Page 17 of Wicked Suspicion

Case turned so he could see her better. It put her even closer, but something was going on. Nyx had been at the ruins early in the morning, making it a long day for her. Why wasn’t she sound asleep?

“Do you think there are still men on the balcony?” she asked.

The expression that went with the question was gone so quickly that if Case wasn’t paying attention, he would have missed it. Trepidation. He studied her again, this time looking deeper, going beneath the surface. Now he saw it.

Fear.

It was buried deep, hidden behind a mask of serenity—her brave face—but she was scared. It was the same expression she’d worn earlier when she claimed to be bored.

Memories of her trailing him through their suite popped into his head. If he left the bedroom and went into the sitting area, she followed him after a minute or two. Even if he was visible in the wide archway between the two rooms. If he headed to the bathroom, Case would find her waiting for him in the bedroom when he came out.

Yeah, she wasn’t calm about any of this. She had a hell of a poker face, but he was onto her now.

Reaching out, Case pushed her braid behind her shoulder. “I think men will be stationed on the balcony around the clock. We’ll have guards in the hallway, too.”

“Why?” Her voice was quiet, less than a whisper and Case thought it had more to do with her fear than any attempt at discretion. “It’s not as if we can make it past the wall surrounding the hacienda.”

“Señor Vargas is a cautious man,” he told her. “A thorough man. He doesn’t want to chance our wandering his house.”

She considered that for a moment. “If he was concerned about us, why didn’t he put us in the casita?”

She was observant. That might be something he could use depending on what kind of situation they found themselves in. “From what I’ve seen of it, the guest house would require a lot more manpower to secure. Up here, we have fewer exit points.”

“Those men…” Her voice trailed off. Nyx drew a deep breath and asked, “Those men aren’t going to enter while we sleep, are they?”

Now he knew what had her worried enough to remain awake.

“I doubt it,” Case said. He found her hands under the blankets. They were curled into fists and he ran his thumb across the knuckles of her right hand. “But on the off chance that does happen, I’ll hear it before they can open the door. I’ll stand between you and any danger. I promise.”

“I know you will.” He liked her immediate assurance, but she stayed tense. She bit her lower lip.

“What, Fireball?”

“Do you think anyone knows we’re being held prisoner?”

Case interpreted that question as will there be help coming. The answer to that was probably no. An elderly innkeeper and his friends were one more worry on his plate, not potential rescuers. There was no reason to expect his team to risk their lives trying to get inside the compound, not when Vargas needed Case alive.

He couldn’t tell her any of that, though. “If someone doesn’t know already, they will early tomorrow. The innkeeper will start asking questions. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t aware before noon exactly where we are and why.”

Nyx had more questions. He could see it in her eyes. Case squeezed her hand. It was a warning, a reminder that someone could be listening to them. He wished they could talk. They needed a conversation that lasted longer than the water supply in the shower, but he settled for giving her hand another squeeze.

“I’ll keep you safe. I promise, Nyx.”

“I know you will. I trust you.” Her lips curved. “Good night, hon.” Leaning forward, Nyx gave him a light kiss before freeing her hands and turning on her side away from him.

Case stared at her for a moment before he settled on his back and tucked a hand behind his head. She’d kissed him because if there was a camera it would look odd if she didn’t. He understood that. What he didn’t understand was why every cell in his body had come alive from the brief touch of her lips against his.

Or why his chest had tightened when she’d said, I trust you.

Chapter 8

Oziah West always got the shit assignments when he infiltrated Vargas’s cartel. A supposed mercenary who came and went from Puerto Jardin whenever he felt like it, there was no real opportunity to move up the hierarchy. He was used to working at night on jobs no one else wanted. He frequently rolled back to the hacienda after midnight.

What was unusual was not being allowed inside.

The man blocking the entrance was young, maybe in his early twenties, and carrying an assault rifle on a strap across his body. The barrel was pointed at the ground now, but it wouldn’t take more than a split second for him to swing it up. Oz recognized him, although he couldn’t remember his name.

“I work for Señor Vargas,” Oz said. “We shared third-shift guard duty a few days ago.”

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