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That startled him, too. To realize, after he said it, that it was true.
“Well, admire this. I’ve weathered a lot of hurricanes, and I’m smart enough to understand that this storm is worse news for you than for me. You need my cooperation more than ever.”
“If you stay here, you could be killed.”
“And if I get killed, you’re completely fucked.”
Roman sat back on his heels.
She was right. This skinny, sunburned, irritating woman with mulch sticking to her legs held all the cards, and she knew it.
“Why so quiet?” she asked.
He could hear
her glee now. How had he missed it before? She had been waiting for this moment, and he should have guessed. He’d done his homework. He should have known that the daughter of a university chemist and a U.S. senator would be intelligent enough to trap him, even if she had frittered away all the advantages she’d been given on a string of pointless jobs and worthless affairs.
He’d underestimated her.
Heberto would be disappointed in him.
“Don’t you want to ask me if I’m cold?” she asked. “Maybe bring me a raincoat? Or, oh! I know! You could tell me how if something happened to me, it would weigh on your conscience.”
“I don’t have a conscience.”
He’d managed not to snap at her. Just.
“Yeah, Ace, I’d kind of figured that out.”
“What do you want?”
“A phone.”
“No.”
“I want to call my friend to come pick me up.” She threw him a smile that showed small, uneven teeth.
He imagined two rows of them, sharp and deadly as a shark’s.
He imagined her taking a bite out of his thigh. Blood and exposed bone.
Why did that make his dick throb? Something wrong with him.
He shut it down.
“If I give you a phone, you’ll use it to call the Herald to tell them how your life is in danger, but your cause is too righteous to abandon.”
“Ooh, that’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of the Herald, but you’re right, the story is totally strong enough to hook them. Especially if you’re a big deal in Miami.” She bounced up and down against her restraints, as though her happiness might burst out everywhere if she didn’t express it somehow. “You are, aren’t you?”
“No.”
Not yet. But there were people at the Herald who would recognize his name. People who would know of his connection to Heberto Zumbado and enjoy splashing this story of big-business greed victimizing a defenseless woman all over the front page.
She would even photograph well, despite being all wet. Because she was all wet. Her T-shirt stuck to her body, accentuating the inadequate swell of her breasts. Her legs were sticks, her hips practically nonexistent.
Too blond, too thin, too helpless. Just the sort of woman three-quarters of American men wanted to bang.
Or rescue.
