approached her, switching from his usual position at the back of the plane to sit closer. And she was nothing like the women he’d hooked up with in the past. So what the hell? Was it some fucked-up coincidence? And her claim about visiting her family? How did this clear the air with her father?
“Clear,” Gatlin confirmed from his earpiece. The others started falling in. All accounted for. All safe. Well, he wasn’t about to give himself away before he got some kind of answers from her. And the best way to get to the truth was to keep her from knowing he was involved. That didn’t mean he’d hand her over to Gatlin. The horny son of a bitch would have to settle for being the interrogator.
“Wait. No.” She struggled against him, but he jostled her, moving her away from the bed.
As always, she’d thrown him. His hesitation, when he recognized her, could have cost him his life. Luckily his instincts kicked in. Otherwise she may have pulled a gun from the nightstand. All she needed was a second to end him.
Gatlin reached out to take her, his eyes eating her up like a mutt lapping up gravy. Rio’s back went rigid. White-hot jealousy jutted through him like thorns when the other man drew near her. Oh hell no. Not after the way the bastard had been giving a play by play on her. Right now, her underwear lay on the floor, covered by the bedspread, and her shorts were little more than a hand-width long. Rio tightened his hold on her arm, fighting the urge to yank down her shirt to cover the wedge of skin at her hip. Skin that had been a flawless porcelain until now.
He turned, signaling with fingers slashing across his throat, and glared hard enough to make the other man take a step back. That should take care of the damn grin hidden behind the mask. Rio gave her a hard nudge, leading a reluctant Celeste out of the room and down the hall despite her trying to work herself loose. They maneuvered down the stairs and out the front where he handed her over to be loaded in their SUV before returning to the house.
Gatlin caught up to him. “What gives?” he asked off comm, hitching his head in question as he fell in step.
A muscle ticked in Rio’s jaw. How could he explain the unexpected show of dominance? The jealousy that even now made him want to haul back and knock the shit out of the man who dared to eye fuck his woman. “I need your head in the game, not drooling over your prisoner.”
“No shit. I get you’ve been doing this since Jesus was a corporal, but I’m no boot,” Gatlin defended gruffly. Yeah, the guy had chops. No denying that. “What the hell? I thought you’d want to get your hands on your trophy, but you kept going and found that handful.”
Normally, Rio coordinated the strike and monitored the team’s progress. But today’s arrest was his for the taking. One of the notches he wanted on his belt. So he left Damian at the monitors, and he took a chance at bringing down one of the bloodiest cartel bosses they’d seen in years. Yet when he’d shot Ayala, from halfway up the staircase no less, he’d kept going. He’d been itching for a fight. Anything to burn the adrenaline coursing through his system. Then he found Celeste and wondered if he hadn’t gone bat-shit crazy.
“There were enough men on the ground to load him up and get Parker to patch up his leg.”
“Round up’s done,” Damian called through the earpiece. “Ayala’s asking for Victoria.”
“The blonde?” Gatlin frowned.
Victoria. Rio’s ground his molars. Had anything she’d said been true? Man, she’d pulled off one hell of a con. He felt like the world’s biggest ass. The one and only time he let his guard down, he’d ended up in bed with the cartel. Literally.
“Yeah. She’s his kid.”
Rio stopped cold. Son of a bitch.
…
Celeste was unceremoniously shoved into a hard-backed chair. A headache hammered against her temples. After hours in a vehicle, sitting away from the seat due to her hands being tied, she was grateful for the support. She shifted, adjusting her arms along her sides, pushing her bound hands through the opening under the chair’s back. With everyone refusing to answer her questions, she had no idea where she was. And no idea who’d taken her.
“Where am I?” she asked in Spanish. Like all the other times, she got no response. Shoes squeaked and a door closed nearby, closeting her in. Had her kidnapper left? She strained to hear any sound. Nothing. But despite the door, she knew someone stood close by, watching her. If this were a scene on TV, the girl would be creeped out, or terrified, and imagining some slobbering weirdo drooling as he sniffed her hair.
But she was neither. Somehow not being alone set her at ease, pushing fear to the edge of the wall and up in the corner. That disturbed her most. How could anyone not be freaking out over this? “I must be mental,” she shook her head, muttering under her breath.
Something shifted in the air around her. What was it? Her pulse sped up, thrumming against her throat at a thrilling pace. Maybe her mother had been right. She was more like her father than she cared to admit. Maybe she’d been hiding a daredevil streak deep inside. And now, when her life might be in danger, she felt a sharp thrill at the unknown.
The door opened again, letting in some of the fresher air from the hallway. This time footsteps sounded on the floor, coming closer. Unease crawled up her spine. Okay, this is more like what I expected. At least there was nothing in her stomach to come up. She scooted back against the chair, putting as much space between them as she could. She waited. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Unable to stand the building anxiety, she blurted out, “Who’s there?” Her shoulders tightened. “Where am I?”
A long scrape, a soft thud, then the hood was pulled off her head, taking her hair along with it. Celeste narrowed her eyes, blinking to focus, shaking her head to toss her hopelessly snared locks. The man in front of her—tall, dark-haired, and steely eyed—picked up a folder from the table, reading the contents. Folder. Table. A single light shining down on them. There was no mirror along the far wall, but this felt more like the interrogation rooms on TV. Were these the good guys? The tightness in her chest loosened a tiny bit. But even television’s Richard Castle had WRITER stenciled on his vest. So who were they?
“Victoria?” he asked.
“Celeste,” she replied automatically.
He looked up from the file, his lips tightening at one corner. “I have it on authority that you’re Victoria Ayala.” If not for the thin goatee, she might have missed the slight frown.
She inhaled shakily, preparing the explanation her mother had drummed into her head since she was a kid. “My name is Victoria Celeste Patron. But yes…” She fought the urge to fidget. For the first time, she was actually going to voice the words to a stranger. “Victor Ayala is my father.” That’s when she felt it again. A heaviness in the air, somewhere to her left. She glanced over, but going from darkness to light had blinded her. She could only make out a large outline against walls painted institutional gray.
She turned back. “Are you the police?”
