Page 84 of When Lies Unfold

A deprecating grunt falls from my lips because I may very well embarrass us both tonight. I’m sure Santiago didn’t consider that before demanding that I accompany him.

The knock on the door sends ripples of unease and nervousness through me. I smooth a hand down the front of my dress and exhale slowly before opening my bedroom door.

All oxygen evaporates from my lungs at the sight before me. Holy shit. Alma wasn’t kidding when she said Santiago dresses fancy for dinner.

Hovering at the threshold, he wears a three-piece suit that’s so well-tailored it molds to his body like a second skin.

Hair combed back and cinched in the usual abbreviated ponytail, the first few buttons of his shirt remain undone, revealing the menacing skull tattoo etched over his throat.

He canvasses me from head to toe in what feels more like a caress than a perusal. Once our eyes meet, his hold a gleam of approval intertwined with heated lust.

Darkly inked hands remain braced on either side of the doorjamb as his tall, muscled form haunts my doorway.

The man is undeniably attractive, and knowing he puts forth little to no effort makes it even more frustrating. It’s what spurs me to try and get under his skin.

Tipping my head to study him, I wrinkle my nose. “And here I thought maybe a fancy business dinner would give me a break from the girly hair.”

A knowing smirk tugs at his lips as he surveys me similarly. “And here I thought maybe invitin’ you to a fancy business dinner meant you’d be nicer to me.”

He leans in closer, his clean masculine scent filling the air. Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “Thought for sure all those orgasms I gave you woulda counted toward somethin’, too.”

Heat suffuses my body as flashbacks of the pleasure he’s given me flicker before my eyes. Desperate to keep my wits about me, I clear my throat and smooth a hand down my dress. “Are you ready?”

“Mm. First, I gotta know…” One edge of his lips tips up the smallest fraction. “You wearin’ panties tonight?”

I squint at him. “Let’s pretend you’re a gentleman for once and that you don’t ask me such things.”

When I attempt to duck beneath his left arm, he moves it to block my escape. A trace of amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “You and I both know nobody’s gonna mistake me for a gentleman.”

I hitch my chin a notch higher, trying not to reveal how his proximity threatens to unravel me. That his clean, masculine scent beneath the hint of cologne is as pleasant as it is.

“Ready?”

“I suppose.” I gesture toward my heels. “I should probably warn you there’s a possibility I’ll fall in these things.”

“Then let me help.” He offers me his upturned palm.

At my shocked expression, he averts his gaze and scrubs his other hand over his face. “Just this once, since you need it, maybe I can…pretend to be a gentleman.” His response is uncharacteristically muted, giving me the impression he’s embarrassed. But that can’t be.

Santiago Hernández, embarrassed? The mere idea is so preposterous, it’s laughable.

Even so, when his eyes cut to mine with a trace of hesitance, I find myself placing my hand in his. And I wish I could explain it—wish I could refute it—but the instant I do, it’s as though I’m shrouded in a thick blanket of security.

Holding my hand tight, he doesn’t rush my pace as I acclimate to walking in the heels. He leads me in the opposite direction of the dining room and to a wing of his enormous home that I haven’t yet had the opportunity to explore fully.

The instant we set foot in this particular area, it actually feels different. An ominous tension lingers as we near double doors guarded by two men clad in bulletproof vests. It’s not exactly a comforting sight.

Wordlessly, the men open the doors to reveal an enormous table that resembles something that would be found in a business conference room rather than someone’s home.

Even worse than the intimidating size of the table are the guests seated around it, chatting amongst themselves.

Painful memories rear their ugly head, and my scars ignite in searing pain.

When Santiago steps forward, my feet refuse to move. His questioning glance sparks an unwelcome vulnerability inside me.

He turns to face me, thankfully blocking me from the view of his guests. Capturing my other hand, he tugs me closer.

“Talk to me.” His barely there rumble is commanding, but the fact that he’s lowered his voice to not be overheard speaks volumes.

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