Dirty Angels - Halle Karina - Страница 42

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“Those are my favorite, you know,” he commented. It was as if everything in the cottage had been a dream.

“The lotus?” I asked. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but admire them again. “They are beautiful.”

“Yes, they are.” He stopped and stared at the flowers for a few moments. “I love the lotus because while growing from mud, it is unstained,” he said, as if he were reading something aloud. He glanced at me. “A Chinese scholar once said that. I agree. It represents everything that I am not.”

We started walking again. We were almost at the house when I said, “You must feel your soul is dirty then.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Oh, my darling. No,” he said, opening the French doors for me. “I don’t even have a soul.”

Luisa

For the rest of the day, I was given free rein of the house. I wasn’t sure why—maybe Javier was extra confident in his security, or perhaps with Franco gone, he believed I had nothing to fear. I didn’t know, but I did take every moment to explore what I could.

Downstairs was a game room with leather couches and a bar. There was a dart board on the wall and a billiard table in the middle. It was styled to look like one of those gentlemen’s clubs: lots of dark mahogany, green-glass lamps, and gold fixtures. I stayed in that room for a long time. It was quiet in there, and the heavy curtains blocked out all the light from the outside. I wondered how often Javier used the room, if he came here to escape, have a drink, pull a limited edition hardcover book from the shelves and immerse himself in it. I wondered what kind of a life he had day to day, when he didn’t have a hostage in his house.

Hostage. The word was starting to sound foreign. I was still a hostage, his captive, and yet when the word ran through my head, it had no meaning. I wasn’t anything anymore … I was just me and I was just here.

After some time, I went to investigate the other rooms on the main floor. There was a small but state-of-the-art gym, some guest bathrooms and bedrooms, a large, immaculate dining room that housed a table that could fit at least twenty people, an open living room with a flatscreen TV built into the wall, and the kitchen.

Upstairs there were more bedrooms, as well as a few doors that didn’t open, and one door that I didn’t even try.

From that door I could hear Javier’s voice on the other side, talking to Esteban. I couldn’t make out what they were saying—the door was thick and their voices were muddled—but I knew it must have been Javier’s office.

I kept walking past it, not caring what they were saying. They were probably discussing me, about what was to be done with me when the week was over. I wondered if Javier was at all having a dilemma over Salvador’s upcoming deal, if he was still planning to shoot me in the head, or if torturing Franco had awakened some kind of appetite.

I wondered if it was scaring him. When I asked him to stay with me last night, I wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. For one quick moment, like a burst of lightning, I saw fear in his eyes.

I made sure not to forget it.

Later, I ended up falling asleep on my bed, a science magazine I had snatched from downstairs open on my lap. It was dark out and my stomach was growling. I vaguely remembered Esteban coming into my room and telling me there was dinner for me, but I was so out of it he must have let me keep sleeping. I suppose I had been more exhausted by everything than I thought.

I glanced at my bedside clock. It was eleven p.m. I’d crashed for hours.

I groaned, trying to shake the grogginess out of my head. For a moment I thought about my parents, wondering where they were, if they were still being taken care of. The caretaker made them go to sleep at ten every night, but I knew sometimes my mom stayed up later, listening to her audiobooks.

My heart clenched at the thoughts and I had to willfully force them away, otherwise, I would weaken. There was no time for weakness anymore.

I got up slowly and changed out of my rumpled clothes, and into a camisole and boy shorts that had magically appeared in my dresser drawers. They were lilac and made of the finest silk, fitting my body like they were made for me. I used the washroom, splashed water onto my face and combed back my hair, then opened the door to the hall. To my surprise it opened, which meant I was still allowed to be free. I smiled to myself and quietly padded down the hall. The house was still, and I wondered if I could raid the kitchen for something to eat without waking anybody. Obviously there was a security system set up and cameras everywhere which relayed to a guard somewhere, but I didn’t care if they saw me getting a late night snack.

When I passed by Javier’s office, I saw his door was open a crack. The light inside was on, spilling faintly into the hall. I thought this odd since everything Javier did seemed to happen behind closed doors.

I paused, listening, and heard the clink of glass. Taking a deep breath, I gently pushed the door open.

There was a click and I saw Javier sitting behind his desk, a gun pointed straight at me.

I froze.

“Oh,” he said, his voice sounding odd, “it’s just you.”

He quickly put the gun away and picked up the glass beside him. Ice cubes rattled in smooth, brown liquid. An antique bar globe was open, a half-empty bottle of scotch taking prominence.

“Sorry,” I said breathlessly. My heart was still going a mile a minute from the image of the gun aimed at my head.

He nodded, not looking at me, and waved his glass at the room, scotch spilling over the rim. “Come in then, come into my office. Close the door.”

I did so and took two steps into the middle of the room. I pretended to admire how tastefully it was all decorated, but instead I was studying him. Was Javier … drunk?

“I see you’ve found your new clothes,” he said, his eyes feasting on my body, drinking me in like the booze at his lips. “You’re gorgeous.” He tossed the rest of his swill back and then wiped his hand across his mouth.

Yes. He was drunk.

I swallowed, feeling slightly nervous. I wasn’t sure what Javier was like when he was drunk. Bruno became bold and disgusting when he had too much, while all of Salvador’s vile actions were magnified. Javier was always so cool, calm and collected. To see him slightly unhinged threw me off.

That said, it was also intriguing. When one was drunk and the other sober, the sober one held all the cards and all the power.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He tore his eyes from my body and poured himself another glass, nearly getting scotch on his elegant desk. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” he said as his brows furrowed. “I’m just having scotch.”

“Half a bottle of it.”

He looked back at the bottle absently. “Oh. I already went through a full one earlier. Men like me must know how to control their liquor.”

“Men like you,” I mused. I walked over to the desk, completely conscious of the fragile garments I was wearing. I placed my hands on the desk and leaned down, staring at him. “Tell me more about men like you.”

He must have caught the cynical tone of my voice because he looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said carefully, wanting to push his buttons but needing to be cautious at the same time, “tell me why a man like you is sitting alone in his office, getting drunk. Don’t you have body parts to clean up in your torture chamber? Or is that the hired help’s job? You seem to get them to do all your dirty work.”

His mouth set firmly, and a muscle ticked along his jaw. “I don’t enjoy telling a lady to shut up. But I’m not above it.”

“And how do you do that?” I asked, unfazed and unwilling to break away from his simmering stare. “How would you shut me up?”

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