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‘Jesus, you really don’t get out much, do you?’ he said, the humour gone now.
Her lip curled up, an amused smirk. ‘It took nine years for you to notice that?’
Nine years. Christ. They’d been working together for nine years, and their conversation had barely gotten past the weather. There had been that one time, when he’d taken the photo from her, and the other time, when he’d given her the burner phone with his number programmed in. He’d wanted to help her, but she hadn’t called him once. Not ever.
‘You never answered my question. Do you see your mama very much? I know Dornan and Emilio keep you busy in the office.’
‘I don’t, no. You see your wife very often? I know Dornan and Emilio keep you busy with . . .’ She paused for a moment. ‘. . . whatever it is a president does.’ She waved her hand at the tattoo on his neck that marked him a Gypsy, before returning her eyes to the water that lapped at the Santa Monica shore.
Wow. Talk about sucker-punching him in the gut with a dig about Caroline. He went to bite back, but then he realised: she was deflecting his questions, diverting his attention. She was like this ghost that was always around. He spent several hours with this woman every week, and beyond her name, he didn’t know a damn thing about her. He knew that she was stuck here, but she’d never told him why. And Dornan wasn’t one to offer up specifics, even when John pressed him. It seemed that Mariana Rodriguez was off limits in their conversations.
And that was a shame. Because he liked her. She was funny and kind, not to mention fucking beautiful.
Shit. He needed to not think of her like that. She wasn’t fucking beautiful. She was nobody. Christ! Under the table, his cock was straining against his pants again at the mere sight of her tongue running lazily across her bottom lip as she stared into space. Those lips looked so soft, he wanted to reach out and brush his finger across them. Jesus, you’re married, and she’s taken. Cold showers. Emilio. Ahhh yes, nothing made his cock go softer than thinking about his psychopathic boss.
‘You don’t like talking about your family, that’s OK. I don’t like talking about mine.’
Mariana got up and tossed her cone in the trash. Sitting back down across from him, she started shredding her paper napkin, making a neat pile on the table in front of her. John observed her as he finished his cone, unsure how to rescue the conversation.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ John asked. ‘I’ll give you the floor.’
He watched her face, waiting for a reaction, but there was nothing. As she pressed a hand to the window and continued to stare at the sea beyond, it occurred to John that she wasn’t ignoring him.
She hadn’t even heard him speak.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MARIANA
‘Can I go on the wheel?’ Juliette asked.
The three of us gazed up at the Ferris wheel. John shrugged. ‘Sure. You want me to come with you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not a baby, Father.’
Defiant little thing. If I had spoken to my father like that, I would have been smacked upside the head. Then again, if I’d talked to my father at all when I was Juliette’s age, he would have smacked me upside the head.
Thinking of him did nothing to lift my black mood. I should be happy, being out here like this, but I was fretting. Why was it suddenly necessary for John to babysit me? Had Dornan somehow figured out Murphy’s plan? Was he waiting to see if I shared what I’d learned the previous night with him? Or was this just a happy coincidence, that the very day after Murphy dropped a bomb on me and I then learned the truth – that my entire family had been murdered – that John had decided to take me out?
And John’s questions about my family were starting to irritate me. They made me suspicious. Was he baiting me to see if I’d confess knowledge of their deaths, only to punish me for making the forbidden phone call to Este’s brother? Has John been listening to the calls I’ve made through the burner cellphone, the one he gave me, this entire time?
So many questions. I didn’t know who to trust. Had he brought me out with Juliette so I felt more comfortable, so I let my guard down?
Well, he wasn’t getting anything from me. Not one iota. If I was wrong, and this was innocent, I’d apologise later.
Maybe.
Once Juliette was riding the Ferris wheel, John turned his attention to me again. I’d been expecting it. He was as stubborn as me.
‘So, you don’t like talking about your family,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘What do you like talking about?’
I shrugged, not meeting his gaze as I squeezed the metal railing that separated us from the wheel. Did he have to pick at me like I was an open wound, begging to be torn open and exposed?
Sighing, he stood closer to me, so that our shoulders touched. I wanted to jerk myself away in protest, but my shoulder burned pleasantly where it touched his. I am such a loser, I thought to myself. Any tiny bit of human contact and I’m fighting to keep my hands to myself.
I was so deprived of affection, a casual touch of someone’s shoulder against mine sent a thrill through me. Not just anyone, though. There was something about John that did it.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I couldn’t afford to think like that.
