Fields' Guide to Abduction, - [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

The next morning, I called for breakfast early.

The same sicario (different plaid shirt) wheeled in the same cart loaded with the same food (enough for an army).

I ate eggs, drank two cups of coffee, and sneaked tiny bites of bacon to Consuela. Then I showered, dressed, and picked up the house phone. “I’ve finished breakfast. Could someone come and get the cart. Also, I’d like to watch a movie. Would someone please take me to the theater?”

Two sicarios arrived at my door.

“This way,” said the scarier of the two. A scar split his left cheek. A tattooed knife marked his right.

“Gracias.” Clutching Consuela tighter than was strictly necessary, I followed him. The roll of paper I’d concealed in my bra poked my breast. A minor annoyance compared to the pen (hidden in the waistband of my panties) trying to impale my lower back.

I sighed when we reached the theater.

The sicario’s brows rose.

“Such a pretty room.”

He shrugged (maybe he wasn’t a Chariss Carlton fan), picked up the remote, and handed it to me.

Consuela snapped at him. He snatched his fingers away and took a giant step backward.

“Thank you. Gracias.” I turned on the screen just in time to see my face blown up to the size of two SUVs. No one’s pores should ever look that big. Ever.

The reporter on the screen spoke in rapid Spanish.

Not for the first time (this week), I regretted choosing French as my foreign language in high school. Chariss had convinced me I’d learn Spanish by osmosis, and she was dating a French director, and pleasing her had been my priority. Turns out I couldn’t learn a language just by hearing it spoken around me. The director lasted less than two years. And, pleasing Chariss was an impossibility.

Consuela and I settled into one of the seats and stared at the screen.

With his gaze fixed on the dog in my lap, our guide backed out of the theater.

On the screen the shot switched to Chariss. Reporters surrounded her. She appeared to be outside LAX airport. I rubbed my eyes. Blinked. She was definitely at LAX. And Ruth Gardner stood at her side. Chariss had left a shoot? For me?

Someone must have told her it would look awful if she continued working when her only child had been kidnapped. Probably Ruth.

Chariss posed with pale cheeks, enormous eyes, and slightly (artfully) messy hair. She clasped her hands to her chest. She stared at the flashing cameras as if they were strangers. She was the very picture of a mother racked with worry.

It was Ruth who spoke. “Ms. Carlton is devastated by the abduction of her daughter and is committed to doing whatever is necessary to bring Poppy safely home. Poppy, if you can hear this, we’re searching for you.”

My throat swelled and I blinked back tears.

The reporters yelled out question after question.

“No,” said Ruth. “We don’t know who’s holding her.”

I wiped away a tear.

Ruth withstood another barrage of questions.

“Is it unsafe for Americans to travel in Mexico?” yelled the loudest reporter.

Ruth allowed herself a tiny, ironic smile. “No comment.”

The Mexican reporter and her rapid Spanish filled the screen and I switched over to one of Chariss’ early movies.

Ten minutes in, Consuela yawned and jumped off my lap.

Good dog.

She scratched against the door to Ignacio’s retreat.

Better dog.

I abandoned my chair and let her in. She trotted to her over-the-top bed.

The air in the room hadn’t changed a whiff. It was still scented with Fleurissimo.

The photograph still sat on the desk.

Chariss and Ignacio stilled smiled brightly.

I extracted the pen and the roll of paper and sat.

Just sitting in Ignacio’s chair raised my heart rate by twenty or thirty beats per minute.

I didn’t have to do this. No one would ever know I’d been too scared to copy down a few account numbers.

No one but me.

I’d know.

I put the pen and paper down on the desk, glanced at the empty theater, and poked at the frame. The list fell into my waiting palm.

Another glance.

I wrote. The numbers were tiny. There were so many of them. And they were only useful if they were correct.

My hands shook. My palms slicked with sweat.

Was that a four or a nine? If I couldn’t read my writing, it was a sure bet no one else could.

I shifted my gaze to the empty theater, wiped my hands on my skirt, took a deep breath, and wrote another line. Clearly.

Five more to go.

I snuck another look at the door. Was it possible for a human heart to explode? I paused and held my hand against my chest.

Two lines to go.

Yip.

My body lifted three feet straight in the air.

Consuela was chasing something in her sleep—her little legs ran and her nose twitched. What did a Chihuahua chase? Mice?

I finished the last line, rolled up Ignacio’s list and returned it to its frame, then rolled up my list and slipped it into my bra.

“What are you doing?” Javier stood in the doorway.

“Consuela wanted to come in here.” My hand shook too much to wave at the little dog in her blinged-out bed. “I just had to sit down and take it all in.”

“I told you he was a fan.” Javier narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin. “This is a private room.”

Gulp. “I didn’t think he’d mind and Consuela wanted her bed.”

The pen on the desk was hidden by my forearm. Explaining that pen might prove difficult.

With my free hand, I picked up the photo of Chariss and Ignacio. “Where was this taken?”

“Cannes.”

I’d been right. I replaced the photo and shifted my gaze to Consuela’s bed. “Wherever did he find that?”

Javier’s gaze shifted to Consuela and her Swarovski-studded resting place.

With a swipe of my arm, I knocked the pen into my lap.

“It’s custom-made. No expense spared.”

“Consuela seems to like it.” Now that the pen was out of sight, I pushed it into the seam where the seat met the back of the chair.

Javier returned his cold gaze to me. “Ignacio will be here in time for lunch. You should get ready.”

Presumably that meant more than a messy bun and a make-up free face.

I stood. “Of course.”

Again Javier’s eyes narrowed, as if he knew I was up to something but couldn’t figure out what.

I lifted my chin and swanned past him, all too aware of the paper biting into my breast.

He caught my arm, stopping me.

“I’d advise you to say out of this room.”

“Of course.” My voice remained steady. Two syllables steady. No more. I shifted my gaze to the spot where his hand held my arm.

Dangerous sparks arced between us.

“Ouch!” Javier loosened his hold.

Consuela was at our feet and she had bitten through the fine wool of Javier’s suit and embedded her teeth in his calf.

He kicked. Repeatedly.

A growling Consuela held on.

“Are you sure you want to kick Señor Quintero’s pride and joy across the room?”

If looks could kill, I’d be dead—but Javier stopped kicking.

“Consuela,” I crooned. “Let go.”

The little dog rolled her eyes. Apparently she’d been aching to sink her teeth into Javier. Now that she had, she wasn’t letting go easily.

“Consuela.” I used an alpha voice. “Let go.”

Her ears flicked.

A deep wrinkle appeared across the top of Javier’s nose and his face flushed. He looked as if he might shoot us at any moment.

“Please, Consuela. Por favor.”

She released Javier’s leg and grinned at me with blood-stained teeth.

If the man didn’t shoot us both, he was going to feed us to the lions.

“We’ll go