Rogue Defender (Gone Rogue), page 4
She holds my gaze for a long moment until someone in another apartment curses loudly in Spanish, then steps quickly over the threshold. “Only for a few minutes. So we can resolve this.”
“Suit yourself.” I flip the locks and turn to find Domina watching me.
“You do not have a chain,” she says quietly.
I gesture to the couch and duck into the hall to grab a thick, dark blue bath towel from the linen closet. “Chains don’t do shit. Even a hundred-pound kid can break a chain if he hits the door just right.”
Domina’s lips part, then she presses them together in a thin line. Shit. That was the wrong thing to say.
Handing her the towel, I move to the kitchen. The power might be out, but my USB mug warmer plugs into my tablet’s battery pack. “Can I make you some tea? I don’t have much. Chamomile or…shit. Chamomile.”
“There is no power,” she says simply, her brows furrowing as she squeezes sections of her hair in the towel.
I show her the little USB plug and the battery, then set a mug of water on top of it. “It’ll take five minutes. If you want a better lock than the cheap-ass deadbolt the landlord installed, I’ll get you one tomorrow and install it for you. Along with a motion alarm.”
“I thought you did not trust me. Why would you do this?” Domina tugs her red blazer closed over her very wet white blouse.
I shrug, though my right shoulder doesn’t rise as high as the left. “I didn’t say that.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stare at her from across the room. The candlelight casts flickering shadows over her face, and shit. She’s so damn beautiful. Even with the bruises and obvious exhaustion. “The CIA’s Chief of Station called me in this morning and reamed my ass for pulling a gun on a Panamanian citizen.”
“How did he find out? I swear to you, Leo. I said nothing to the police.” Domina rummages through her briefcase and pulls out a brown paper bag tied with a red ribbon. “If I had given them your name, would I have brought you Huevos de Leche from the bakery by my office?” She offers me a weak smile and shakes the bag gently.
The confections made from milk, sugar, and cinnamon are a local delicacy—one I rarely allow myself.
“You have Huevos de Leche?” I limp back to the couch and ease the bag from her outstretched hand. The ribbon falls to the floor, and inside, a dozen confections—each wrapped in a piece of colorful paper—bring a lopsided smile to my face.
“This bakery makes the best ones in Panama City. I thought…it was the least I could do.” Domina swipes at her face with the towel, and more of her makeup disappears. “Whoever told your ‘Chief of Station’ you were involved did not hear it from me.”
“I believe you.” I shuffle back to the kitchen, pour the Huevos de Leche into a bowl, and add a chamomile tea bag to the heated mug. “Maybe that asshole was conscious when we were talking. Or he told the National Police how I jumped onto the balcony and they pulled my rental agreement.”
With a shrug, I bring the bowl over to the couch and set it on the side table. “I’ll call the Chief of Station again in the morning and see if I can get more information. Hopefully he won’t tear me a new one or have me arrested.”
“Oh, God. Could he really?” She pushes to her feet, reaches for my arm, and curls her fingers around my right wrist. Right over the scars from days spent bound with wire and ropes.
I jerk away before I can stop myself, and Domina gasps.
“Sorry. It’s been a long time since anyone…touched me.” After a beat, I add, “I’ve got cold pizza. A couple of protein bars. And all those Huevos de Leche. What can I get you besides tea?”
Domina stares down at my wrist peeking out from the pocket of my cargo pants. The scarring is mostly hidden, but she felt it. She knows it’s there.
“I should not impose on you. Perhaps…if you have a flashlight, you could come next door and check that my apartment is…empty?” The hope tinging her tone does something to my heart I don’t understand—or like. I want to take care of her—though I don’t think she’s a woman who lets anyone do that.
“I can’t eat all six slices of pizza myself, and I’m sure as shit not going to open the fridge again until the power’s back on. You can hang out here for a while, and if Premier Power doesn’t have an update in two hours, I’ll walk you next door and clear the apartment for you.”
