Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 4

  “Hmm,” Isla says, taking a long sip of champagne. “If you say so. I’ll see you around, Selina. Good luck with this one, she’s a real troublemaker.”

  Isla gestures at me with that last bit, winking at Miel showily. We force laughter and watch Isla strut away.

  I mingle for a little longer, snacking on chocolate-covered strawberries and working my way through as much champagne as Miel will let me get away with. Maybe it’s for the best that she’s holding me back. I’d drain every bottle in this building if I thought it would make me forget my predicament for even a moment. I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, trapped in a mental nightmare while floating through this pastel daydream. It’s almost time for us to make a sly exit when Pennilyn Hunt approaches us.

  “Miss Palacios,” the older gentlewoman says, shaking my hand delicately. She must instinctively sense that Miel is “the help,” because she doesn’t acknowledge my companion at all. “I haven’t been able to reach you lately. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, smiling brightly. “I’ve just been doing a digital detox.” At the woman’s blank expression, I go on. “It’s when you take a break from social media, electronics, all that stuff. It’s supposed to be good for your mental health.”

  “That sounds like the first two-thirds of my life,” Mrs. Hunt huffs, and I giggle a little, but she just gives me a humorless look. “That’s all well and good, dear, but I desperately need to be in contact with you about the gala in September. What am I to do, have my assistant fax you?”

  This time Miel is the one who chuckles, but this also turns out not to be a joke.

  “Of course, sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Hunt,” I say. “You can contact my personal assistant here, and she’ll make sure I get the message. Miel, this is about our upcoming anti-gang violence fundraiser. You know, our big push to clean up Atlanta’s streets once and for all.”

  Miel glares at my snide smile and gets her phone out and turns back to the older woman. “Of course, how wonderful. Can I get your contact info, Mrs. Hunt? I’ll be in touch.”

  While we wait for the valet to bring our car back around, Miel adjusts her purse strap and shifts on the kitten heels I lent her. “Not that I need to explain anything to you, but we’re not the bad guys you think we are.”

  Sure,” I say, raising my eyebrows doubtfully. “Of course not. You’re just kidnappers, blackmailers, torturers, but not bad guys.”

  “You’re right,” Miel says after a beat, and her face shifts back into an unreadable mask. Whatever brief camaraderie we shared here today is over. “I guess we are all those things.”

  I can hear the unfinished nature of the sentence hanging in the air between us, but I don’t dare press for more. What does this mean? Is there more to my captors than meets the eye? Is this about more than money? But no, I remind myself, as the valet pulls the car around and we step in, leaving the palatial penthouse party behind. Nothing is ever about anything other than money. And none of them, especially not Vega, are anything more than the villains of my story.

  When the girls return from the baby shower I have Miel come into the study to recap. I pour us both whiskeys, something old and overpriced that neither of us has the palate to truly appreciate, and gesture for her to make herself comfortable in the cushy seat across from me.

  “Just like old times, huh?” Miel quips, raising her glass at me. I grin at her half-joke. The old times in question involved us sitting in smoky alleys and filthy backrooms, guzzling cheap beer and biding our time. For nearly a decade, Miel endured terrible things for our old boss, and I, well, I inflicted much worse. That’s what people like us, people from our neighborhood, do to survive. But now, after years of planning and painstaking patience, we’re finally past that. It’s an enormous risk, one that would cost us everything if it failed, but that’s why I will not fail.

  “How was the baby thing?” I ask, taking another sip of my whiskey. It sure goes down smooth, but so does Old Crow when you’re thirsty enough. “Any trouble?”

  “That shit was bougie as fuck,” Miel says, flexing that sailor mouth of hers I love so much. “More rich white ladies than you’ve ever seen. Your girl did good, though. No bullshit.”

  “That’s good,” I say, drumming my fingers on the oak desk thoughtfully. I’m glad Selina is learning her new place so fast. It’s good survival skills.

  “She was poking at me for information, though,” Miel goes on, between gulps of whiskey. “What are you going to tell her, Javi?”

