Page 10 of Rogue Voice

“How do you do, Mr. Rogue?” she asked. Though she had to be a Colombian native, her English accent was almost flawless. He should have noticed that when they’d first met.

You’d have noticed if you’d been thinking with your head instead of your cock.

Instead of replying to her, Rogue turned to Cruz. “Why is she here? I thought you and I were going to talk.”

Beatriz looked up again. For an instant, something hot and sharp and reckless shone in her gaze. He’d made her angry by dismissing her. Rogue was glad to see that fire inside her.

Cruz laughed raucously and sat down at the head of the table. As soon as his ass hit the chair, a male server appeared as if outof thin air, a decanter of blood-red wine in his hands. He poured two glasses, offering one to Cruz and the other one to Rogue, not asking the young woman if she wanted any.

“Relax. We will talk after dinner. For now, enjoy this. Ah, foie gras ravioli,” he said, watching as a server appeared carrying a large, silver tray. Cruz served himself first, a heaping plateful. “Wait till you try this, Rogue. My chef is from Buenos Aires. German-Italian grandparents. Probably Nazis, but who cares? She can really cook.” He laughed loudly at his own joke. Across from Rogue, Beatriz paled further, until her skin took on a shade eerily similar to her dress.

Rogue was offered the food next. He served himself, though his hunger was all but gone, watching out of the corner of his eye as the young woman served herself two ravioli then spent several minutes cutting each one into six tiny pieces, her mannerisms almost manic. Next, she drew a straight line down the plate with her fork, separating the plate into two neat halves.

“Is this your first time in Colombia, Mr. Rogue?” she inquired. Her tone managed to sound polite and at the same time let him know she had no interest whatsoever in his answer.Good for her.

“Rogue and our family go way back,” Emiliano said, before Rogue could say anything. “He helped your father with something important, and now he’s going to help me.”

Some of the fire died in the girl’s eyes but she kept forking tiny bits of ravioli into her mouth. When she’d eaten exactly half of what was on her plate, she pushed it away from her.

Jesus.

That wasn’t enough to feed a bird, let alone a person.

No wonder she’s so thin.

In the dim lighting, her skin looked almost translucent, and Rogue wondered if she was sick. He looked up at Cruz—not that there was anything he could say, this wasn’t his business—expecting to catch a look of concern in her uncle’s face, and instead caught a satisfied nod.

Rogue’s hands tightened against his own knife and fork. The food stuck in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow once—then again and again, until his plate was finally empty. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. The man he was pretending to be wouldn’t concern himself with anything other than the health of his bank account.

As soon as the men finished, the server floated by with clean plates for all of them. The second course was some kind of meat, served almost raw and smothered in a thick red wine sauce. Again, Cruz served himself first. When the server offered Rogue the silver platter, he noticed there was only one piece of meat left. He raised his eyes questioningly, but Cruz urged him on.

“Beatriz isn’t hungry,” Cruz said. The young woman didn’t raise her eyes from the empty plate in front of her.

Rogue clenched his jaw so hard his teeth felt like they might pop. He wanted to wrap his hands around Cruz’s neck and show him what power imbalance felt like. But, once again, he placed the meat on his plate and forced himself to chew.

Luckily, Cruz didn’t notice. The man had no difficulty keeping the conversation going on his own, talking about his own exploits until, finally, Rogue was done with his meat.

A portly woman—Rogue had to assume she was the chef—came out next, followed by the two servers, their muscles straining under the weight of the trays in their arms.

The cook took her time placing the dishes on the table, like a baker decorating her shop window. When she was done, pastries in all colors of the rainbow covered the entire surface. There were cakes in different shapes and sizes, tiny croissants,alfajoresdusted in a thick layer of icing sugar, something that looked like rice pudding, a plate of crispy fried bananas, and a thick meringue topped with fresh fruit.

Even Rogue, who’d never had much of a sweet tooth, had to admit it looked tempting.

Cruz’s eyes shone as he reached out and stuffed an entirealfajorinto his mouth. “Ah, this time you have outdone yourself, Sofia.”

Or at least, that’s what it sounded like he said.

The woman nodded and retreated quickly, but not before Rogue caught the look of stark relief in her expression.

Cruz’s eyes closed in rapture as he chewed. Rogue took the chance to look at Beatriz again. Her attention was on the food in front of her, though she made no attempt to reach for any dish.

Finally, Rogue picked up a plate of pastries and took a ridiculously small croissant for himself, then passed the plate to her. Beatriz looked at the dish in her hands, then at her uncle. Whatever she saw in her uncle’s expression made her shake her head quickly before placing the dish back on the table. If Rogue hadn’t been so attuned to her every reaction—and he couldn’t explain why he was—he would have missed the little shove she gave it, as if needing to move it further away.

Rogue took a bite of the croissant, tasting burnt cardboard.

“Mmmm,” Cruz moaned, spooning some rice pudding onto the meringue on his plate.

And Rogue didn’t know exactly what he’d walked into, didn’t fully understand the dynamic between them, but he’d seen enough to know Cruz was a sadistic asshole who got off on torturing his niece.

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