Page 14 of Wait for You

Mat didn’t have that issue. He’d dressed in a charro suit. His cream-colored pants and jacket sported gold trim and an orangenecktie to match her costume. The same embroidery gilded the sombrero he wore, but not a crystal in sight.

Another feather tickled her neck, and she fought the urge to rip the headpiece off. He’d definitely chosen the costume to torture her.

Like his presence isn’t torture enough.

She could smell him—his spicy citrus scent—all the way to her ovaries. No matter that, in her head, she knew better than to fall under his spell again; her body was eager to test the waters.

All day, she’d been distracted by what he’d told her the night before. Despite the danger it posed, she couldn’t stop thinking it meant something if he remembered those things about her. If you didn’t care about someone, it was easy to forget them, but that’s not what Mat had done.

Maybe she’d been wrong, and he had felt something for her all those years ago.

But it doesn’t mean he still does.

If she was going to stay focused on finding Emil, she had to remind herself of that. She wasn’t here for Mat. She was here for her brother.

With a huff that fanned the feathers on her head, Imogen caught sight of the ballroom doors and stumbled. The dress was meant for someone of average height and her lack in that regard made walking in it challenging. She had to hold up one side of the sheer material to keep it from catching under her high heels, but she’d dropped it when she realized how close they were.

Fear turned her legs to jelly. She must’ve made a sound because before she managed to face plant, Mat caught her, pulling her into his chest. Her heart pounded as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings.

This was crazy. They were about to walk into a room filled with every kind of criminal, from the cartel’s deadliest to itssmartest, and she thought she could interrogate them? She’d goneloca. Surely, only a crazy woman would attempt this.

Mat tilted her chin, and she blinked him into focus. His hazel eyes were so soft as he stroked her skin with his thumb. His voice flowed over her as soothing as a sedative when he spoke. “You can still go home, Gen. You don’t have to go through with this. Leave and be safe. I’ll do everything I can to find Emil.”

Then his words penetrated, pouring acid into an old wound and overriding the fear she’d felt. Going into this, she’d known it wouldn’t be easy. But there was no way she’d pass up the opportunity for information about her brother. No matter how dangerous it might be.

“No.” Gripping her dress in one hand, she used the other to push herself out of Mat’s embrace.

His face lost its warmth as he straightened and cleared his throat, but she didn’t have time to worry about that.

“I’m doing this.”

He offered his arm, but he sighed when she didn’t immediately take it. “In case you trip again.”

“Fine.” With the curt agreement, she slipped her arm into his and let him lead her into the lion’s den—or jaguar’s, in this case.

Ushers dressed in black suits with calavera masks opened the double doors for them. A small gasp escaped her throat at the sight that awaited. In response, Mat squeezed her hand where she cupped his arm but didn’t stop their forward progress.

Just inside the ballroom, an arch with gauzy black fabric draped on either side framed the entrance to the festivities. Flowering vines the color of blood wrapped each side, drawing back the curtains for partygoers to pass through. Imogen shivered as they walked under the arch. It felt like entering the gates of Hell.

The drumming beat of some type of instrumental music played low from speakers set up at the stage near the back ofthe room, but she barely heard it over the din of voices. The ballroom was packed with costumed cartel members. Everything from the elaborate to the understated was on display.

As Mat led her to the bar across from the wall of French doors that opened onto an empty courtyard, she noted women dressed as she was in samba costumes or traditional garb, men dressed as cowboys or mariachis, and even over-the-top outfits with giant caricature masks that left her with no clue to the wearer’s identity.

“Paloma?”

Imogen pulled her eyes from the party at Mat’s question. “Hmm?”

“Do you want a drink?” He held out a red highball glass with what looked like her favorite cocktail.

The combination of tequila, lime, and grapefruit seltzer had always been her order, but she was still surprised he remembered. Accepting the glass, she murmured her thanks and turned away from the smile in his gaze.

People mingled at cocktail tables dispersed about the room. Black tablecloths covered them, each holding a tall centerpiece that kept catching her eye. A crystal vase with white roses topped by large crimson feathers. Like blood, ready to be spilled.

Imogen suppressed a shudder and glanced at Mat. He leaned against the bar, sipping his drink as if he didn’t have a care in the world. For some reason, his coolness irked her. She didn’t know if he really felt that calm or was just a better actor than her.

Taking a sip of her cocktail, she tried not to drool at the way the cut of his costume highlighted the muscles underneath, or how that shade of cream made his dark hair shine, nor the way the gold stitching brought out the hidden depths of color in his eyes.

Focus, Imogen.

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