Page 27 of For the Love of Animals

I felt sick. “She might come to her senses.”

“You forget my natural charm.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

Charm? No, that wasn’t it. The man leached testosterone through every pore, mixed with a healthy dose of pheromones and the occasional innuendo. That little spot between my legs pulsed, and I squirmed in my seat.

“What about the poison? What are we using?” I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

When he told me, I almost wished he hadn’t. On that quiet Wednesday evening, I realised just how fucked in the head Nate was. Only a genius would have come up with that plan. A genius or a madman.

And still I wanted him.

CHAPTER 11 - NATE

VERÓNICA CAMACHO STOOD the same height as Nate in her ridiculously tall shoes, and he suspected she’d only worn them so she had an excuse to keep clutching at his arm. She had to be a decade older, but she’d looked after herself, and she didn’t need to wear all the make-up she’d troweled on—layers of black mascara, powder caking her face, and that scarlet lipstick she liked to leave all over him as though she was staking a claim.

Too bad he’d already set his sights on another woman.

“Another drink, Carlos?”

Just for fun, Nate had borrowed Black’s first name, the name he hated and never used, and put a Spanish twist on it.

“One more and I have to get back to my hotel for that conference call, but let me buy them. Same again?”

She nodded and smiled, still perfectly poised. It would be a different story tomorrow night, when he planned to convince her to switch from palomas, the tame little grapefruit-flavoured cocktails she seemed so fond of, to straight tequila or mezcal. When he’d first visited her shop yesterday to buy a costume for the Día de los Muertos themed party he planned to attend in Mexico City tomorrow, she’d eagerly accepted his invitation to join him, and this evening, she’d made it clear what she hoped to get out of the arrangement. The hand on his crotch was a dead giveaway.

In the past, that wouldn’t have been a problem, more a perk of the job. A reward for his hard work. But with Carmen back at the apartment, sleeping in his bed—even if he wasn’t sleeping in it with her—he had to find a way to avoid any entanglement with the middle-aged Barbie doll.

He’d spent some more time at the shop today, being charming in a way Carmen wouldn’t believe as well as checking out Lozano’s costume and getting a look at the order book. That confirmed what he’d seen in Lozano’s emails—Verónica was due to deliver the outfit at ten o’clock on Saturday. No sooner, no later.

Except Verónica would be passed out in the bedroom if Nate had anything to do with it.

Now, she sipped daintily on the paloma Nate had just bought and introduced him to another equally artificial friend, one who seemed determined to get her money’s worth out of the breasts she’d undoubtedly paid a fortune for by thrusting them into the face of any man who walked past.

“Are you going to the parade on Saturday, Carlos?” she asked.

“Isn’t everyone? I hear it’s to die for.”

Her high-pitched giggle made Nate’s ears hurt. “I’m having a party on Sunday night. Do you both want to come?”

Verónica nodded without even consulting him. “What time does it start?”

“Eight o’clock. Luis will be playing with his band.” The friend glanced at Nate and lowered her voice. “But it’s okay, he got a new guitarist.”

Another of Verónica’s conquests? Nate got the impression she’d had a few, but he didn’t care. If everything went according to plan, he’d be on a plane when the party began, flying somewhere far, far away.

And if karma looked kindly upon him after what he did to Lozano, Carmen would be at his side.

When Nate crept into his temporary home just before midnight, he found the table set for one with a note between the cutlery.

I didn’t know if you’d eat, so I left food in the fridge. Microwave it for three minutes if you’re hungry.

Carmen had bought him dinner? No, not bought it, he found when he peeped under the plate she’d placed over an earthenware dish. She’d fucking made him dinner. And he’d wasted the entire evening with a pair of vapid socialites.

Shit.

He tiptoed over to the bed, where she was breathing softly and evenly, that curtain of dark hair spread over his pillow. Nate almost crawled in beside her, but he was only twenty-seven and he didn’t want to die so young. Instead, he bent to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Sweet dreams, querida.”

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