What the hell are you doing? Letting someone you don’t know “hang out”? Someone who works for the Panamanian government? You’re going to have to talk. Get to know one another. You’re just asking to be deported.
Despite knowing this is a bad idea of epic proportions, there’s something about Domina that calls to me. In rare moments, she’s vulnerable in a way it’s obvious she hates. Then, the next, she’s all business. Totally capable, unable of letting anyone come to her aid.
I want—no, I need—to figure her out, and this might be my only chance to do it.
Handing her the mug of tea, I wait for her to take a tentative sip.
“All right. I will help you finish your pizza. As long as you share at least one of the Huevos de Leche with me.” Her smile does what no candle ever could. Lights up the room like the sun. So much so, I’m surprised a clap of thunder doesn’t immediately follow.
Shit.
This woman is trouble—according to my former employer—and I don’t give a fuck. I want to get to know her anyway.
I hope to all that’s holy, I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.
CHAPTER FIVE
Domina
I should not be here. But Leo has candles burning, and the apartment is lit by a warm, flickering glow as the storm rages outside.
If I leave, I will be alone, and while I do have candles—they are a must for October and November—I do not have a way to make hot tea. Or anyone to talk to.
He hands me a plate of pizza and a napkin, then nods at the couch. “I’ll be right there. Unless you want to eat at the table.”
“I do not even have a table. Only the breakfast bar,” I admit with a small smile.
“You don’t…entertain? Have guys—people—over?” He turns away to retrieve his own plate and mutters, “Shit. Way to be rude, Leo.”
My cheeks flush hot, and I stare down at the cold slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza. “I do not date.”
He eases himself down on the other end of the couch with a wince. As far from me as possible. “At all?”
I take a quick bite of pizza to give myself a moment to decide how to answer him. It’s surprisingly good. “I never thought I would enjoy pineapple on pizza,” I say with a little chuckle.
“It’s gotta be done right. Palermo’s is the only place I trust. They use fresh pineapple, a jalapeño glaze, and thick-cut, spicy ham.” After he settles back against the cushions, he casts a glance in my direction. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Even in the low light, the intensity in his eyes unnerves me. “I work more than ten hours a day. When the vice president calls—even if it is in the middle of the night—I answer. That does not make for a strong relationship. Or…any relationship. It’s easier to be alone.”
“Domina—”
I shake my head. “If you are about to tell me that is no way to live, keep your opinion to yourself.”
“Whoa. I wasn’t.” Leo holds up his hand. Dressed in short sleeves and a pair of cargo pants, he doesn’t bother to hide the scars along his arms. Or the very thick ones around his wrists. The candlelight makes them stand out even more than they did last night. On video. In his bedroom. “I was going to say that the right person understands when your job is important to you, and they don’t ask you to change.”
“Oh.” I return my focus to the pizza. “Then clearly I have not met the right person.” After a deep breath, I add, “Nor am I looking. It is easier to be alone.”
The lie escapes before I think it through. Is it easier to sit in a stranger’s apartment in the middle of a storm because I am too afraid to go home?
Yes. Because relationships are supposed to be equal. But they never are.
Leo and I eat in silence for several minutes, each of us studying the other with furtive glances. “You’re left-handed?” I ask. His right is balled into a fist, braced against the plate.
Little lines tighten around his eyes, and he shakes his head. “Not by choice.”
“What does that mean?” Lightning illuminates the entire living room, so bright it’s like a sunny day for a few seconds. The thunder follows quickly, and we both jump. Leo stares out the window into the darkness. With the power out, it’s nothing but an abyss beyond these walls.
“Means I have almost no sensation in my right hand.” He uncurls his fingers. Half a dozen red welts cover his palm.
“Oh, Leo. What happened?” Setting the plate aside, I take his hand in mine. The contact seems to surprise him. He tenses for a moment, closes his eyes, and blows out a breath before meeting my gaze.
“Your cactus is a dangerous weapon. Should probably license it with the National Police.”
