Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4) (14 page)

Fucking Kabakas.

What if?

She grabbed an onion and cut out the core, began chopping, thinking about the way Hugo’s gloves strained and hugged his massive hands out on the field like a second skin, flexing and stretching, black as night, the leather taut and shiny over his massive knuckles. She’d used to really stare at those gloves in the photo.

A lot.

Stop it.
She pushed the onions aside and cut the meat, then seasoned it with salt and pepper.
He’s not a rock star,
a colleague had once said.
Not a rock star.

She went at the bell pepper, then the hot pepper. Kabakas had gone dark at the end. A psychopath. He was dead, and it was good that he was dead.

Zelda turned the meat and spiced the other side. She didn’t cook, but she was a scientist, and cooking was nothing but chemistry, complete with a recipe for a formula. She assembled the spices according to the consensus of the three recipes. You always double-sourced where possible, and ideally, you triple-sourced. That was Intelligence 101.

You will not teach the boy the word for
birthday.

Who didn’t let a child have a birthday? Show him he was worth celebrating?

She had to stop letting him push her buttons. She needed to rule him out as Kabakas and get the hell out.

But what if he was Kabakas?

“You’ll cross that bridge when and if you come to it,” she mumbled to herself.

“Cross what bridge?”

She spun around and there he was, leaning against the wall in all his dark glory. His unshaven cheeks glinted in the firelight and his shirt was soaked through with sweat, pasted to his muscular form.

“Nothing,” she whispered, wiping her hands on her apron—not because they were dirty but because they were trembling. Because here he was. And Kabakas or not, Hugo did something to her.

He had that elemental beauty that really strong and brutal men could sometimes get; even his harshness was a type of beauty.

He pushed off the wall and came toward her.

She pressed her hands into her apron pockets but stood her ground. She would not be intimidated by a Kabakas impostor.

He stopped in front of her, gaze sweeping over her body. His midnight-black hair was technically short enough to stay within the category of short hair, but it was thick and a tiny bit choppy. The effect was barbaric and ever so slightly arresting.

A shiver ran through her. “What?”

He grasped her arm, drawing her hand from her apron pocket, lifting it in his massive paw. She forgot to breathe as he cradled it. His hands were warm, wrists like small tree trunks jutting out from frayed shirt cuffs. His touch felt electric.

What was he doing? Did he mean to kiss her hand?

Back when she was active in the field, she always knew what to do, how to handle a man. She’d certainly never been bewildered by one.

He didn’t kiss it; he simply cradled it in his rough palm. Eventually, it dawned on her that it was her wound he was interested in. Sure enough, he began to work at the tape around the bandage.

“Hey.” She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip around her fingers and continued to peel back the tape, scowling, which caused the crease between his eyes to become downright gouge-like.

“It’s fine.”

“I will be the judge of that,” he said, keeping hold of her as though she were an unruly child.

She gaped at him. He would treat her like a child, now?

Yes. Yes, he would.

She watched, stunned, as he peeled the tape up, little by little.

He would treat her as he wished because she was his captive. She sucked in a breath. It was insane.

She studied his dark brows and his inky lashes, which emphasized the sharp beauty of his eyes. His face had a hard, jagged quality, especially in the harsh cut of his cheekbones. The furrow between his eyes seemed to deepen. Anger? Concern? Annoyance?

He grunted as the bandage came up. Air rushed in around against the pink of the wound, cooling her tender skin. She felt exposed to the world.

“See? It’s fine,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s nothing.” The last thing she wanted was for him to get it into his head that she needed stitches.

He kept her fingers wrapped in his and tipped his head to get a better view, cheek stubble gleaming darkly. Her heart raced as he pressed a thick, callused finger to the pink skin around the wound.

“This. Does it hurt?” he rumbled out.
Does eet hurt?

She swallowed. “It’s fine. It’s clean. I cleaned it.”

