The Master (6 page)

I turned back to him.

Mocking sneer in place, he said, “You’re supposed to tell me how I moved heaven and earth for you. You’re supposed to fawn over me, increasing your chances that I’ll book
you again.”

I gave him an
aren’t you adorable?
smile and purred, “Oh, baby boy, don’t you know statistics? Chances can’t be improved from one hundred percent.”

O
n the long cab ride home, I took stock of myself.

Catarina stock had taken a beating in today’s trading. Even as I gave a bitter laugh at the double meaning, my fists clenched. While my body felt well-loved, a little sore, the rest of me
felt cheap and used. He’d
made
me feel that way.

Before he could say anything more, I’d pivoted on my heel and left him, heading downstairs to face the real world. By the time I’d reached the lobby, I was shaking. Bright lights had
accused me; it’d seemed all eyes were on me. Like everyone knew what I’d done.

When I’d asked for a cab, a gap-toothed bellman whistled one forward, but he’d smirked as he opened the door. “Madam.” I’d almost popped him in the groin, but
refrained because of rule number five.
No undue attention, Cat.

One measly paid sex act had netted me burning humiliation. But the money! Five grand and then the two I’d lifted. Seven thousand dollars! I could probably pawn the money clip. I had plenty
to get out of town. Yet even my windfall couldn’t cheer me.

Dinero sucio.
Dirty money, for dirty deeds.

I could now add hooker and thief to my rap sheet. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off this feeling.
A mal tiempo, buena cara, Cat.
To bad weather, good face.

When my cab was a few blocks from my apartment, I told the driver, “You can stop here.” Rule number two: never create links. If I didn’t take precautions, this cab’s
route would link my home to the hotel.

He raised his brows. “Drop you in this hood?”

Nothing here could be as dangerous as what had lurked within my former Jacksonville mansion—my husband.

I paid the cabbie, and he peeled off. I crossed a murky abandoned parking lot in my stilettos, dodging a minefield of broken bottles, tires, rusted mufflers, and weeds growing amok.

My spirits sank even more as I came upon my shady apartment complex. I didn’t need the busted streetlights to see peeling stucco, rust stains, and duct-taped windows. Fat vines grew along
the walls like tentacles claiming the building for the deep.

The interior was much, much worse. I felt fifty years older as I climbed the cracked cement steps to my studio apartment.

While I worked to unlock my door—it always stuck—movement to my side caught my attention. Mr. Shadwell, my creepy apartment supe/manager, stared at me with his buglike eyes.

He was one of those Florida rednecks who should never have left the swamp. He wore a sweat-stained wifebeater that showed off his puny arms and furry shoulders. He didn’t even offer to
help me as I struggled with my lock.

In our last conversation, I’d asked him to fix my leaking roof. He’d propositioned me again. So for now, I kept pots all over my studio.

Already, he’d been hitting me up for “protection deposits.” My need for anonymity meant I didn’t get to do anything about it. Basically, I paid him not to attack
me—as he did the vulnerable single moms, prostitutes, and undocumented workers in the complex, those who would never go to the police.

Shadwell was the reason I hadn’t saved money to move. Which was why I’d screwed the Russian.

“Busy night?” The pig smirked, flashing his hit-or-miss teeth. His love of filterless cigarettes had left the remaining ones discolored.

I considered and discarded answers—girls’ night out? Bachelorette party? But this insect of a man wouldn’t force me to lie. My lock started to give way.

Before I could get inside, he rubbed his paunch, then lower. Too low. “We’ll be
seeing
you real soon.”

I couldn’t help but think I’d just received a warning.

After dead-bolting my door behind me, I leaned back against it. Coming from the Seltane penthouse to my cramped studio was like a slap in the face.

In my kitchenette, the stove didn’t work, nor the little refrigerator. I had a miniature microwave for canned dinners. A large bowl contained apples, bananas, and oranges to eat on the
run. Strategically placed pots littered the floor. I’d moved my pitiful sagging bed into the center of the room, under the largest area of non-leaking ceiling.

Dinero
in hand, I wended around the pots to reach my “safe,” my window AC unit, non-working of course. I used my Swiss Army knife to unscrew the filter, revealing a cranny. I
added the money to my own meager operating fund: two hundred and fifty-seven dollars. Also inside were my fake ID and my one valuable: my mother’s rosary. It’d been passed down through
my family for generations and was the sole thing I’d taken from home.

The sight of Sevastyan’s stack of cash next to the rosary made nausea churn in my gut.

Why had he turned something good into something dirty? I hadn’t thought I could hate anyone else as much as Edward, but Maksimilian Sevastyan had made the podium.

What was it about me that men found so . . . disposable? Three years ago, Edward had planned on the ultimate disposal.

After fleeing him, I’d moved every six months, living in Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, and New Mexico. Half a year ago, I’d dared to return to Florida, figuring this would be the last
place Edward would expect me to go. I’d headed to Miami, optimistic about getting lost in the sprawling city—and getting work without papers.

Was he here even now? Had I made a bad calculation?

I replaced the AC vent, screwing it into place, then sank down on my creaky bed. I lay back atop rough thrift-store sheets, replaying my Edward sighting. When that burst of recognition had hit,
my muscles had tensed to run.

If that man was him, then the last three years had altered him. He was now gaunt with bitterness etched into his face. No more angelic good looks to recommend him.

