Page 6

Her steps quickened.
She would never go back to Miami.
Not to the man she’d almost married.
Not after what she’d seen.
The secret she carried like a stain on her soul.
“Señorita.” The voice, high-pitched and rhythmic, came from behind.
Gia kept walking.
Pink Cap watched her approach, his stare flat, cold.
Her pulse thudded. She held her breath. Passed him. Shifted the key in her grip.
Blood thundered in her ears.
One more step.
The key lifted, her hand shaking like a leaf in a squall.
A shove from behind slammed her into the RAV4. A hard body pinned her against cold metal.
Stale breath bathed her cheek. Panic clamped down on her lungs. Pinpricks of light sparked in her vision.
“Señorita Winters.”
The man with the mustache—the one who’d recognized her—appeared in her periphery. “You are far from home, no? I hear Señor Garcia has been looking for you.”
Breathe.
Her life depended on it.
She flexed her fingers on the key. “My name isn’t Winters.” The lie slid out easily. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
He laughed. Scrolled through his phone. Held it up. “This is you, no?”
The screen showed a woman in a red designer gown, her sleek hair straight, her makeup expertly done.
The night Vincente opened his Miami Beach nightclub.
“No. It’s not,” she said.
Not anymore.
If these men forced her to go with them, she’d never be free.
Her skin crawled under Pink Cap’s touch. If he didn’t release her soon, the screams crawling their way up her throat would break loose.
“I don’t know anyone named Garcia. I’m just passing through Gallup. If it’s money you want, I don’t have much. You can take my wallet.”
He had her photo, but Mustache Man had looked surprised to see her. Maybe they’d stumbled across her and didn’t actually know where she lived. Or worked.
Her lids slammed shut. Why had she admitted to Caleb that she was a doctor at a clinic on the rez?
Stupid. Careless.