He raised his deep brown eyes to hers. They had just a hint of gold in them, like root beer. “Does it
hurt?
”

“Not much.”

“
How
much?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll worry about it if I wish to.” He waited for her answer, expressionless as a boulder. She amended his eye color to
root beer in the sunshine
. “We do not have the luxury of a hospital on every corner,” he added.

“It doesn’t hurt. But if it gets infected, hey, Mickey Mouse can come and pick me up in a helicopter, right?” She bit her lip, thinking that was pretty funny, but he didn’t seem to, or, if he did, he showed no sign of it, other than the slight tightening of his warm grip on her arm. “Look, I washed it out with soapy water. We’re good.”

His thick lips twisted slightly. Yeah, he could see as well as she did that it needed stitches. He let go and went to a cabinet, pulling down bandages, boxes, and bottles. She spotted an irrigation bottle.

“Come,” he said, standing at the counter sink, holding out a hand.

“I’m fine.”

He frowned, hand outstretched.

“Really, I’m good.”

He raised his inky brows. “It was not a request. You will come over here. You will give me your arm. You will stand here quietly as I wash it properly.”

She felt her lips part in shock, felt heat invade her face.

“It is best.”

Suck it up,
she told herself.
He just wants to wash it.
She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, senses tingling.

When she got to him, he took her hand once again, held it gently. She was close to him now—close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear as he growled, low and slow, “Was that so hard?”

She had the weird sense that he was enjoying this.

“Was it?” he pursued.

“Somewhat.” She meant it humorously, but it was the truth. It was hard because he bewildered her exhausted mind, and because he
felt
the way she’d always imagined Kabakas would feel, and that was a mindfuck. Ever since the Friar Hovde incident, she hated people fussing over her and caring for her.

When he didn’t do anything for a long time, she looked up into those sharp brown eyes and she had the crazy sense that he understood. It felt raw and scary. Like falling.

He went to work, rather expertly irrigating the wound over the sink. She stood there, fully given over to his strange, rough brand of care.

“You’re delaying dinner,” she said.

“Then you’ll cook faster.”

She bit her lip, praying for him not to get it in his head to stitch her up, much as she needed it. Of course he’d be good at it. Medievally meticulous, the way he’d been with the knives on the field. He was a man into control and precision.

Hugo patted her skin dry.

“Thank you.” She pulled her arm, but he didn’t let go—he kept hold, studying the wound.

“This will require a stitch,” he said. “Perhaps two or three.”

“No,” she said.

“It is not a matter of debate. The cut is deep.”

Her eyes fell to the box of
vendas de mariposa
—butterfly bandages—which he’d pulled down with the stuff. “Those bandages—they’ll keep the skin together. One of those would be perfect. That’s all I need. Please…”

Again he twisted his lips. It meant something when they twisted like that; hesitation, maybe.

“Please, Hugo,” she added softly, using his name, aware that she was pulling him, that she
could
pull him, affect him. It was a little bit of a thrill, like walking a bloodthirsty bear on the end of a fragile silken cord.

“Do you remember what I said? This is not a democracy.” He released her and grabbed an ice cube from the freezer. “You will hold this to the flesh.” He pressed the ice to her wound.

She complied, full of disbelief and awe at the way he was steamrolling her with his one-pointed confidence. She’d had that confidence once, before Friar Hovde. It was a revelation, seeing it in him, being near him. That fuck-it-all confidence. God, it was beautiful.

It was only when you’d lost your confidence that you came to see its beauty, like a long-lost lover who will never again have you.

He taped plastic over the rough counter and wiped down the surface with rubbing alcohol. He then snapped on latex gloves and doused them with the alcohol, rubbing his hands together to spread it around. He watched her eyes as he held his hands still, hovering them, allowing the bacteria to dry and die.

“Seriously, Hugo—”

“
Shhh
,” he said.

Shhh
? Nobody said
shhh
to her. Treated her like this. Ordered her. She was the co-leader of the fucking Associates.

