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Once the elevator doors slide open, he looks my way and gestures with a nod of his head for me to step out. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or not that he doesn’t touch me.
“Straight ahead,” he says.
I walk toward the double doors, where a man stands guard. He’s a soldier. Same as the ones who accompanied him to prom. I know it in my gut. This is no simple bodyguard.
Soldiers.
This family employs actual soldiers. It’s why he wants me, though. Because legitimate businessmen don’t have soldiers.
No, this isn’t about me. I need to keep that at the forefront of my mind. It’s why he wants a De Léon. If I had an older sister, he’d have taken her. The De Léon family is an established, permanent fixture of Avarice. My ancestors are a founding family, in fact. A union between us will legitimize the Augustine name. They may not quite be embraced by high society, but they’ll at least be tolerated once our families are joined.
The soldier nods in greeting. Santos’s hand hovers at my back. I’m not sure if it’s the painkillers, the combination with the alcohol or just proximity to him, but even though his hand isn’t quite touching me, I feel the heat of it on my skin.
“Go on,” Santos says once the soldier opens the door. I enter, my heart racing. It’s quiet up here, so completely still. I look around the large living room, open kitchen, and floor to ceiling windows. The views of the cliffs and the wild ocean are amazing, when you can stand to look at them.
The beacon of the lighthouse pans over the black waters of the Atlantic, and I’m momentarily transfixed. My heart races as I see the great white structure in my periphery. The lighthouse stands tall and menacing on the farthest point of the cliff.
The official name is Avarice Point but what the locals call it is much more accurate.
Suicide Rock.
I go to the windows, equally drawn and terrified, and set the tips of my fingers against the cool glass. A mist is moving in over the water. My gaze is dragged toward that lighthouse, but I catch myself in time, looking down instead—which is a mistake. Not for the height, although it’s quite a distance to fall, but because of the cliffs themselves. They terrify me, and I find myself stumbling backward, suddenly dizzy.
Santos is at my side in an instant. He steadies me. He must have crossed the room when I had my back to him. He’s a good head taller than me, more than that if I take off my heels. This close, I can see the few gray hairs in his permanent five-o’clock shadow and the specks of gold in his green eyes. I can smell the familiar scent of him, too, and it’s a strange, wrong comfort.
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly as if studying me. I wonder—not for the first time—if he can read my mind. More likely, he can read my face. He’s much more aware and pays a lot closer attention than most people.
“Steady?” he asks, drawing me out of my thoughts. It’s a good thing.
“Fine,” I say, purposefully sounding irritated as I remind myself what he is to me.
What I am to him.
He nods, closing off his face to me again. It’s when I realize he was letting me see him momentarily. He releases me and takes my clutch from my hand. Opening it, he pulls the flask out again.
My heels click as I move away from him to plop down on the edge of the sofa, tugging the slit of my dress closed when it slips open. I sit with my back to him as I try to force my vision to steady.
He must open the flask and smell or taste what’s left because he asks, “Whiskey?”
I shrug. “What are we doing up here?”
“Remind me how old you are,” he says, coming to stand in front of me. He’s close enough that the toes of our shoes are almost touching, and I need to crane my head to meet his eyes. I should stand up. He already has the upper hand in every way when it comes to us. But my limbs feel weighed down.
“You ask me that every time we meet,” I answer. “Math not your strong suit?”
“Eighteen. And you’re drunk on whiskey. Not to mention the painkillers, which I’m guessing aren’t aspirin.”
“I’m not drunk.” I don’t address the aspirin comment.
“No?”
“No.”
“Stand up.”
I close my eyes and shake my head as if I’m irritated.
“Do it. Or can’t you?”
