Page 9 of Rogue Voice

From the left side pocket, he brought out his phone and pressed the button to light up the screen.No connection, which explained why Cruz’s men hadn’t bothered taking it. If there were no cell towers in the area, they knew he wouldn’t be using it to get in touch with anyone.

He wondered if they’d cloned his phone before putting it back in the bag. He wasn’t worried. The phone was clean. He had a few contacts saved and a fake email address with a fewhundred equally fake emails, in case Cruz wanted to waste time reading those.

Other than that, there was nothing of any interest for anyone to find, except that the phone was able to connect to an experimental phone-to-satellite service. But there was no way for Cruz to know that. Twice a day, at three a.m. and three p.m., Colombian time, Rogue would be able to launch a command to access a test satellite as it passed overhead. When they’d tested it earlier this week, Rogue had been able to exchange two text messages before the connection had been severed.

Rogue had agreed to connect at three a.m. the next day. If he didn’t, there was every chance his team would storm the place looking for him now that he’d activated the tracker in his boot. He most certainly didn’t want that. Not until he figured out what was going on.

He put on a clean black T-shirt. Though it was cooler now that the sun was coming down, the T-shirt still stuck to his body as if he hadn’t just showered. He pulled on his boots and went downstairs, not bothering to close the door to his room behind him.

He passed the main courtyard, with its large, incongruous-looking pool, and made his way into a back room that he assumed was the library. He wouldn’t have pegged Emiliano as a big reader, but every available wall was lined with books.

Rogue walked out into another long hallway and back to the large living space where he’d originally met Cruz. The man was still there, looking as if he’d never left. He had a fresh drink in his hand. From the red tint on his cheeks, it wasn’t his first one.

“Rogue. How’s the room? Everything to your liking?” he asked expansively, playing the gracious host.

“Everything is great, Emiliano.” Rogue paused for an instant. “Except I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.”

“Tiempo al tiempo,as we say in Colombia. Patience, my friend. Wait till you taste the food my chef has prepared for us tonight.” Rogue followed Cruz through a large arched doorway into the dining room. Unlike the cluttered living area, this room was bare, almost empty save for an enormous oval oak table.

Rogue eyed the three formal table settings set on one end.

Alarm bells went off in his head.

“Is somebody else joining us, Emiliano?”

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Just in time, as always,” Cruz said, turning to the doorway. Rogue’s eyes followed. And time stood still.

I’m nobody.

The young woman’s words still resonated in Rogue’s ears as she floated through the doorway and into the dining room. She’d changed into a dress of the palest green, with a pleated skirt that fell past her knees, and long cuffed sleeves. It was a strangely old-fashioned piece, but fuck if she didn’t look beautiful in it, with her blond hair falling in soft waves down her back. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out quietly.

“Have you met my niece, Beatriz?” Emiliano asked. He pronounced the name the Colombian way, ending in a softssound.

Beatriz.

Rogue caught the fearful look in her dark eyes before she lowered her gaze, as if something on the ground between them held her full attention.

“Your niece?” Rogue asked woodenly, forcing himself to take his eyes off her.

Fuck.

“She is Ricardo’s daughter.”

Double fuck.

Rogue didn’t remember any daughter, and he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten someone who looked like her. Withher straight, blond hair, she didn’t look like Ricardo’s daughter. Ricardo’s hair had been black, like Emiliano’s, his coloring several shades darker than the girl’s.

Emiliano nodded. “Her mother was Austrian. She didn’t live long, unfortunately. My brother sent the girl to a convent school years ago. I had her brought here when Ricardo left us.” He spoke casually, not appearing to notice—or not caring—the impact of his words on the young woman.

She pulled her trembling hands at the front of her dress, lacing her fingers together until her skin went white.

“Eyes up, girl,” Emiliano said. “You’re not a mouse. This is Rogue, my guest. Say hello.”

She looked up then, as if the thought of disobeying Cruz was inconceivable to her. Her dark eyes met Rogue’s, a beseeching look on her face.

And just like that, Rogue understood Cruz hadn’t sent her to his room. She’d gone there on her own initiative, and was now regretting it.

He wanted to reassure her, to let her know he wasn’t going to say anything but schooled his features instead. She was just going to have to trust him.

---