Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“You will.”
“Excellent.” She turned to Camila. “Nice to meet you.”
With a devious grin on her face, Yessica disappeared down the hall, exaggerating the movement of her hips and shoulders.
The ass shaking was usually for his benefit, but this one was undoubtedly meant to unnerve Camila. When it came to her competition, Yessica was one of those kill-em-with-kindness while stabbing-them-in-the-back kind of women.
“How long have you been tapping that?” Camila didn’t even try to hide the bitterness in her voice.
“I have an idea.” He turned toward the computerized pad on the wall, leveling his eye with the screen. “Let’s share our sexual histories while I fuck you in the shower.”
The retinal scanner blinked, and the double doors to his suite clicked open.
“God, you’re a pig.” She sneered. “No, scratch that. You’re a disgusting boar.”
In a flash, he cuffed a hand around her throat and slammed her back against the wall. “You forget yourself, Camila.”
She closed her eyes, but that stubborn chin of hers jutted above his knuckles. “Forgive me, Sir.”
The pulse point in her throat thudded steadily against his palm, but the moment he leaned in and touched his lips to her brow, he felt her heartbeat quicken.
Tenderness scared her more than cruelty. What a complicated, remarkable creature. It was no wonder she’d held his attention all these years.
Stepping back, he assessed her gaunt complexion, cracked lips, and sharper-than-normal cheekbones. She hadn’t eaten or hydrated since last night, and her arms and shoulders must’ve been killing her from being restrained for so long. Yet she hadn’t uttered a single complaint. She was a fucking trooper, and it only made him want her more.
He ushered her into his private suite, a domain that only three other people could access.
The doors locked behind him as he steered her toward the huge balcony where a dining table waited with an assortment of arepas and fruit.
“Sit.” He pulled out a chair.
She lowered into the seat and eyed the food. “Impressive service. A benefit of working for a drug lord?”
Something like that.
He removed a key from his pocket, unlocked her cuffs, and set them aside. As she rubbed at her wrists, a pinch of guilt sneaked up on him. He shook it off.
“Put any notions of running out of your head. The only way in and out of here is by helicopter.” He flicked a wrist at the roof. “Unless you have some latent survival skills.” He gestured at the endless green beyond the railing. “You can try your luck out there.”
Anyone else would’ve freaked the fuck out at the impossibility of escape, but not her. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, leaned back in the chair, and drank deeply.
Because she didn’t intend to escape, not without getting what she came for.
She’d already guessed that he’d expected her to arrive with Van Quiso. But she didn’t know the half of it.
He had a myriad of bombs to drop on her, and each detonation needed to be thought out and timed perfectly. Like the one he was about to deliver.
As she piled her plate with arepas and dug in, she was probably mentally walking through a plan that relied on one key component if she failed. And she would fail.
Dipping into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny silver box and set it beside her plate.
She froze mid-chew and stared up at him, eyes hard and suspicious.
“Open it.” He sat in the chair across from her, elbow on the table, chin on his fist. “Go ahead.”
Swallowing a mouthful of ham and cheese, she lifted the lid and choked. “You fucking bastard.”
Her hand shook, and the box tumbled from her fingers, spilling the smashed GPS chip and pieces of her filling on the table.
“THIS IS…” FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Camila pressed her tongue against the filling in her tooth, struggling to speak amid the turbulence whipping inside her. “Why?”
“You know why.” Matias leaned across the small table, hands folded on the white linen and eyes twinkling with smug victory.
Her lungs constricted, making it a bitch to breathe. She was so damn angry she didn’t even know what she was asking him.
The doctor on the plane… What was his name? Picar. Was he a dentist? Or had someone else drilled into her teeth while she’d been unconscious all night?
“I’m not asking why you removed it.” She mirrored his leaning position, bringing her face within a fist’s swing of his. “Why did you fix it?” Her tongue swiped over the molar as she glared at the broken microchip beside her plate. “Why fill the tooth and let me think you hadn’t found the chip?”
“There were exposed nerves that needed to be sealed before you woke.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”
Is he serious right now?
He smiled, flashing those deep dimples, and it was like staring at a terrible distortion of a precious memory. “The dentist was a trusted associate, exceptional at his trade, and was generous enough to meet us at our layover.”