Page 6 of Brazilian Surrender
Chapter Three
Camila braced herself when she followed Jaeger into his building in Lower Manhattan. Thankfully, he hadn’t talked much as he drove his sleek German sports car to his place. She felt like a lump of sadness had clawed its way down her throat and stayed there, with no chance of moving.
Torto is dead.Her eyes begin to water again, but she fought the tears brimming her lids. She tried to swallow, her throat dry and raw. Flashes of the moment she’d walked in her apartment and found her furry best friend lying on the floor, lifeless and stiff, inundated her mind. She shook her head, desperate to get rid of those images. Her temples throbbed, and she felt the blood expanding her veins. Burning.
“You okay?” Jaeger asked, probably sensing her pain.
She gave him a sideways glance but didn’t manage to say anything.
For the first time since she’d met him, she appreciated, and even found solace, in his silence. Her heart heaved with sadness, the memories of Torto popping in her head. Why would anyone want to hurt a defenseless animal?
Because this person is sending me a message.A chill rolled into her stomach. Someone wanted to hurt her even if she didn’t know the reason. Maybe I should tell my brothers. The thought stabbed at her. No. She’d solve this mess without their help. That’s why she’d hired Jaeger. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he could protect her.
She wasn’t that young girl who needed her brothers’ help to get rid of an unwanted suitor anymore. She was a grown woman who wanted to make a stand for herself. Giving up now would mean she took care of herself when things were smooth, but not when they got hard—and that type of person she refused to be. After all, she wanted to be a respected counselor one day, which meant a degree of anonymity when it came to her personal life. She didn’t need to headline the criminal pages. Her focus would be her clients, not former stories on the newspapers. If she looked for the police, her future career would be vulnerable.
A hot throb drummed in her throat. She’d cried a lot but never had she cried in front of a stranger this much. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to regroup herself and think about the next step.
“Come.” He gestured when the elevator halted. Sadness and doubt wrapped around her like a coat, her eyelids still tender and cheeks warm. His place was a tad bigger than hers and, surprisingly, tastefully decorated. Not that she expected him to live in a shitty shack, but the lines and few accents surrounding the hallway and open, airy living room surprised her. The floor was distressed hardwood, the furniture a mix of traditional and contemporary. Brown leather sofas divided the space, metal and glass coffee and side tables were scattered about logically, and two large TVs hung side by side on the sandy-colored wall.
A tiny brown Chihuahua ran to him, yapping and wagging its tail.
He carried the dog to another area of the apartment, with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked back more tears. Her heart raced at the memory of how happily Torto greeted her whenever she arrived at home, even if she’d been gone for a few minutes to get the mail. “It’s okay,” she lied, but her restrained voice betrayed her.
“This should have crossed my mind.” To the dog he said, “Sit down.”
She slid off her oversize bag, letting it fall on the floor, and then sat on one of the sofas. What a strange feeling. She’d lost both her parents, so she’d had firsthand experience on dealing with grief. Yet knowing about it did nothing to help her accept the loss of Torto. “Some people say it’s just a dog, but he was my companion ever since I lived in Brazil. Having him here meant having a little piece of my family and homeland with me.”
“I…” He scratched his head. Would he offer his condolences again? He reached to his cabinet, grabbed a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses from another, and filled them up. “Here.” He walked to her, holding the glasses.
She accepted one, trying for her fingers to not brush his. She glanced at the clear liquid and realized that was the best he could offer her. Didn’t take a shrink to know Jaeger Bauer didn’t enjoy sentimental conversations, and maybe the alcohol would help numb the pain.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the glass to her lips and drank it all at once. A burning tightened her throat for a few seconds, and when she sat the glass on the coffee table her limbs loosened a notch.
“Better?” he asked, and she noticed he’d emptied his glass, too.
“Is that what you do not to feel?” she asked him, her brain barely catching up to the words escaping her mouth.
He sat across from her. “Not often. I train and work and deal with each day one at a time.”
“Whom did you lose?” she asked, composing herself on the sofa and crossing her legs. The way he talked about things had to mean he knew a thing or two about losing people. He drummed his fingers on the glass.
He shook his head. “Working for you will be easier if we don’t try to be friends.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Something tells me you’re not exactly an expert at making friends.”
He smiled. “You got that right.”
Why didn’t he smile more often? Okay, so it wasn’t a happy-go-lucky chuckle or anything. He curved his lips and slowly showed his straight white teeth, the grin sneaking up on him before he could dictate himself not to, she imagined. “Okay, nonfriend…what’s up with the tiny dog? I’d picture you with a Rottweiler not with something that can fit in doll’s clothes.”
“He belonged to an old neighbor who passed away. I offered to walk the dog when she was sick, and after she died I thought she’d want me to keep it.”
“That’s sweet of you.”
“It’s not like I’m curing cancer. Pork Chop’s just a dog,” he said then, maybe realizing his words, sighed. “I’m sorry.”
She waved him off. “It’s okay. I understand what you mean. It’s still nice of you to care for him. And you can bring him to the living room. I promise I’ve run out of tears. Some warm interaction with another being would be good,” she said, then immediately regretted her moxie. She avoided glancing at him and massaged her temples. Droga. What a crappy, crappy day. The night didn’t look much better either.