He torched the needle with a lighter, then rubbed it down with alcohol and threaded it with green fishing line. His technique was good; he was even doing the sterile area. He sterilized his forceps, then he took the ice from her and placed her arm down on the less sterile side of the setup, holding it in place, angled just so. And she found herself thinking about those black leather gloves.

“You can look away if you like.”

Right. You couldn’t pay her enough to look away from his hand and his beautiful confidence and his utter commitment.

She watched him position the needle at the end of the forceps, felt the pierce when it broke the skin, felt it sink. He worked with steady force, pushing and then pulling with the forceps. His technique was excellent, and little by little she let herself relax into his hold, even into the pain. She found she trusted him. This was a man who committed fully on the battlefield and here, now, he was utterly invested in caring for her.

No—it was more than that. His touch nourished her. And with a lurch in her heart she realized that, aside from the occasional handshake, she’d barely been touched since the Friar Hovde case. And she certainly hadn’t been handled like this. Cared for.

Her eyes felt warm. Tearing up.

What the fuck?

She blinked. She would
not
let him see her crying. He’d think it was the pain. She shouldn’t care, but she did. She was just exhausted, that was all. And she’d been so frightened.

His grip tightened on her arm as he drew the needle through. Gentle. Efficient. Ruthless.

He made a quick, professional knot and then straightened up and looked into her eyes. He was silent for a long time. “It will be all right,
señorita
.”

She nodded, flooded with feeling.

“Two more, okay?”

She nodded again.

He repeated the process, completing another perfect stitch. A fighter like this, he’d probably done it on himself dozens of times.

Protecting his investment, that’s all
, she told herself.

Finally he let her go. “Was that so bad?” he asked, tearing the wrapper from a bandage. He pressed it on carefully, exerting just the right tension for the wound. A pro. But that had never been in question.

“Thank you,” she said, moving away, as if to get back the distance.

“
De nada
,” he whispered, voice trancelike. “It is nothing.”

There was so much between them now. Too much. It was the thin skin of her. She was overwrought. Fragile. And she had miles to go before sleep.

With a grunt he brushed past her, as if he, too, needed distance. He pulled open the refrigerator and grabbed a beer and tipped it into his mouth. She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the cool liquid moved down his throat.

Hugo had seen his village threatened. He’d killed dozens of men, possibly been injured himself. They’d both traveled far today.

She turned the meat again, just to have something to do. When she next looked up, he was surveying the mess she’d created. Frowning.

“How
is
dinner coming?”

“Great. It’s going to be great.” No time like the present to start selling it. She heated up the griddle. “Did you need anything else?”

He walked out and came back a few minutes later with a math textbook written in Spanish, decades old, a product of pre–Fortunato Valencia. Pre-dictator, pre–drug-war Valencia. “This is the boy’s book.”

The boy.
She pressed her lips together.
The boy.
He could be so weirdly protective and caring, like with the stitches, and then
the boy
.

He was holding the textbook out for her. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted her…to take it? Inspect it? What did he want?

She set the meat cooking and went to him, wiping her hands on a rag. She took the book and looked through it.

“Do you know this?”

“It’s written in Spanish,” she said.

“But the numbers are not. And the boy can translate. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” she said. High school math. What she didn’t remember she’d figure out; she’d always enjoyed math. Unlike Liza, she’d been a very good student. Knowledge in math would have to be one of the Liza characteristics she’d break.

“You will go through this book with him each night. You may ignore the parts in the front of the book; he must memorize the drills. He is on fractions.”

“This book is pretty old.”

“So? Math has not evolved in the past century, has it? It is my understanding that math is quite ancient.” He flipped to the drill section in the back. “You will keep him doing these until he remembers them correctly. Do you understand? He will eventually memorize every answer.”

“Memorization…” she said. No wonder Paolo hated math.

He watched her closely. “Do you understand?”