“Buenas tardes.” The Spanish teacher smiled as he approached.
He returned the greeting while ascending the steps to the front door.
“It’s too cold to be working outside. I hope you have indoor chores on your schedule for the afternoon.”
The man’s Spanish was impeccable, as if it was his first language.
No need to switch back to English for conversations with Zeke Martinez, as he did with most of the other faculty members, whose grasp of Spanish was rudimentary.
He continued in his native tongue. “Yes, I’ll be inside for the rest of the day.”
“This is quite a large property to maintain.” The man swept a hand over the landscape.
“The crew is only responsible for the buildings and grounds we use. Most of the acreage is wooded. The school likes to keep the setting natural so it feels secluded and remote, even though civilization is nearby.”
“Any trails on the property? I like to walk between classes to clear my head.”
“Nothing formal, but the students have worn a few paths. If you go straight out the back door to the woods, you’ll spot them.”
“Anything I should be cautious about if I go walking?”
“No. There’s no wildlife to speak of, ticks and poison ivy aren’t a concern in winter, and the one well on the property is boarded up. You’ll come across a few abandoned outbuildings, but they’re locked as a safety precaution.”
“Thanks for the tips. I heard a student went missing here in the fall, and I didn’t want to wander anywhere risky.”
“The police said she and her boyfriend ran away.” Eduardo eased toward the door. It was always best to avoid gossip—or topics that were touchy. There were enough rumors floating around about the disappearance already. “I have to tackle those inside chores.”
Turning his back on the man, he took a deep breath of the cold air.
Too bad he didn’t have time to indulge in the luxury of a long walk to clear his own head—and strengthen his resolve to do what had to be done.
Hurting Margarita would be painful, but he had to keep his priorities straight for both their sakes.
And his top priority was avoiding trouble.
Except the trouble that had come calling at their doorstep showed no signs of leaving.
5
AS CATE PUSHED THROUGH the library door precisely at four-thirty, a tiny smile flitted across Zeke’s lips.
Punctuality was still one of her virtues.
From his half-hidden position in the stacks, he gave her a quick sweep.
Worn jeans, one knee artistically shredded, hugged her killer legs. An oversized black sweater hit her midthigh—a smart choice to mask the soft curves beneath, which were more woman than teen. Her lustrous auburn hair was parted in the middle, one long swath dyed red in the style some trendy young people favored. Purple glitter nail polish screamed youth.
No one would ever guess she was thirty-three.
She had the adolescent mannerisms down too. Her bored perusal of the room and I’d-rather-be-anywhere-than-here slouch were typical of a disgruntled teen.
Despite her veneer of indifference, however, waves of tension radiated off her—though only someone who knew her well would detect them.
Someone like him.
Perhaps only him, aside from her sisters.
Because Cate was adept at hiding her feelings. Cautious about opening her heart. Miserly with her trust.
Yet she’d trusted him with . . . everything.
An honor no other man could claim, Cate had confided days before their breakup—making his decision to end their relationship even more gut-wrenching.
So yeah, he knew her well.
Or he had.
But much could change in eight years.
One thing, though, had remained the same.
Her effect on him was potent as ever.
Just looking at her jump-started his libido and—
Clenching his teeth, he cut off that inappropriate line of thought—but her roving gaze stopped on him a scant moment too soon.
Fast as he chilled the heat in his eyes, it wasn’t fast enough. The slight catch in her breath, magnified in the silence of the deserted library, was telling.
He’d have to be more careful in the future.
Slipping his hands into his pockets, he strolled toward her. “Ms. Sheppard.” It took every ounce of his acting skills to pull off a smooth, impersonal greeting.
“Mr. Martinez.” Cate matched his inflection.
Impressive, given the shock she’d had difficulty controlling after seeing him in the classroom this morning.
“I’ve reviewed your Spanish quiz. It may be wise to discuss your comfort level with the material in my class.”
She propped a hand on her hip and tossed her mane of hair, playing the part of a snotty teen to the hilt for the benefit of the librarian at the desk—the only other occupant on this first day of school. “I never liked Spanish.”
Her ability to stay in character was a positive sign.
“That may be true, but you are taking my class. We can talk in the group study room.” He indicated the glassed-in cube with a table for six he’d scoped out earlier. To anyone passing by, their exchange would appear to be a work session.
“Whatever.” She flipped a hand at him.
He took the lead, waited for her to precede him in, and closed the door. “Let’s sit there.” He motioned to two chairs facing the window. Offering a clear view of their conversation would add to the aura of innocence.
She scanned the chairs that backed up to the window . . . hesitated while she no doubt processed his strategy . . . then flounced over and sat in one of the seats he’d indicated. Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a defiant look that fit her rebellious teen character—but might not be all acting.
After taking the adjacent chair, he set his cell between them, activated a white noise app, and folded his hands on the table. “I doubt the room is bugged, but precautions can’t hurt. This will mask our conversation.” He kept his volume low. “Put your Spanish book on the table.”
In silence, she pulled out the text and placed it in front of her.
He reached over and flipped to the first chapter. “Keep your attention mostly on the book as we talk.” He pointed to a word on the page. “What are you doing here?”
Playing along, she leaned forward and peered at the word. “Working a case. What are you doing here?”
“The same. I didn’t think you had any interest in undercover work.”
“I was a fit for this job. Are you still DEA?”
“Yes.”
“What are you working on?”
He moved his finger down the page. “Breaking up the St. Louis portion of a Mexican drug cartel pipeline.”
Silence.
He glanced over to find her frowning at him.
Instantly she refocused on the textbook. “At Ivy Hill?”
“It’s become a drop point for the St. Louis operation. Trucks with merchandise destined for Chicago detour here, leave the drugs for pickup, and continue on. We discovered the location by chance in November after one of our agents on another surveillance gig spotted the truck turning into a back entrance, thought it looked suspicious, and did a little poking around after it pulled out.”
The creases on her brow deepened. “Is someone here involved?”