Asylum

Chapter 19: Not Like in "Pretty Woman"

"Once Mateo has confirmed that the alarm system is still engaged and done a preliminary sweep to make sure we're alone and no one has left us any ... potentially violent calling cards, he'll give Marshall the all-clear and we can go in," Ivan continued. "Keep the talk casual and to a minimum, though, until they finish sweeping for bugs."

Holy shit. I tried to suppress my instinctive swallowing, but when it slipped out, it sounded almost theatrically loud. Neither of the men seemed to notice, though, so perhaps I was being hypersensitive. Or paranoid.

I studied Ivan's profile from the corner of my eye. This was his life – constantly alert, perpetually on edge, always aware that any number of factions, from law enforcement to rival cartels to his own employers, could be closing in on him at any moment. The open, unguarded moments I was accustomed to sharing with him were the anomalies, not the norm; this had been his world for years. I reached down to fold my hand around his, and he absently squeezed my fingers, but I doubted he took any comfort from my gesture.

"And the perimeter of the main house? Over."

There was nothing new to see out the windows, so I joined Ivan in watching Marshall. The man looked ready to draw at any moment.

The minutes ticked by as we waited. What must the driver think? I wondered. Had Mateo told him why his passengers would be waiting in the car, or had he made up some less alarming excuse to explain the delay? Checking for spiders, perhaps? Revving up the A/C? Airing out ...?

"Five-by-five. Out." Marshall intoned. He relaxed visibly. "Initial sweep clear," he translated, and opened the door on Ivan's side of the car, climbing out to stand in what could be, I realized belatedly, a potential line of fire.

"Are you regretting coming yet?" Ivan asked jokingly.

I let out a shaky breath and smiled. "Lead on," I encouraged him. "I'll follow."

After an already long winter in New York, the soft Miami breeze felt like a benediction. The undulating vegetation whispered its welcome as Ivan led me along a shaded path toward the rear of the property. Marshall lagged behind to pay the driver and bring in our paltry baggage.

"The property is owned by the family," Ivan told me. He didn't specify which family he was speaking of, and since I knew, I didn't ask. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders and trailed the other hand almost affectionately along the broad green leaves crowding the walk. "Emilio, whom you'll meet tomorrow, occasionally stays at the main house with his entourage. Otherwise, the place is pretty much empty. Mateo, Marsh, and I lived in the guest house."

The words "guest house" conjured images for me of a small, yet cozy, cottage with a few beds and baths and minimal amenities. The building Ivan led me into would have been more fittingly called a "waterfront villa." As we entered the open front door, I saw that the deep expanse of sea-green tile that made up the foyer gave way to an enormous living room a couple of steps down, dominated by a far wall comprised entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the azure waters of Biscayne Bay.

"Wow," I breathed. I moved down the stairs as though pulled by an unseen string, Ivan choosing to remain in the entrance, watching me with an amused smile. I navigated the modern white and glass furniture more by instinct than care, and fumbled for the handle and lock that would allow me to slide open the immense, invisible barrier that separated me from the glory of the view.

The doors opened onto wide terrace of smooth, pale stone, completely free of any furnishings or foliage that might obstruct the seascape. On either end of the terrace were flights of stairs leading down to a second paved patio – here were the sun umbrellas and tables and chaises longues – that ran the length of a slim blue rectangle of pristine water, the sound of its infinity edge distinct from the gentle lapping of the bay at the retaining wall a stone's throw away.