“Dios mio. Do they hurt?” Gently, I stroke my fingers over the wounds. His skin is a study in opposites. Calloused, yet still soft in places, and as I reach his wrist, I find smooth, almost shiny scar tissue obscuring the small veins there.
“Can’t even feel them.” He pulls his hand back, his entire body stiff. “I heal quick. They’ll be gone in a few days.”
“I should have asked last night.” Shame has me staring at the polished marble floor, at my black pumps dotted with flecks of dirt from splashing through puddles to get to the bakery. “You risked your life for me, and I did not think you might have been hurt. I am sorry.”
“Don’t,” he says sharply. “You had your own shit to deal with. I’m the one who grabbed the cactus. I knew what I was doing. And getting my bell rung? That’s nothing.”
With a frown, I peer over at him. “Getting your bell rung? What does that mean?”
His left eyebrow arches. “Taking a punch to the head. Jaw, in my case.” He rubs his chin gently. “That asshole had some power behind his cross. At least my beard hides the bruising.”
I touch my swollen cheek, then immediately drop my hand. “Why is it called that? ‘Getting your bell rung’?”
Leo shifts on the couch so he’s facing me, his back against the arm, and one of his legs bent at an angle. “Get hit hard enough, your ears ring. Like you’re standing inside the bell tower of one of the churches in Old Town.”
“You have been hit that hard before?”
He holds my gaze, and with the candles casting flickering shadows over his face, he looks so dark and dangerous. “More times than I can count.”
I don’t know why this surprises me. But my knowledge of what spies really do is limited to a few non-fiction books and action movies.
“Leo—”
Pushing to his feet, he takes a couple of uneven steps and grabs my plate from the end table. “You want another slice?”
“No. I…” He’s already in the kitchen. I join him, mug in hand. The space is so small, we’re almost shoulder to shoulder—or we would be if Leo were not at least eight inches taller than I am. “I did not mean to pry.”
He spins around, but he’s off balance and slams into the counter. “Shit.”
I grab his hips to steady him, and his obliques tense under my fingers. Every inch of him is hard, strong, and…safe.
He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me even closer. “Domina…” His voice is deeper than usual, and despite the heat building between us, I shiver. “My right knee and ankle had to be completely rebuilt.”
“Mierda. Why?” As soon as I ask, I know he does not want to tell me.
With a tiny shake of his head, he meets my gaze. Or, tries to. But only his left eye focuses on me. The right…is off somehow. “You see it now?” he asks.
The vulnerability in his voice shocks me. This is not the confident, protective man who saved me last night. This man is hurting.
“Your pupils are different sizes. That happens with head injuries. From last night? Do you need a doctor?”
He smiles—lopsided as usual—then taps on his right eyeball. “It’s fake.” I gasp and jerk against Leo’s hold. His grin fades immediately, and he steps back with a muttered swear. “Shit. Sorry. I’m being an idiot. You didn’t need to see that. Get your things. I’ll walk you home.”
Oh, God. He thinks I’m disgusted by him.
Pulling a flashlight from one of his kitchen drawers, he gestures to the front door. “Don’t forget your bag. And take the Huevos de Leche. I don’t want them.”
“Leo, stop.” With one hand on my hip, I block the narrow opening between the kitchen and the living room. “Before you lost your eye, if someone had done what you just did, would it have taken you by surprise?”
His mouth opens, but he must rethink what he was about to say, because he closes it again and nods.
“What happened…is that why your smile is crooked too?” I take a step closer. Then another and another, until we’re almost back to our original positions.
“Yup.” After a breath, he adds, “Not a story you want to hear.”
I cock my head. “And how do you know that?”
Leo stares down at me, a look of vague disbelief on his face. “Because you’re a good person, Domina. And good people don’t enjoy hearing stories like mine.”
“What does that mean? We met yesterday. You have no idea what kind of person I am.” Glaring up at him, I notice it’s not only his mouth. The whole right side of his face from his cheekbone down is affected.
