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I was washing my hair in a shower stall when a voice cut through the silence and almost made me scream.
‘Mariana Rodriguez?’
I opened my eyes, which was stupid, because shampoo-laden water flooded them straight away. Fuck! I pulled my head away from the stream of water, my hand searching for my towel.
The hook was empty.
If someone had taken my towel, I’d murder them. I knew how to do that now. I rubbed the water from my stinging eyes and opened them again, gasping when I saw the guy from the treadmill, Not Jesus Christ, leaning against the wall outside the shower, my towel dangling between his thumb and forefinger.
I snatched the towel from his grip, pressing it to my chest.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t looking,’ he said. The cocky bastard then proceeded to give me a once-over, from head to toe, an amused smile plastered across his face.
‘This is the women’s changeroom,’ I said emphatically, still holding onto the hope that he’d come in here by accident. ‘And I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’
‘You ran away from me,’ the guy said. ‘We could have done this out there, when you weren’t completely naked.’ He looked like he was about to dissolve into laughter. ‘And I know the name you’re going by now, but that’s not the name your parents gave you, is it?’ As I opened my mouth to argue, he held up a xeroxed copy of my old Colombian driver’s licence, complete with my photo.
Shit.
‘How do you know my name?’ I asked. ‘Are you a cop?’
He grinned. ‘Maybe. Are you a friend of Christopher Murphy’s?’
I wrapped the towel around me. ‘No.’
‘Do you know him?’ The man pressed.
‘Maybe.’ Fuck. Motherfucking fuck. Was he going to arrest me? Great. I was going to get arrested, and I wasn’t even wearing clothes.
‘He seems to be missing. You haven’t seen him around, have you, Mariana?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope.’
He nodded, as if we were sharing a secret or something. He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a business card. ‘In case you see him anywhere,’ he said, ‘or if you want me to take you out to dinner. You eat too many microwave meals with that Mexican schmuck who lives with you.’
How did he know what I ate? Who I lived with?
I took the card, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run as I turned it over.
My eyes just about bugged out of my head when I read the name that was printed on the thick paper.
Agent Lindsay Price, FBI. The name Murphy had given me before I shot him. The same man who was investigating Emilio and the entire cartel.
Jesus Christ.
I looked up from the card, but Agent Lindsay Price was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MARIANA
THREE WEEKS LATER
I locked eyes with Dornan, his smirk eliciting a small smile from me as he squeezed his erection, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of me. I saw a bead of pre-come glistening on the head of his cock and my mouth watered at the thought of licking it up. Later.
Now it was my turn to receive.
It was difficult to lie on my new mattress, legs spread, a tongue dragging on my clit and not enjoy it. I was a sexual being. I practically lived for these moments. But lying on this bed, all I could think about was Murphy and the look of sheer terror on his face as I shoved a gun between his teeth and pulled the trigger.
