Page 10 of Liar

“He’s cunning. Powerful. Level-headed.But probably not anywhere near as attractive as the man next to me.An ugly, mean man, is how Diego described him, though I don’t share this with him.

“He also does nothing without receiving something in return.”

I shrug, pretending to be unfazed when really his reminder distresses me. “I’ll owe him a favor.”

“What kind offavor?”

My eyes narrow on him. Is he angry? It’s more a feeling than anything else as his expression gives nothing away.

“Well?”

“My loyalty.”

“Loyalty?”

“That’s right. And once given, I’m loyal to a fault.”

“What if he asks you to fuck him?”

My eyes go wide. “What?”

“Spread your legs for him? At the very least, get on your knees and offer up those luscious lips to him?” Ever so slowly, he rakes his eyes over me, from my lips to my chest, across my legs and downward to mychanclas. As his gaze drops my blush grows, until I feel as hot as the smoldering embers of his eyes.

I never had anyone look at me this way.

“If he allowed it, you could be the exception to the rule.”

“What rule?”

Our eyes lock as he considers my question. But then ever so subtly he shakes his head, a small movement that slams the door shut on whatever he was about to share with me.

“Just so you know,” I raise my chin, “if he does ask me, I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.”

His lips twitch. He likes my response, my sass. “You have no idea who you’re bargaining with.”

Is he warning me? It sounds like he is. “Could the price be any worse than if I’d gone to Ignacio Acosta?”

“Having met you? Yes. Absolutely.”

The blood drains from my face.

“Except you’re not his type. He prefers experienced women. Less complicated, less emotional-minded. No matter how beautiful or how desirable, he’ll never allow himself to be seduced—and least of all by a goddamn seventeen-year old.”

“Problem solved then. I won’t be eighteen for months and I’m not one for scaling back on my emotions.” I jump to my feet yet within the span of a heartbeat, his hands are on me and I’m pulled back down. I scowl. It’s like he anticipated my reaction.

“I can see that.”

Why does it feel like this handsome stranger is sharing his truth, along with whatever hang-up he has for women my age? Why should it bother me so? He’s a means to an end—the sole means. “Please,” I softly say, placing my hand on a firm, well-defined bicep.

He stiffens.

“Despite his name, the Bastard’s got to have a heart. I can’t lose my brother too.”

“His name isn’t Bastard. It’s Hayden.”

“That doesn’t sound Mexican.”

“It’s not. His mother was British.”