  “About us?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Miel nods in affirmation. “Nothing. All she needs to know is that she’s ours now, and she better behave if she wants to remain in our good graces.”

  Miel hesitates, then knocks back the rest of her booze before asking what’s really on her mind. She may be my oldest friend, but even she knows better than to test me.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Miel says, holding my gaze challengingly. “Are you sure this is just about her money?”

  I set my jaw and stare the girl down, letting her know with my eyes that this is the last time I’ll be entertaining this line of questioning. “Of course it is. Do you really think I’d put everything at risk, endanger myself and you, for anything less than that? Selina is just a pawn in our way.”

  Miel holds my eyes for a beat longer, then raises her brows in defeat and flops back into her seat. “If you say so. All I’m saying is maybe you should let me handle Selina for now, so you can focus on the endgame.”

  “No,” I say without hesitation. I trace my thumb around the rim of the tumbler, trying to figure out what the difference is between crystal and glass. “Selina is mine.”

  Despite her half-assed attempts, Selina turns out to be a godawful cook. The girl can barely boil water.

  I’m confirming recipients for next month’s deposits when Brock raps his knuckles on the study door. I glance up. Brock is tall, with the kind of slim build that is deceptively strong. White boy has tossed me on my ass one too many times in our training. Today, in a casual t-shirt, sweats, and that ridiculous man bun he refuses to let us shame him into chopping off, he looks better fit for a poetry slam in Brooklyn than for the questionable kind of business we run.

  “What’s up?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Selina,” he says, shifting uncomfortably as I quirk an eyebrow. “Specifically, about her cooking.”

  I sigh, massaging my temples. “Yeah, I know. It’s been a little rough lately.”

  “I know you’re playing some kind of kinky domination game with her,” Brock begins.

  “Not kinky,” I cut him off, pursing my lips. “I’m teaching Selina her new place. That’s been the plan all along.”

  “Right, of course,” Brock says quickly. “But can we maybe veto the cooking part of that plan? It’s been days since we’ve had a decent meal. I can take over, I actually enjoy that shit.”

  I study the man. When I was a kid, my mother taught me how to cook eggs. It was fun, and I started making my own breakfasts, until my father belted me for it. Cooking is woman’s work, he had said, and he better not catch me doing that shit again. Now, half a continent and a couple decades away, I still haven’t touched a stove since. However, Brock looks genuinely willing, so I wave my hand in apathetic approval of his request.

  “Sure, suit yourself. Try to teach Selina something while you’re at it. She doesn’t get to shirk her duties just because she’s bad at them.”

  “You got it, boss,” Brock says, with a little mock salute as he leaves.

  When I hear his footsteps fade down the hall, I tab through my open windows to the security footage. I spot Selina on Camera #14, dusting bookshelves in the library. The camera image is grayscale and fuzzy, but I can’t help but be drawn to her blurred silhouette as she rises on tiptoes to reach the top shelf. Her top rides up a little, revealing a sliver of lower back to the camera. My gaze lingers on the curve of her ass in tho
se jeans, the tip of her long ponytail swinging like a pendulum just above it. Hypnotizing.

  I startle slightly when my phone begins buzzing. It’s Hernando, according to caller ID. I shut down the camera feed and pick up the call impatiently.

  “What’s up, H? I’m busy.”

  “We have to talk, now,” Hernando says, and I can tell from the urgency in his voice that shit is about to go down. “There’s someone at the gate to see Selina.”

  I’m tidying up the library when Vega storms in, shoulders tight and jaw set. I straighten, my first reaction being to spit some snarky remark his way, but something about his serious expression stops me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, gripping the feather duster with both hands.

  “Your friend, Isla,” Vega says, just as Miel runs up behind him, looking equally on edge. “She’s on her way here. Hernando stalled her at the gatehouse for as long as he could but she’ll be pulling up any second.”

