“I suppose it’s better than being named after your father who died by his own cousin’s hands,” she commented in a soft voice.
Sympathy rose in him again, along with an urge to hug her, but Miguel ignored the impulse. “Your father resisted life in the cartel. He wanted something better for himself and for Lola. For you, too. Julio Escobar loved you enough to leave you at that fire station. To protect you. He’d be proud of you, Agent?—”
She held up her hand. “Julia, please.”
“Julia.” Her name rolled off his tongue, and he liked it. “Call me Miguel, or River, if you prefer. It’s my nickname at the station.”
Her lips curved into a tiny smile. “Is that really a thing?”
“Yeah. Martini, River, Dooley, Hutch, and well, Tawny, we call her Red.”
“Isn’t Dooley just Owen’s last name? And Hutch short for Hutchinson? Martinelli—Martini. Rivera—River. Not very imaginative, if you ask me.”
Miguel grinned. “We didn’t pick ‘em. It sort of happened by accident.”
“What do you call Justice?”
“Chief.”
Julia let out a low, throaty chuckle that sent an unexpected tingle running up his spine. “Classic. Good night, River. I’ll knock on your door at eight. We’ll grab breakfast and head to an airfield where Dr. Trey McAdams is meeting us.”
He nodded. “Good night, Julia.”
Alone, Miguel texted Justice to inform him that Julia and her parents had been told the truth. He replied with a thumbs up emoji. The long day that began before dawn caught up to him. He yawned and headed into the bathroom with his bag of toiletries. After a warm shower, he brushed his teeth, dressed in a pair of LBPD sweatpants, and crawled beneath the fresh-smelling linens. Miguel closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
Crying.Heartbreaking sobs.
The same dreamoften haunted him.
Ashley floats above him,tears streaming down her face. “I don’t want to leave you,” she sobs. “I love you, Miguel.”
“No! Don’t go!”
An ethereal light pulls her away from his outstretched arms. Ashley’s tears rain on him.
“No…”
Miguel jerked awake.Heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Those heart-wrenching sobs still echoed in his ears…all too real…
As his racing pulse slowly decelerated and the fogginess of sleep left him, Miguel realized he hadn’t imagined the crying he heard. It came from the other side of the wall near his head. He listened to the sounds of utter despair until he couldn’t bear them anymore. Miguel pulled on an LBPD T-shirt and left the guest room.
He stepped a few feet and rapped lightly on the last door at the end of the hallway. “Julia, it’s Miguel.” He spoke in a low voice. “Are you okay?”
No answer, but the choking cries grew less intense.
Miguel tested the doorknob and discovered it unlocked. “I’m coming in.”
He crossed the threshold and closed the door. In the soft glow of a single lamp, Julia huddled against a large wooden headboard. Her knees were drawn up to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She trembled, rocked against her knees, and keened her pain.
Miguel slid next to her on the king-sized bed. Only an inch or two separated them. “Julia. You’re not alone. I’m here. Lean on me.”
His offer struck a chord. Julia buried her face in his neck and cried as if she’d suffered a great loss. And maybe she had. Less than twelve hours ago, she’d been sure of her identity and place in this world—Julia Washburn, DEA agent. Now she had a birthright that contradicted everything she believed to be true about herself.
Finding himself in an uncomfortable position, Miguel slipped his arm around Julia’s shoulders and pressed her more firmly against him. Warmth seeped into him. Julia shifted her body and threw an arm across his midsection. Her tears soaked his T-shirt. Miguel wrapped his other arm around her quivering body and stroked the smooth and straight dark brown strands of her hair.
He murmured words of comfort and understanding into her ear. Soon, he exchanged them for a haunting Spanish lullaby that his mother taught him when he was a child. Miguel sang the lyrics in Spanish as he held Julia close to him. The song had its desired effect, for the tempest slowly subsided and calm replaced the storm.
The intimacy between them permeated Miguel’s senses. Julia lay half in his lap. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Beneath his hands, he felt her firm, well-toned muscles. Her hair and skin smelled like roses.
