Ann Aguirre - Shady Lady

“You sometimes find yourself in competition with Montoya?” I ventured.

He smiled. “I see you’ve heard of me.”

Well, only because of Esteban. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by letting him know his legend wasn’t as big as he believed. No man wanted to hear that. I relaxed a little, though. Now I thought I knew why he’d scooped me up. Sure, since he had my cell number, a preliminary conversation would’ve been more polite, but handled this way, he proved he meant business. A benign kidnapping revealed certain panache, but I shouldn’t lose sight of how dangerous this man was.

“Yeah. One of your . . .” What did you call a guy who worked for a drug dealer? Henchman sounded very 1960s Batman. I decided on, “. . . employees helped us out a while back.”

“I am aware.”

A micromanager, eh? “Look, I’m sure you didn’t pull me out of my car for the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we get down to business?”

Clearly he wanted something from me or I wouldn’t be here, at least not with all my parts intact. Montoya might be a rabid dog, but Escobar had an equally brutal reputation. He just went about his work more quietly; the bodies he dumped didn’t surface and wind up on the news.

“A meal first,” he said with implacable politeness.

I managed a smile. “I can’t remember when I last had a proper meal. That would be lovely.”

A little voice shouted in the back of my head that this was crazy, but I crushed it. One didn’t anger the wolf by refusing to share his meat. According to older rules of hospitality, if I ate his food and drank his wine, he shouldn’t do violence against me. I’d just hang on to that hope.

“He hunts you like an animal,” he noted as he turned to step into the hall. I heard him speaking to someone in a low voice. When he returned, he added, “Our repast will arrive shortly. Will you sit?”

I’d known enough dictatorial men to realize that wasn’t an invitation; it was an order wrapped in a courteous coating, like the hard candy shell on M&M’s kept the chocolate in line. Muting a sigh, I crossed to the pair of wing-backed chairs. They were angled for intimate discussion, and the gleaming cherry table between them could easily hold a tray. Despite myself, my stomach rumbled.

Since he didn’t yet want to talk about why he’d brought me here, I made small talk—and I wasn’t good at it in the best of times. This didn’t qualify.

Still, I offered, “You have a lovely home.”

Escobar scrutinized my movements and mannerisms. “Yes.” Unlike most, he didn’t thank me for stating the obvious. “As I said before, you intrigue me. Would you mind if I have one of my men examine you?”

“What would that entail?”

I wasn’t about to offer myself for rectal probing or freelance vaginal spelunking. Like hell would I budge from this chair, unless he answered the question in a less-than-alarming fashion. Surreptitiously, I wrapped my fingers around the arms. I could do the passive-resistance thing.

“Nothing invasive.”

Claims the kidnapping drug dealer.

“Maybe,” I said. “It depends on how dinner goes.”

From his expression, he took that as a flirtatious rejoinder. Oh, crap. While I was trying to figure out how to backpedal from that, someone rapped on the door. At Escobar’s murmured assent, a servant clad in black and white entered with a tray of cold cuts, gourmet cheeses, and fresh fruit. While he laid out the repast, I sat quiet in my chair, battling back the fear that pounded like a pulse. Despite my bravado, I was in a precarious situation. I needed to make this man happy enough to let me go, but without selling my soul in the process.

“That will be all, Carlitos.”

The employee nodded and he didn’t quite back out of the room, but his look as he left offered that sort of deference. Since I was hungry, I served myself some rolled ham, a few slices of cheddar cheese, and a handful of grapes. He waited until I cleaned my plate, anxious to be a good host. I found that slightly distressing.

“So now we’ve eaten,” I prompted.

“Let me cut to the chase, then. I believe you could prove useful to me.”

Oh, man. That was the second-to-last thing I wanted to hear, right after, I want to cut off your head and make a bowl from your skull.

“How so?”

“Montoya has shown he will stop at nothing to get to you, and his anger makes him vulnerable. In the past weeks, he has taken great risks. Therefore, I want you to help . . . remove him as an obstacle to my business interests.”

“Are you sure you have the right woman? I can’t even fire a handgun.”

“You surround yourself with dangerous, capable people,” he said quietly. “The lack of martial physical skill is of no consequence to a good general. He must merely know when to deploy his men.”

“I don’t have ‘men.’ ”

“You do.” He spoke with the air of one who never argued; Ramiro Escobar didn’t need to. “Under the right conditions, I will offer you my protection, which will incense Montoya all the more. In short, I intend to use you as bait. If you survive, I will reward you richly.”

Who wouldn’t leap at a deal couched in terms of if you survive ? But with his blood money, I could rebuild my shop. I saw it renovated, better than ever. Temptation swirled in my head. I remembered the clips of the wreckage on the news; there was no way I’d manage without a windfall. Otherwise, I had to start over.

Maybe—no. I mentally shook my head at the offer, trying to resist. On the other hand . . . I mean, it’s not like he’s asking me to do anything bad. I was going after Montoya anyway. My conscience whimpered. Yeah, that’s how it starts. I couldn’t afford to alienate him inside his stronghold, however, so I maintained an impassive expression. Well, I tried, anyway.

“I have to deal with him,” I admitted. “He’s not walking away from this.”

Not after Ernesto, Señor Alvarez, and my shop. If I’d considered running, that was no longer an option. He had made Shannon and me homeless and killed innocent people trying to get to me. If I didn’t stop it, the body count would just keep rising.

I went on. “So, I’m listening.”

He smiled. “I thought you were a reasonable woman. But before I cement an alliance with you, I want tangible evidence that you are, in fact, as tough and resourceful as I believe.”

I’d seen The Labors of Hercules on his bookshelf, so I feared I knew what came next. “Let me guess. A test? I hope not twelve of them.”

“We can learn a great deal about how our would-be allies perform under duress,” he observed. “For you, I set forth three tasks. One challenges your physical endurance, another tests mental acuity, and the last feat, your courage.”

“How am I supposed to survive long enough to run the gauntlet?”

“Where I will send you,” Escobar said softly, “my enemy will never find you. If you return successful, I will extend my protection to you, and we will move forward in our joint efforts to destroy Diego Montoya.”

My skin crawled at the idea of being beholden to Ramiro Escobar. Beneath the polite, urbane exterior lay a yawning emptiness that suggested he did not acknowledge anything beyond his own fingertips as sovereign or self-willed. Could I walk away from this, or had he just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse?

“Assume I pass your trials. Assume we crush Montoya with me as bait and you as the steel trap.”

“Highly desirable outcomes.”

“What then? Will we have any obligation to each other thereafter?”

“No,” he said. “Though as a courtesy I will not rescind my protection, so long as you do not cross me or interfere in my affairs.”