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Ah, a warning. I’m in danger of losing his interest. Which shouldn’t matter. A smart woman would probably flounce from his room and find the place furthest away from him. In fact, Pedro would probably vote for that very course of action.
Instead, I pivot on my heel and inspect a nearby row of black shelves sporting various trinkets. There are no books—which I find odd. Not because he’s spurned the typical office décor—even Braulio has an entire collection of fake books on display, most doubling as cigar cases—but because I’m sure he has them somewhere. He’s hidden them as another way to bolster his mindless brute routine.
“You read,” I say, staring at the empty shelves. It isn’t a question.
“Do you think I have time while running my empire to thumb through some books, chica?” he counters.
“Oh, I am sure you do,” I say, running my fingers along the shelf at eye level. It’s pristinely clean, not an ounce of dust. “Will you insult me by lying?”
He laughs. “Men are masters of their own fate, Lupe. What could a book tell me that good old common sense can’t?”
It’s a harmless enough phrase on its surface, but I feel my eyes widen. When I whirl to face him, he’s watching me, an eyebrow cocked in that attentive, cunning way.
“Julius Caesar,” I say, naming the source of his clever quote. I read that play twice when I once dreamt of pursuing an education in literature. Diego killed those dreams. “I didn’t take you for a Shakespeare man.”
His eyebrow jumps a fraction higher. “I think you’re mistaken, Lupe.”
I’m not. He must be used to coding his words with taunts designed to flaunt his intelligence to those too stupid to recognize it for what it is. A thrill runs down my spine that I can compare only to what I felt with him buried inside me to the hilt. Like I’ve stumbled upon some elusive, life-changing revelation.
“Do your harem girls fall asleep out of sheer boredom if you talk to them as though they have an ounce of brain left in their skulls? I can assure you that I’m not so shallow.”
“I think that after last night you should take very good care of your skull, chica. The doctor says you have a mild concussion,” he explains. “Take care with that face, too. I’m sure your past lovers have had to tie you down to keep you from jumping out of windows whenever you don’t get your way.”
“I always get my way,” I lie. It feels better to do so than to admit the obvious. To hide just how vulnerable the falsehood makes me, I turn away from him again, focusing on the wall. Easily overlooked at first glance is what looks like a cabinet built into the gray surface. Perhaps a secret bookshelf? I’m curious enough to approach it and run my finger down the nearly invisible seam.
“Why do you hide your books?” I ask. If he’s confident enough to offhandedly quote Shakespeare, I’m sure he’s read countless other works. Enough times to remember lines by heart. My personal collection is nowhere near vast, but I still have a few books dog-eared and tattered from how many times I’ve reread them. If you cherish the written word enough to quote it by heart, you have books. Somewhere.
“What do I need to hide?” Jaguar asks me.
I consider keeping my observations close to the chest—but I suspect he’s used to having no one prod at his façade so boldly. After locking me in a cage to be eaten by his pet, I have no scruples about nagging him. Not anymore.
“Your intelligence,” I say, hunting for a latch or concealed handle to open the hidden compartment. “I told you before, but I’ll say it again. You pretend you’re nowhere near as brilliant as you truly are. A dumb man doesn’t possess the patience you do.”
The cruel, predatory ability to watch and wait. To let people dance for him like puppets because he’sthatconvinced he knows exactly how they’ll react.
“For example,” I press on before he can deny my suspicion outright. “You assumed I’m like the other women you play with. A few pretty dresses and a room filled with makeup would impress me. That my son is merely a footnote on my psyche, and if you promise me the world, I’ll simper at your feet while you use me to your own ends. You had no intention of helping me the first time. Will you deny it?”
“And interrupt such a thrilling little monologue?” he rasps. “I think not.”
Oh, I’ve hit him where it counts. Someone smart and well versed in how men like him operate would back down. It seems my head wound has knocked more sense out of me than I thought, because I can’t seem to retreat so easily.
“You think hate alone drove me to come to you, but it isn’t. If I wanted to destroy Braulio, there are other ways.”
Reckless ways, but that doesn’t negate their availability.
“I came to you because I don’t want revenge. I want protection. Will you believe me now?”
“I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you, Tiena. Such a strange, feisty little creature you are.”
And that unsettles him. It’s yet another glimpse of the real man lurking behind the mask. Even his voice sounds different when he’s not putting on the display that is Jaguar. Julian Domingas, I suspect, is someone far more dangerous. He’s reasonable, but impressing him takes intellect. Honesty.
So, I switch gears and start speaking to him in Spanish.
“Do you hide your books in the wall?” I ask.
He chuckles more deeply. “I don’t feel the need to hide a damn thing.” His accent is fluently crisp, his inflectionperfecto.
Suddenly, the wall parts beneath my fingers—the result of some mechanism he must be able to control from the desk. Via a remote? I start to look over, but what’s revealed in the hidden compartment has me too hypnotized to move.
