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All of which made it difficult right now to decide how to feel about the man looming over her with no expression whatsoever on his face. He was the enemy, but he also had the use of his hands, which made it hard for her to resist the urge to suck up to him.
He could bring her water. He could rescue her.
Except for the part where she didn’t want to be rescued.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Yesterday evening, the setting sun had lit a flaming burn on her right cheek, neck, forearm, and thigh. Just before dawn, the wind picked up.
There were goose bumps on her legs. Her head was too hot.
She had no idea if she was cold.
“No.”
He rose. “Don’t move.”
Ashley mulled over whether that had been a joke while he walked to his car.
The SUV’s silver front grille gleamed like a nasty set of teeth. Even from thirty feet away, she could see the Cadillac symbol stuck between its chompers.
What kind of gas mileage did an Escalade get? Twelve miles to the gallon? Nine?
At the crab shack, she’d served lobster to men who drove cars like that. Another summer, she’d worked on the glass-bottomed boat in Maui, and she’d watched the Cadillac men tapping at their cell phones, checking for a signal while their kids whined for their attention and their wives shot them dirty looks.
She’d taught Cadillac men how to sea kayak off Baja. They always hated the part where she flipped them over and they had to escape the splash skirt and effect their own rescue.
Experience had forced Ashley to conclude that—while there were certainly exceptions—Cadillac men were almost always assholes.
This asshole came back with a small plastic-wrapped package. “Do you want this?”
She didn’t even know what it was. “No.”
“Your legs are blue.”
“I’m fine.”
He tore the package open and unfolded a silver space blanket. “Top or bottom? It won’t cover both.”
She didn’t respond, because she was fighting back the sudden, distressing urge to cry.
Roman Díaz was ruining her life. He could at least have the decency to be cruel.
He dropped to one knee, wrapped her legs in the crinkling blanket. He smelled good—aftershave or soap, clean and fresh like a very manly breath mint—and she willed herself to stop widening her nostrils and sucking at his smell like an excited puppy.
She was not excited. Or attracted. Or a puppy.
And this was serious business. She had to study him as though she were a detective, or, no, a soldier, because that was what you did with the enemy. Learned his ways. Found his weaknesses and exploited them.
It was beyond unfortunate that she was so awful at exploiting things.
He leaned back to survey his work. “Of course, if we leave that on you, in three or four hours you’ll be crisping up like a cat on a hot tin roof.”
He pronounced roof as though it had a u in it. Ruf.
Not the sort of accent she would have predicted for a Latino developer from Miami. She’d figured Roman Díaz would be Cuban, Honduran, Nicaraguan—and he looked the part. But he had to be second generation, at least. He spoke English too perfectly for it to be anything but a first language.
And even then, ruf? Wasn’t that how they said it in Canada?
