I stretched my legs under the covers, pointing my toes. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
“Eager for me to come home, eh? Or perhaps the opposite, in which case you’ll be glad to learn I’ve had a setback.”
“How?” I asked.
“The trail has turned cold. I wasted two days.”
“Are you still in the country?”
“Yes.”
“Have you asked my father for help?” I asked. “You have a stronger worldwide network, but within México, Papá is well-connected.”
“This is a matter I have to handle on my own,” he said. “I don’t want to tell Costa until I have every confidence that it’s true.”
“That what’s true?” I asked, sitting up straighter. “Does it involve him?”
“Yes.”
With a flurry of jitters, I spread my hand over my stomach. “How?”
“I would tell you, Natalia—I promised to answer your questions. But like with your father, I don’t want to until I know more. Because it involves you, too.”
I curled my hand into the sheets, intrigue rising in me and clashing with wariness. In this new world of mine, anything could happen. Nothing was off-limits. I’d been lucky in my situation so far, but that could change. “I don’t know how many more surprises I can handle, Cristiano.”
“You can handle a lot. I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t think so. You prove it to yourself more every day.”
I wasn’t sure where his confidence in me came from, but he had a point. Almost two weeks at Cristiano’s, and I was physically, emotionally, and mentally stronger than I’d been when I’d arrived.
“What if you don’t find what you’re after?”
“Then I suppose it will be some time before I return. I’ll be tempted to come home for the same reason I have to press on, but I won’t return empty-handed unless I have to.”
A reason that involved me. Something that tempted him to come home—and also drove him. I tapped my chin, trying to piece it together but coming up short. “You are the most cryptic man I’ve ever met.”
“I choose to find the compliment in that. I’m grateful to have graduated from asshole, monster, and devil to ‘cryptic.’”
I bit my cheek to hide my smile. “Wishful thinking. But if you do this for Pilar, then I promise to cross one of those off the list.”
“Then I will do this for Pilar. And I will do it for you.”
He still hadn’t said why in any way I could fully comprehend. Why he’d handle everyone from Manu to the Belmonte-Ruiz cartel, and all the dangers in between, if it meant helping women. There was only one explanation for that.
It had to be personal.
And personal was exactly what I needed if I had any chance at even beginning to understand him. And to understand if escaping him was still the best thing for me.
“Have there been women you couldn’t help?” I asked.
He went silent for so long, I wondered if he was still on the line. Maybe I shouldn’t have pressed.
With a firm, sudden knock, I vaulted upright in the bed. “Someone’s at the bedroom door.”
“It’ll be Jaz with my dry cleaning,” he said.
“Dry cleaning?” I wondered aloud, picturing Cristiano in one of his pressed suits. Despite the nature of his business, he was almost always clean-shaven or neatly trimmed, sporting fine Italian loafers and Swiss watches, and his black, inky hair was never too short or too long. “What’s the point?”
“Not every interaction I have ends with bloodshed,” he said. “Are you decent?”
I glanced down at the silky red camisole and shorts that had one day appeared in my dresser drawer. “My mother instilled in me the importance of dressing as well for bed as I would for church,” I told him. “Even when I’m alone.”
“Mmm.” I heard his contentment over the line. “Send Jaz away and tell me every last thing you’re not wearing.”
“Cristiano.”
“I promised I wouldn’t touch you for a while—I never promised you wouldn’t touch yourself.”
While he listened? God, how obscene. And tempting. It was turning out that I loved the utter filth that spilled out of him when he got excited. With that thought, I shifted the phone from my mouth and called, “Come in, Jaz.”
“Use my imagination, I guess,” Cristiano grumbled to himself.
The door flew open and Jazmín breezed in with armfuls of suits and shirts sheathed in plastic. “Excuse me. I’ll be quick.”
“No rush,” I said as she passed into the closet without even a glance in my direction. I moved back against the headboard and lowered my voice. “She hates me.”
“Give her time.”
Hangers scraped in the closet as Cristiano’s line remained quiet. I checked the clock. It was almost nine. I wanted to ask where he was, and not just because it could be a clue as to why he was gone. I was curious about what he did outside these walls. About his life. About whether he was with anyone. Where he was, what he was doing.