  Shit. I should be at least a little buoyed by the sliver of hope that my captors might get busted, but their subtle panic must be contagious because all I feel is anxiety. If Isla senses something is wrong here, which wouldn’t be too hard to pick up on these days, she’ll nag away until she cracks this wide open, and that doesn’t end well for any of us, especially the hostage help.

  I allow myself two deep breaths, then I go into problem-solving mode.

  “You,” I say, pointing at Miel, who as usual is dressed like a dominatrix on casual Friday. “Go change. Grab some slacks out of my closet and a nice top. Then get us some drinks and bring them to the lounge. Isla thinks you’re my assistant, remember?”

  Miel glances at Vega, who considers this for a moment, then gives her a nod. The woman vanishes to do as told.

  “And you,” I say to Vega, as I set the duster down and shake my hair out of its ponytail. “Get lost. Don’t let her see you. Tell your guys to do the same.”

  I turn to leave the library but Vega grabs my arm and pulls me back. I trip a little, not having expected pushback, but his iron grip steadies me.

  “You don’t tell me what to do, princesita,” Vega says in a cold tone, his fingers digging deep into my arm.

  “I’m just trying to help you,” I snap back, fighting the urge to try and pull away. I know the gesture would be useless. “I know how to handle people like Isla. She’ll freak out if she sees you.”

  Vega says nothing, but his grip softens ever so slightly. He reaches up to my face with his free hand, and again, I have to resist the instinct to flinch back. He runs his thumb over my cheekbone, probably wiping away some residual dust or grime. I shiver slightly at his disarmingly gentle touch, and struggle to even out my breath.

  “You don’t tell me what to do,” my captor says again, releasing me. “Go get rid of your friend. No bullshit. We’ll be watching you.”

  “I know,” I say, dashing to the door. Isla is probably already pulling up the drive. “Oh, um, maybe you should close the door to the study, or any other room that’s literally full of guns. Just a friendly suggestion.”

  I make it to the drive just as Isla’s chauffeur is opening her door for her. She glides out, legs first, and lets him take her hand with a cheeky little grin she really thinks she can get away with.

  “Isla,” I say as a greeting as the woman gives me European pecks on both cheeks.

  “Selina,” she returns. When she pulls back, she gives me a once-over with a frown. “What the hell are you wearing? And why are you opening your own doors? Where is Kate?”

  I wipe my hands self-consciously on my jeans and resist the urge to pull at the hem of my t-shirt. Standing next to Isla and her McQueen get-up, I look more like the help than a fellow heiress. I guess that’s the point of Vega’s little mind games, to make me feel as low as I do right now.

  “Um, I was doing some gardening, my therapist suggested it,” I mutter, leading her into the house. “And Kate finally retired. She’s been with my family since before I was born, you know. I’m still looking for a half-decent replacement, she left some big shoes to fill.”

  I can feel Vega’s eyes on us as I beeline to the lounge. I can only hope that Isla won’t notice the creepy cameras installed everywhere.

  “Good help is impossible to find these days,” Isla says with a huff, collapsing into an armchair and tossing her purse aside. “Matty and I have been looking for a new cook for weeks now, after Pilar up and got pregnant. I swear, we might as well just hire her baby at this point. It’ll be of working age by the time we find a decent candidate.”

  I force a meager chuckle as Miel blessedly appears with a tray of drinks. She changed, as instructed, but her makeup still looks a little too wild for the setting.

  Luckily, Isla barely glances at her, taking the glass she’s handed without a second look, much less a thank you. One sip and she grimaces, shoving the glass back at the startled Miel.

  “What is this?”

  “Sweet tea,” Miel says, giving me a confused frown.

  “What are we, children? Bring us the good stuff, Miel,” Isla says, blurring the two syllables into a long ee sound.

  “Get us some mojitos,” I suggest, forcing a smile. “Please.”

  Miel gives me a look I can’t quite decipher before she disappears again.

  “Is this more of your therapist’s doing? Gardening, digital detox, non-Long-Island tea?” Isla asks with a completely decipherable look, kicking her stilettoed foot in the air impatiently. “She sounds like a prude. Let me hook you up with my life coach. Life coaches are all the rage now, ask anyone. None of that touchy-feely bullshit. Plus, Rodrigo is a real smokeshow.”

