been just as willing as he had—and had been sending plenty of signals, she knew. And she’d participated just as enthusiastically as he had once it started.
Warm lips…strong arms pulling her in…hard muscles underneath her hands…
Stop it.
Maria turned the water temperature down and busied herself with the shampoo. She was exhausted, she’d had the strangest night of her life, and she wasn’t thinking straight. Tomorrow she’d be much more rational about all of this.
Yep, she believed that.
* * *
Maria collapsed in bed, slept for six hours, and woke up from a nightmare about Roger Sutherland and George Lisle coming for her while her feet stuck to the floor and wouldn’t let her run.
Real subtle, brain , she thought, as she rolled over onto her back and waited for her breathing to slow down. Next time maybe use a metaphor or two.
She checked her phone. Almost noon. She knew what she had to do today, before the news got hold of the story, and it was probably better to do it now and get it over with than wait for the axe to fall.
She tapped into her contacts and called her mom.
“Maria! How wonderful to hear from you!” her mom answered in Spanish. “You never call anymore. How are you?”
Maria took a deep breath and said, “ Mamá, something happened last night that I think you should know about.”
When she’d finished explaining, in the vaguest and least violent possible terms— just a few shots, the police were right there, I am completely and totally fine, the guy ran off on his own —she waited, phone held slightly away from her ear. She knew what was coming.
She wasn’t disappointed. “You were shot at ?” her mother shouted into the phone. “With a gun ? Maria, no, this job is too dangerous for you. Come home right now. We’ll find you another job. A better one, where you don’t get shot at with guns .”
Once upon a time, Maria would have reasoned and pleaded and tried to get her mother to come around to her point of view. But she’d learned a long time ago that that wouldn’t work ever, so instead she just said, “No, Mamá . I know you’re worried about me and you want me to be all right, but I’m not quitting my job and I’m not coming home.”
The bombshell dropped, she flopped back down onto her bed and put her arm over her eyes while her mother responded at volume. She wouldn’t run out of breath anytime soon. And then it would be her dad’s turn.
There was a reason she’d grown up so determined to be independent. She loved her family, but given the choice, they wouldn’t ever let her make her own decisions or be her own person.
And Maria needed to be her own person.
* * *
When Maria finally extricated herself from her family’s furious protectiveness, it was after twelve-thirty and she was dying for coffee.
She also didn’t have any clothes but yesterday’s. She regarded the skirt suit with the torn sleeve and bloodstains and sighed.
She’d wear the skirt and the jacket, she decided. Nothing would make her put on the blood-stiff, torn, slightly odorous shirt that she’d worn for twenty-four sweaty hours straight.
She buttoned the jacket over her bra and decided that it was basically all right. Her cleavage was a little bit too visible, and her stomach showed through whenever the jacket gaped at all—which was a lot, since it was only barely sufficient for her curvy body, a common problem for Maria when shopping for work clothes—but she wasn’t going in front of any cameras. She was alone in a house with Laura and no one even knew where they were.
On that logic, she left off the pantyhose and shoes as well, and went in search of coffee and breakfast.
Laura wasn’t awake yet, she discovered, which made sense, since she’d knocked once on Maria’s door to say she’d arrived just as Maria was about to drift off to sleep. Maria hoped she slept as
Warm lips…strong arms pulling her in…hard muscles underneath her hands…
Stop it.
Maria turned the water temperature down and busied herself with the shampoo. She was exhausted, she’d had the strangest night of her life, and she wasn’t thinking straight. Tomorrow she’d be much more rational about all of this.
Yep, she believed that.
* * *
Maria collapsed in bed, slept for six hours, and woke up from a nightmare about Roger Sutherland and George Lisle coming for her while her feet stuck to the floor and wouldn’t let her run.
Real subtle, brain , she thought, as she rolled over onto her back and waited for her breathing to slow down. Next time maybe use a metaphor or two.
She checked her phone. Almost noon. She knew what she had to do today, before the news got hold of the story, and it was probably better to do it now and get it over with than wait for the axe to fall.
She tapped into her contacts and called her mom.
“Maria! How wonderful to hear from you!” her mom answered in Spanish. “You never call anymore. How are you?”
Maria took a deep breath and said, “ Mamá, something happened last night that I think you should know about.”
When she’d finished explaining, in the vaguest and least violent possible terms— just a few shots, the police were right there, I am completely and totally fine, the guy ran off on his own —she waited, phone held slightly away from her ear. She knew what was coming.
She wasn’t disappointed. “You were shot at ?” her mother shouted into the phone. “With a gun ? Maria, no, this job is too dangerous for you. Come home right now. We’ll find you another job. A better one, where you don’t get shot at with guns .”
Once upon a time, Maria would have reasoned and pleaded and tried to get her mother to come around to her point of view. But she’d learned a long time ago that that wouldn’t work ever, so instead she just said, “No, Mamá . I know you’re worried about me and you want me to be all right, but I’m not quitting my job and I’m not coming home.”
The bombshell dropped, she flopped back down onto her bed and put her arm over her eyes while her mother responded at volume. She wouldn’t run out of breath anytime soon. And then it would be her dad’s turn.
There was a reason she’d grown up so determined to be independent. She loved her family, but given the choice, they wouldn’t ever let her make her own decisions or be her own person.
And Maria needed to be her own person.
* * *
When Maria finally extricated herself from her family’s furious protectiveness, it was after twelve-thirty and she was dying for coffee.
She also didn’t have any clothes but yesterday’s. She regarded the skirt suit with the torn sleeve and bloodstains and sighed.
She’d wear the skirt and the jacket, she decided. Nothing would make her put on the blood-stiff, torn, slightly odorous shirt that she’d worn for twenty-four sweaty hours straight.
She buttoned the jacket over her bra and decided that it was basically all right. Her cleavage was a little bit too visible, and her stomach showed through whenever the jacket gaped at all—which was a lot, since it was only barely sufficient for her curvy body, a common problem for Maria when shopping for work clothes—but she wasn’t going in front of any cameras. She was alone in a house with Laura and no one even knew where they were.
On that logic, she left off the pantyhose and shoes as well, and went in search of coffee and breakfast.
Laura wasn’t awake yet, she discovered, which made sense, since she’d knocked once on Maria’s door to say she’d arrived just as Maria was about to drift off to sleep. Maria hoped she slept as
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