I’d been seventeen when we’d had a “chance” meeting over my summer break. He’d told me he was an attorney from Atlanta who’d moved to Jacksonville to start
his own practice. He’d also told me he was twenty-five, too old for me. I’d thought,
Forbidden fruit!

He’d already seen the world; I’d never traveled far from home. He was a sophisticated gentleman; I’d been proud of my keg stands. He spoke four languages, though strangely not
Spanish.

Despite our differences, we’d had an uncanny amount of things in common—we’d liked the same movies, music, sports, pastimes, and foods.

My mother had seen right through him, saying he was a sinner with the face of an angel. So naturally, I’d
had
to have him.

When she’d died and her strict rule had ended, I’d suddenly had no counterbalance to my own strong will. I’d floundered, grasping onto Edward for stability. Utterly naïve
about men, I’d accepted his heartfelt proposal of marriage, inviting him into my life, my home, my body.

Lightning flashed through my threadbare curtains, thunder shaking the building. Storms always reminded me of that last night with him. I’d come home early from a half marathon in nearby
Savannah. A tropical depression had been blowing in, and the race had been canceled. I’d rushed home to help him batten down the hatches.

As I stared at my water-stained ceiling, my eyes lost focus, the memory overtaking me. . . .

A strange car was parked behind the house, a Jaguar. I almost hoped Edward was having an affair. It would explain so much, confirming my new suspicions. It would make my decisions going
forward easier.

In one year of marriage, we’d gone from two people who had everything in common and finished each other’s sentences to strangers.

I entered quietly, creeping up the stairs, hearing voices coming from our bedroom. I paused in the upstairs foyer. When my mother was alive, the walls had been covered with crucifixes and
gloomy old portraits of our ancestors. After her death, Edward had hired a decorator, telling me, “You’ll never move past her if you’re constantly reminded. Let’s make a
fresh start.”

I’d thought at the time, If you don’t like
mi madre’
s home, then why are we living here, instead of in your own mansion? The one I’d yet to see.

But I’d stifled that question, because it would open the door to so many other ones—a pulled thread that would unravel the blanket that I still occasionally slept with.

I’d agreed to the decorator, anything to repair the sudden rift between me and him, the one that’d appeared directly after our hasty courthouse wedding. He’d stopped calling
me Lucía, insisting on Ana-Lucía (what my mother had called me when I was in trouble). He’d stopped flirting with me. We rarely had sex, and only at my urging.

I stepped closer to our room, avoiding the groaning spots in the wood floor. I knew their exact locations, had been sneaking out of this house since I was twelve.

At the door, I detected perfume and heard my husband and a woman speaking.

“
This is taking too long,” the woman said.

“
You have to be patient and trust me.” That was my husband’s voice—but now he spoke with a British accent.

Who the hell was in my bedroom with my husband, and why had his accent changed? My fists clenched, my unruly temper about to blow. My first impulse was to bust inside and start cussing, but
somehow I forced myself to bite my tongue and listen.

“
I usually am patient,” the woman said, her accent also British. “But you can’t let her leave for these races, Charles.”
Charles?
“You need to be
working on her constantly.”

Working on what?

“
Her training is the ideal cover, darling,” my husband continued. “Poor Ana-Lucía’s going to collapse after one of her long runs.”

I rocked on my feet. They planned to . . . kill me? These motherfuckers were going to kill me.

This. Is. Not. Happening.

“
It will work seamlessly,” Edward said. “Oh, if only my poor wife hadn’t taken amphetamines while marathon training in this heat.”

Amphetamines? He’d given diet pills to me, saying, “Maybe you should lose a pound or two. Honestly, Ana-Lucía, your clothes scarcely fit across your backside. It’s
only fair, since I do make an effort to keep myself in shape for you.”

I’d nearly told him I would lose weight in my ass as soon as he gained weight in his dick, but he loathed curse words. I used to admire that he was such a gentleman. It’d gotten
old.

Edward said, “With that combination, no one will suspect another drug.”

“
Will she take them?” the woman asked. “She might be young, but she isn’t malleable like the others.”

The others? They’d done this before?? Serial killers were in my room, like snakes loosed inside!

“
Give me more credit than that,” Edward said. “Once I work my magic, she’ll be choking them down. Julia, I vow to you that I will be a widower by the holidays. Shall
we go to Aspen to celebrate?” He had a smile in his tone.

A horrific thought struck me.
Por Dios
, had they killed my mother? She’d had a degenerative disease, but her actual passing had been sudden. The floor wobbled.

Had they killed my mother?

Had they killed her?

This
Julia
wasn’t swayed yet. “If she suspects you . . .”

“I always have an ace in the hole, darling. A pressure lever. If there’s one thing I know about my wife, it’s that she would do anything to avoid
prison—”

Lightning flashed outside my apartment, thunder rattling the window. I was jolted back to the present before I got to the confrontation about his ace in the hole, before I recalled too vividly
the feel of blood coating my face and body.

Maybe that was a good thing. I didn’t want to spur even more crimson-drenched nightmares.

The storm intensified, rain pouring. My roof would soon leak like a colander. Depending on the duration of the storm, I could be up all night emptying the pots. If I didn’t, my apartment
would flood.

I pinched my temples. Edward had been right about me—I
would
do anything to avoid prison; even live in this shithole.