She rattled off a stream of incomprehensible words. Mezcayan, he assumed. “Your point?”
She smiled faintly, looking superior enough that he wanted to hand her a parachute and show her the door. “I said that you’ll never make it through the gate of la Fortuna, unless you can speak Mezcayan or are very closely tied to one who does. That’s how El Jefe ensures some modicum of loyalty from those who live there.
“El Jefe may be scourge to the rest of the world, but to a great many citizens of this country, it is their savior. It feeds and clothes them. Provides for their children. Its compound isn’t merely a well-secured estate, Mr. Murdoch, it is virtually a state of its own. The language isn’t taught in schools. The government has decreed Spanish to be the official language, quite possibly as a direct statement against El Jefe. There are some that believe the language has been kept alive for the past few generations strictly because of El Jefe’s influence. Mezcayan is handed down from parent to child and so on, and only those who are natives of the land are likely to speak it well. Which means that you need me to get you through the door.”
Everything she said was true. But she’d left out one detail. And much as he didn’t want her there with him, he wouldn’t be responsible for harm coming to her, something his damned superiors had to have known. But as much as Tyler hated feeling manipulated, he was more concerned with his obligation to Westin. “We won’t go through unless you have the protection of being a married woman.”
He saw unease ripple through her eyes. Her lips parted, then closed.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
She looked away. “There have been rumors.”
“Unless you’re a nun or married—which El Jefe seems to have an unusual respect for considering everything else—women are fair game. Willing or not, El Jefe doesn’t care. If you’ve been raised in the compound, you’d possibly be taken as a wife or mistress by one of the officers should one take a shine to you. Gain their disfavor and you’d be sold off to the highest bidder. Or worse.”
“Rumors.”
“You want to take a chance that they’re not just rumors? Come on, M., look in a mirror. They’ll be lining up like hungry coyotes to see who gets the first taste. First tastes probably go to senior officers. The generals of El Jefe. Remember that British reporter a few years ago? She managed to infiltrate the compound, even managed to keep her cover intact. But she was—”
“Stop.” Marisa didn’t need him to go any further. He could have no idea how close his words struck. No idea, whatsoever.
It was just that he, like so many others in the free world, had probably seen the news story. It had been splashed across every paper for days. The woman, barely a reporter at all, had been raped then abandoned outside of the compound. When she was found, she was taken to a hospital in Mexico where her story came out.
What the news stories hadn’t said, however, was what happened after the hospital. The woman eventually committed suicide, unable to withstand the effects of her encounters with El Jefe. She’d left behind a child and a lover beset with grief.
The knot in Marisa’s throat had extended down to her stomach. She couldn’t let fear stop her from following through on this. There were too many reasons why she needed to succeed. “So, I’ll be a nun.”
“Nobody with two eyes in their head would believe that.”
She bristled. “Why not? Is there something…heathen about me, Mr. Murdoch?”
His gaze roved over her, making her feel hot and cold all at once. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like him. Knowing that this arrogant stranger could have any kind of effect on her was simply unacceptable. And being told in that unrelenting manner that she would portray his wife was just too close to orders that Gerald had once decreed. “I could act the nun well enough. For a little while, at least. I was raised as a Catholic and—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I couldn’t pass as a priest, and there would be no other reason for me to be accompanying you.”
“Of course you could pretend to be a priest. For a little while. We could say…well, that your vocal cords were injured so you can’t speak, or something.”
“Unless my eyes were bandaged they’d still see the way I look at you.”
Marisa flushed.
“Besides,” he went on, as if regretting his admission, “there’s no reason why a strange priest and nun would gain access to la Fortuna. But they’re constantly taking in servants. It’s the only way.”
Silence hung between them for an endless moment. Then he spoke again. “Come on, Marisa.” Tyler’s voice was low, gentle. And she immediately distrusted it. “There’s nothing important enough for you to want to do this.”
Distrust, indeed. Her voice cooled. “My reasons are important, Mr. Murdoch, so please don’t make the mistake of dismissing them. Why is it so important to you to find this man?”
“Because I owe him. I was a hostage once and if not for Lieutenant Colonel Phillip Westin, who lived, ate and breathed for his men and didn’t give up on us, my friends and I would all be dead by now. I’m prepared to lay my life down for that man.”
Whatever Marisa had expected, it wasn’t that. However, Tyler wasn’t finished.
“But I’d just as soon get out with us still alive,” he added. “Which means that you don’t make one move without my say-so. I don’t care how well developed your Mezcayan heritage is, or what your reasons are for horning in on this op. There’re two people in Mezcaya that I trust, and one of them has been held captive for months now. So do what I say, when I say, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out of this with our skin intact.”
“And the other person you trust?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.
Tyler was no longer looking at her, but out the window beside him. “Isn’t you.”
Two
Well. That was clear enough.
Tyler didn’t trust her. She didn’t particularly trust him, either, so she supposed that made them even.
“You’ve got different clothes?”
The absolute and utter change of topic surprised her. She looked down at her linen pantsuit. It had been excruciatingly expensive, but necessary, if she was going to make it back to the life she’d once had. She couldn’t show up as a representative of former Ambassador Torres in the polyester uniform she wore at the restaurant.
He’d made no sound whatsoever, but she could sense his impatience. “Yes, of course I have different clothes with me,” she answered.
“So you’ll look like a local? A likely candidate for a servant?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God for that,” he muttered.
Oh, she really didn’t
