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Aloof and unsmiling.Brutally composed.
I wouldn’t call him handsome as such, he’s far too frosty for that description, but all the women in the bar are checking him out anyway.
There's no way he works in windowless crime labs all day.
We stand to greet him, and he shakes our hands in turn. His touch is even colder than my glass and I shiver on contact. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
“Mr. Gutierrez? I’m Ivy Sanchez, and this is my colleague atThe Eagle, Ella Miller. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
“Good evening, Miss Sanchez. Miss…Miller.” The slight hesitation before he says my last name catches like a bad splinter. It’s unmistakable—a gaping, black hole for all those who know my lie.
Is it my imagination, or did his gaze just flicker to the booth wheremy bodyguards are sitting?
I told them nothing about this meeting, other than it was a generic work thing. As far as they and Edier are concerned, this story died days ago. We’ve kept to Rob’s rules. No emails or calls in the workplace. Burner phones always…
“Please, take a seat.” Ivy indicates to the empty bench opposite. “Can I get you a drink?”
He shakes his head and maneuvers his angular frame into our booth, unhooking his expensive suit jacket button in a fluid movement. His shoes are fine Italian black leather. I know because they’re the same ones Edier wears with his Brioni suits.
My barometer of unease shoots up ten-fold.
“Gutierrez…is that Spanish?” asks Ivy, launching into small talk which is a skill I swear she majored in.
There’s a pause. “Actually, it’s Colombian.”
My stomach does a savage flip as he turns to look at me again, his lips twisting, as if he’s enjoying my reaction.
Shit.
As a Santiago, I was born with an inbuilt threat detector. Right now, it’s screaming orders at me:
Make an excuse.
Get up and leave.
Now, Ella, NOW.
“What a coincidence,” I hear Ivy say. “Ella’s half-Colombian herself.”
“Thatisa coincidence,” he says smoothly, never taking his eyes off me.
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“A village called Suesca, just outside Bogotá.”
“Was there something you wished to share with us, Mr…Guitierrez?” This time it’s my turn to leave a skeptical pause before delivering his last name. I want him to know we’re playing the same game now, and from the slight quirk of his eyebrows it’s worked. “You intimated in your messages that you’d seen this inverted pentagram tattoo on a number of other bodies. Can you confirm this?”
He taps his fingernails lightly on the table. “Perhaps I’ll have that drink, after all. Surprise me, Miss Sanchez. Something…American.”
He’s not the only man I know who can use words like threats.
“Coming right up.” Ivy shoots me a ‘cool it’ look as she rises to her feet. She doesn’t want to miss a second of this conversation, but I get the feeling we won’t be discussing the article once she’s gone.
I’m right. The second she reaches the bar his smile vanishes, and his lips flatten into a thin red line.
“Perhaps we should drop the pretenses now,señorita.”
His accent has slipped too. It’s much heavier than he was letting on.