  Isla gives me a theatrical wink at that, and I manage to choke out a giggle. Has my neighbor-slash-frenemy always been this grating, or am I just especially on edge today?

  “What brings you here today, Isla?” I cut to the chase, making the woman pout her shiny pink lips.

  “I just wanted to see you, sweetie,” she says, pitching her voice higher in an attempt to be cutesy, a trick that doesn’t work on me, since I don’t happen to possess a dick. “It’s been forever. You’ve been cooped up here for way too long. You have to come out to the club with me someday. Or the spa! They just got this new masseuse, I swear, he is the happy end—”

  There’s a light rapping at the door and I glance up, expecting Miel with the booze I’m more and more desperate for by the second. Instead, Vega leans against the frame, looking like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Rather than his usual leather jacket, he’s in a suit. Something cheap and slightly ill-fitting, but a suit nevertheless. It covers his tattoos and somewhat obscures his muscular build, but nothing can mask the dangerous glint in his smile.

  I give him panicked eyes, just as Isla glances between us conspicuously, mouth dropping in mock shock.

  “Selina, you must tell me who this is,” she says, widening her eyes at me pointedly.

  “Um,” I hesitate, my mind blanking on any plausible explanation. My pseudo-kidnapper? My blackmailer? The man who follows me with his cameras everywhere I go, and won’t stop playing power games with my mind? The man whose muscled arms and long lashes haunt both my nightmares and my daydreams?

  “I’m Javier Vega,” he says, reaching out for a handshake. “Miss Palacios and I are business associates.”

  “Javier Vega,” Isla purrs, taking Vega’s outstretched hand in a sensuous way that makes my own hands curl into fists in my lap. “I’ve never heard of you.”

  “I’m new in town,” Vega says, discreetly pulling his hand back when Isla tries to hold on for a beat too long. “You must be Isla del Rey, of Royal Press. I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

  “Oh, really?” Isla says, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, making that tiny skirt ride up half an inch higher. I’m going to kill her. Is a husband and a secret lover not enough for her?

  Miel returns just in time to keep me from breaking, handing out mojitos all around. Isla takes a long swig of hers and seems satisfied, although
she still doesn’t thank Miel. I don’t know why that suddenly bugs me. God knows we never thanked Kate for waiting on us hand and foot. I take a big gulp of my own drink, needing the rum to dull my rapidly sharpening edges, but all I taste is club soda and mint. I frown at Miel, and she gives me a surreptitious nod. That bitch. She made me a virgin drink, in my time of greatest need.

  “So what kind of business are you and Selina into these days?” Isla asks, twirling the stirrer in her mojito coquettishly. I swear I can hear, see, even taste the wink in her tone.

  “Investments,” Vega says, and I perk up. Is that a clue, a tidbit of truth? “As you know, Miss Palacios has acquired a significant fortune and I’m here to help her put that money to good use.”

  Acquired. He makes it sound like I was an active participant in this. All I did was be born into the right moment, then outlive all other heirs to the Palacios throne. My muscle memory takes another big sip of my drink at the thought, but again all I get is club soda.

  “I have a significant fortune,” Isla says, that thin voice making her sound even more like a bragging child than her words do. She should just sit on his face here and now and get it over with. “Maybe you can come over and help me with it someday. I live just down the road.”

  “That’s true,” I pipe in, on the verge of snapping. “Isla and her husband do need some help.”

  Isla glares at me, but I see the corners of Vega’s mouth twitch up at the venom in my voice.

  “I’m afraid Miss Palacios will be keeping me plenty busy for some time,” Vega says with finality.

  “Isla, why did you say you were here, again?” I ask irritably, ready for this dumb little charade to be over.

  “Oh, I came here to invite you personally to the garden party Matty and I are throwing next week,” Isla says, dropping her own flirtation Olympics for a moment. “In fact, you should bring Javier as your plus one.”