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Yet she’d felt safe in his presence.
He’d looked at her with male appreciation.
And she hadn’t been afraid.
His job was to protect people. What if she asked him to protect her? Then she could stay here. Make a real difference in people’s lives.
Gia gave an unladylike snort. “Who are you kidding?”
Vincente was too powerful. Too many connections. Anyone who tried to help her would probably end up dead, just like…
Her brain shied from the memory.
If she wanted Caleb’s help, it should be to drive her to the airport and drop her off without looking back. She’d throw an imaginary dart at the outgoing flights board and hop a plane to a random destination.
Her hasty idea died a quick death. Now that he knew where she was, Vincente would have eyes at every airport in the Southwest.
Flying was out.
Back to her original plan. Drive north. Stick to back roads. Trade the RAV4 for another vehicle at a used car lot across the state line. Then keep going. Utah. Wyoming. Montana. Maybe Canada. Then Alaska. Start over again. New name. A new life.
Again.
She dropped Caleb’s shirt in the trash.
Back at the closet, her fingers brushed the black dress. Instead of packing it, she left it on the hanger.
As tempting as it would be to rely on Caleb Varella, she couldn’t involve him.
Still, he’d saved her life tonight.
She owed him more than the weak thank you she’d offered up before he left.
The least she could do was attend his mother’s funeral.
Although, given the trouble she’d brought him, he might be thankful never to see her again.
Her heart gave a strange twist. In a different life, she would have liked to have gotten to know Caleb better.
A yawn cracked her jaw. The adrenaline spike from the evening’s events had burned out. Gravity pulled her exhausted limbs closer to the floor. All she wanted was sleep—deep, dreamless, and long enough so when she woke up, Vincente would have forgotten about her.
She could live in peace.
But real life didn’t work that way.
Her gaze returned to the black dress.
Caleb planned to leave after his mother’s funeral.
So would she.
Chapter Six
VincenteLopezGarciatossedhis wallet on the foyer table of his Miami Beach penthouse, where it landed with a muted thud. His salmon-colored silk shirt reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. He unbuttoned it and tossed it over his white leather sofa.
Pouring a glass of mezcal, he went to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic. Moonlight, dimmed by clouds, barely touched the sea. Pinpricks from distant vessels dotted the water—the only sign of humanity in the vast gulf of watery obsidian. Though the thick glass muted the surf, his imagination filled in the rhythmic lull of the waves. Palm fronds rustled below, caught in the glow of the pool deck lights.
Abigail had loved this view.