Page 16 of Rogue Voice

Hope and fear warred inside her. Fear, because her uncle’s wrath would be fierce, and there was no way she could plead ignorance this time around. Hope, because there’d been something in Rogue’s eyes—something that made her think perhaps he had not said anything to her uncle. She knew he wasn’t a good man—for God’s sake, he was working with her uncle, doing something to make his business more efficient.

Efficient.Such a clean, innocent word, when what it really meant in this case, was deadly because every dollar of efficiency meant more drugs out in the streets, which meant more people dead, more blood on her family’s hands.

No, Rogue wasn’t a good man, but she’d looked into his eyes and had seen nothing evil inside them.

She finished changing into her evening dress, a gown with pale peach undertones—not that she believed for a second that wearing a dress in her uncle’s favorite color would protect her if Rogue had ratted her out.

7

Rogue

Rogue stood up and cracked his back. He wasn’t used to sitting still for so long, but over the last two days he’d had to pretend to work hard on Cruz’s assignment—an impenetrable encryption program that would allow him to run his entire drug trafficking empire from a single laptop, so he could do so from anywhere in the world.

What Rogue had discovered, as he analyzed the documents Cruz had made available to him so far, was enough to chill his blood. Cruz’s cocaine business had grown exponentially in the last years, but he wasn’t simply growing and exporting drugs as his uncle and others before him had done.

He’d begun innovating on the distribution and logistics and had managed to become a kind of Amazon of the drug business. Anybody who wanted to deal had to go through Cruz’s networkand pay a hefty fee for doing so. In exchange, they received Cruz’s protection and operational support.

Rogue still didn’t know how far Cruz’s reach went. He’d taken the risk and requested more data, arguing he needed it to get the program to work. While Cruz decided what to share with him, Rogue put the finishing touches on the dummy program he’d designed. He had no intention of actually making it work, but it had to look like it was doing the right thing, which was a challenge in and of itself.

Rogue checked his watch. Two minutes to three. He closed his laptop and made his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him before turning on the shower. Instead of getting under the spray, however, he pulled his phone out from under the towel and opened the hidden app to connect with the satellite.

It was a risk, but one he had to take. He’d already told the team what he was doing but had yet to hear back from them. For all he knew, they were getting ready to storm Cruz’shacienda.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the message:We’re on standby. You have until midnight on Wednesday.That gave him a little over thirty hours. If he was honest, it was more than he’d expected. He held the phone in his hand an instant longer, tempted to send another message to ask his team to look into Cruz’s niece. He didn’t do it, because he was ninety-nine percent sure by now that she wasn’t working with her uncle. He’d smelled her fear as she’d joined them for dinner the other day, afraid to look him or her uncle in the eye—afraid that he might have told Emiliano he’d found her teaching one of the local kids to read in English. Not just afraid. She’d been terrified. The thought made his stomach clench.

She’d picked at her food that night. It was the first time she hadn’t even looked hungry. And as the evening progressed, and it became clear from Emiliano’s good humor that he’dheard nothing about her morning escapade, her entire being had deflated into a sort of airy relief.

So yes, Rogue was ninety-nine percent sure by now that she wasn’t involved in Emiliano’s business. And he was one hundred percent certain that his reasons for wanting to know more about her were not altogether professional.Fuck.

He was surprised by the level of awareness he felt whenever she was near. This morning he’d once again found her swimming countless laps under the watchful attention of her uncle, who insisted on eating his breakfast while she swam. If Rogue hadn’t already hated Cruz, he would have hated him anyway, simply for the way he looked at his niece.

Then he’d seen her in the garden, a slim white notebook in her hands. He’d wondered, after that fateful dinner, if she’d come back to his balcony. He would have liked to talk to her—to tell her that she had nothing to fear from him. But she hadn’t, of course.

At first, he’d assumed she was simply shy, but now he didn’t think that was the case at all. She wasn’t shy—she was afraid. And the thought of her fear caused something to burn inside him—more than that, it made him want to burn whatever, or whomever, was making her feel that way.

Of course, there was more at stake here than Rogue’s personal dislike of Emiliano Cruz. Much, much more. The work they were doing here could save lives—but only if he finished the job and took Cruz and his empire down. Rogue couldn’t afford to get distracted by thoughts of a woman, no matter how beautiful or intriguing she might be.

He sent a quick message to the team to acknowledge theirs and powered the phone down. He showered quickly, then made his way to the walk-in closet. Yesterday, an armful of new clothes, all brand new and in Rogue’s size, had appeared as if by magic. There were several black T-shirts much like his own,a couple of fine linen shirts, a pair of dark slacks, some cargo pants, and even a dark suit. When he’d tried to return the clothes to Cruz, saying he didn’t expect to be here that long, his host had thrown him an impatient wave.

At five minutes to six, Rogue walked into the dining room. Cruz seemed to value punctuality, and Rogue needed to stay on the man’s good side for a little while longer.

Cruz was already inside, staring at a painting on the wall, hands behind his back as if strolling through an art gallery. Unlike the paintings in the living area, which were all religious in theme, the paintings in the dining room were what Rogue supposed passed as modern art. To him, it looked as if somebody had dumped buckets of paint on a white canvas.

“Such bold strokes,” Cruz said, admiring a piece in a particularly puke-worthy shade of green. “Wouldn’t you agree, Rogue?”

Rogue made a noncommittal sound. Cruz hadn’t hired him for his art critiquing capabilities.

“Ah, and here is the lovely Beatriz,” Cruz said, eying the clock on the wall. Relief filled her features for an instant, before she schooled her face back into a neutral expression. The pulse on her neck fluttered with every stroke of the clock.

She ran to get here on time.

Today she was wearing a soft, flowing dress in a pale color, with a round neckline and sleeves that fell half-way to her elbows. It was the kind of dress that belonged in an earlier century, and she shouldn’t have looked so fucking desirable in it.

Rogue realized he’d never seen her wear anything other than pale pastels. Every day, a different dress, each in a washed-out color, even though the clothes themselves looked brand new. He couldn’t help but wonder what Beatriz would look like in bright colors—a brilliant blue, or vibrant red. The answer came to himin a flash. Like herself. She’d look like herself, instead of this drawn, fearful shadow.

Rogue shook himself. He had a job to do. He wasn’t here to concern himself with any woman, no matter how enticing she might look.

Beatriz inclined her head towards them but said nothing as she sat down, her hands primly on her lap, waiting for the meal to begin.

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