“I’m trained to know. You’re…” he reaches up and skims a knuckle along my jaw, “sad, lonely, and you’ve seen too much in your life. But you are good. And you don’t need to carry my burdens next to your own.”
Letting out a huff, I take a step back. Whatever shred of hope he carried in his eyes fades, and I reach for his hand. He’s still touching me, his fingers cupping my face in a way that makes me feel…cherished. “Come sit. Please,” I say, my words scraping and spilling over the lump in my throat.
Despite the frown curving one side of his mouth, he lets me lead him back to the couch, only this time, when he tries to flee to the far end, I take a seat right next to him.
We face one another, positions mirrored, bent legs touching at the knees. “You were not wrong about me.” I fiddle with a button on my blouse, needing something to distract me. “Five years ago, the first man I had dated in a very long time left my bed in the middle of the night with only a text message saying ‘this was fun.’ He refused to answer any of my calls after that.”
“He was an ass,” Leo says. “But that’s not why you’re sad, is it?”
I shake my head. “My life has not been…easy. I fought for everything I have. I put myself through college in the United States because my papa spent all our money on beer and rum.” Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, I try to banish the memories somewhere they will not hurt me. “We lived in a two-bedroom shack with a leaky roof and walls so thin, winds like these would have knocked them down. Mama had three different jobs for as long as I can remember. She left at sunrise and did not get home until after ten every night. I took care of the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping…everything a young girl should not need to do. And when I sat down to do my homework—usually after midnight—I had to listen to Papa beat Mama because she refused to buy him more beer.”
“Domina, I’m—”
“If you say you are sorry, this conversation is over. I do not need sympathy. Or pity. It was hard. I wish Papa had gotten help. I wish Mama had been home at night. Or had been able to take me to school every day. I wish I could have had a normal childhood. Or any at all. But I did not. So yes. I am all those things you said. Sad. Lonely. And more. Now that you know why, maybe you will realize I can handle whatever it is you tell me.”
The storm raging outside is nothing compared to the tempest swirling in his gaze. A muscle in his jaw tenses, and he swallows hard. “It’s…classified. The details. But I was taken by a terrorist group and held for eight days.” His voice cracks, roughens. “They wanted information about other people I worked with, and I wouldn’t give it to them.”
“They tortured you.”
He nods. “One of my buddies got me out. If he’d waited another day…they would have killed me.” Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he whispers, “I wish they had.”
My heart breaks for the man across from me. The pain etched on his face, in his voice, in every muscle…I have only seen its equal once before. In my Papa’s eyes when I told him I was leaving the country for college. He begged and pleaded, promised to stop drinking, but even he knew it was a vow he could not keep.
Scooting closer, I drape my fingers over Leo’s wrist. He tenses at the contact, then blows out a breath. “Sorry,” he says. “Not used to anyone…wanting to touch me.” I start to pull away, but he covers my hand with his own. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
It’s not pain in his eyes now. It’s need.
“Don’t go.”
CHAPTER SIX
Domina
The storm rages outside, though thunder no longer shakes the walls. Leo’s admission hangs in the air, his hand still tight on mine. Without power, it’s warm in his apartment—or maybe the heat is coming from whatever is growing between us—and I remove my blazer and fold it over the arm of the couch.
“How long does it usually take Premier Power to get the lights back on?” Leo asks, reaching for my hand once more.
I tighten my fingers on his and lean against the cushions, angling my head closer to him. “You have not lived here long, have you? In Panama?”
“I left Venezuela eight months ago. Went to Colombia for a few weeks. Then Brazil. But they didn’t feel right. I’ve been here since mid-September.”
“We have very reliable electricity. But today has been strange. We lost power at my office a few minutes after four, and they sent everyone home. The winds were still weak, and the rain had just started. But the bakery two blocks away was unaffected.” I elbow him gently. “Lucky for you since they sell the Huevos de Leche.”
