She slides her gaze up to mine, her full lips curling into a smile. “Siempre.”
Forever.
TWENTY-TWO
NATALIA
JOAQUIN WILL NOT KNOW what hit him, and I can only hope that everything goes according to plan so I have the opportunity to apologize. And then, I can only hope he’ll understand why I have to do what I’m about to do.
We have executed the part of the plan that he’s aware of. After two days of sitting in the cramped, musty seats of the bus, Joaquin and I arrived at the station just to the east of Fremont Street. He had a car waiting for us; a candied-apple red Aston Martin Vanquish Zagato Volante, which is the polar opposite of inconspicuous, but it makes the ruse of the plan all the more believable. In what world would a man like Joaquinnotrent a car like that in a city like Las Vegas?
And after three nights of making up for lost time at the Bellagio, we prepare for the final step in the plan.
All he knows is that we’re headed to a spot near the dam, and all he believes is that I know of an elusive hideout where we will sneak up on Xavier and his closest cronies, and I will take them out.
He doesn’t have any clue of the last secret I will ever keep from him.
And I don’t have any clue if we’ll live long enough for him to realize my true intentions.
The air is crisp and chilled, whipping through my hair as we race down a dark, desert highway, bathed in twilight and chasing the sunset. I glance at Joaquin, his aristocratic profile strong against the sky’s gradient of pink, orange, violet and blue; one hand gripping the wheel; the other gently clasped around my knee. His fingers tender as they absently stroke my skin; a subtle, tactile reflection of the love I know he has for me. Love he has proved in so many ways. Love that I couldn’t avoid falling into. Love that I don’t remember ever experiencing and never could have imagined. I lean into his chest, and he lifts his arm to wrap it around my shoulders, holding me close to him and kissing my temple. It’s dark enough, and my face is nestled below his solid, stubbled jaw, so he can’t see the tears of anxiety and fear that gather on the rims of my eyes.
I have long since become immune to fear. Fear died in my world when I was merely a child and thrust into an existence of pure survival. Fear comes from a sense that you have something to lose, and I never had anything except my own life. Animals don’t feel fear; they merely sense danger and threat. And that’s all I’ve been. That’s all I was. An animal wired for survival.
Until now.
Until this.
Until him.
Now, I have something to lose. And if this plan doesn’t go off without a hitch, I am bound to lose it.
Time is drawing to a close as we approach the exit just before the dam, and this could be the last moment.
I locate his ear with my lips and speak in our native tongue. “I would use my last breath to tell you I love you, and I wouldn’t regret it.”
Joaquin turns his head, tucking his chin over my face to capture my lips. “I know. So would I.”
I believe him when he says it.
I just hope he still believes it later when he regains consciousness just before I unleash the impending chaos.
He eases on the brakes as he takes the winding exit, and this is it. The moment I have to harm him to save him.
He believes the movement of my hands to his neck are yet another gesture of affection, and I should let him believe that, just in case it all goes south, but I can’t stop my automatic words as I apply quick, firm pressure to his carotid arteries.
“Forgive me,cariño,” I murmur against his ear.
Realization at what I’m doing causes him to seize up for a moment before he goes limp in the driver’s seat. His head falls backward and to one side as I release his neck and grip the wheel, throwing my leg toward the pedals to kick his feet out of the way so I can guide the car to a stop on the side of the road.
His unconscious state will not last long enough for me to do what I need to do, and I fish the pill bottle out of my purse, pull out one tablet, and crush it into powder against the console. I gather a pinch of the dust between my fingers and kiss his lips before sprinkling it into his mouth, ensuring that he will sleep until the moment he needs to wake.
“I love you,” I remind his subconscious. “I love you. I’m going to save you from this.”
Reaching into my oversized purse again, I pull out the pistol and drop the magazine to check the ammo.
Seventeen hollow-point bullets.
Shoving the magazine back into place, I pull back the slide and then release it to chamber the first round. A small, inconspicuous shoulder holster conceals the pistol under my arm and beneath the bolero jacket, which is a fashionable, sexy complement to the fitted black tank top and tight, white leather pants that I chose for the same reason I choose every stitch of clothing I wear—to use my God-given curves as a distraction. The other magazine, full to capacity, fits in a pocket under my other arm.
