GRINGA (44 page)

We ride on and from time-to-time he squeezes my waist or draws me back to him, enveloping me with his burly frame.  

     
             
When we reach the ranch, Christa and some of the men are waiting outside for Diablo
and t
hey
stare at us with narrow eyes.
Maybe it’s something to do with our red faces.

             
‘We have been waiting for you to have dinner, Diablo,’ Christa chides, frowning at the sight of us riding together.

             
Bitch is probably
frustrated –Diablo’s far too soft these days, too mellow. He seems to have lost that killer instinct she fought so hard to maintain. Since I arrived on the scene, he’s distracted and not interested in hurting anyone. The only way to stoke his rage these days is to wage battle or war against someone or something, reviving the beast in him.

             
‘Sorry. You should eat.’ Diago’s voice is laden with guilt and embarrassment.

    
             
Christa
’s eyes grow wide.
‘Without you?
We don’t tha
t
here Diago. We family, remember?’

     
             
Diago nods and alights
, then helps me down. As he does, he
squeez
es
my waist
and
places me on the floor really close to him, forcing us to brush
intimately
against each other.

             
‘I
see
you after dinner,’ he whispers, his
eyes bright and alive.

             
I
smile. I
know exactly what he means.

             
He s
queez
es
my waist harder.
‘
Si
?’ His voice is pleading.
‘I won the bet.’

             
So he wants to cash his prize.
My smile widens and I nod slowly.

             
He grins.

             
Christa hones in on our tête-à-tête. ‘Diago, ever since you met Gringa, you have become soft like
…like
a girl
,
eh?’ Her eyes suddenly widen. ‘
Santa Maria
! You are in love Diago? Everybody
-
’  

    
             
‘N
o
!’ Diago roars. Only a fool falls in love.’ 

    
             
‘Ah, that is
g
ood, Diablo,’ she says,
flinging
me a triumphant
look
. ‘Because love is a roaring fire Diago, but after a fire, there is smoke and the smoke, it burns your eyes. Remember that Diago.’

             
‘Don
’t
worry about me,’ he says
in a cocky voice
.

             
Disappointment rips through
my soul
at his words, his arrogance. I don’t know what I expected him to say under the circumstances
,
but I know I didn’t want him to
utter
those
words.    

   
             
Christa twists to look at Santana. ‘Santana,
see,
we have nothing to worry about.’

             
I look up and
see
Santana
glaring
at me, a murderous gleam in her eye.
Maybe she
senses something happened between Diago and me today
.

    
             
Diago glances uneasily at Santana, then at me. ‘Eh ...’ He clams up, at a loss for words.

             
Disenchante
d by his words, I slowly make my way to the dinner table.
To cope with my disillusionment, I
convince
myself that he needs to maintain a certain façade with his men and that’s why he acted so brash, so nonchalant about me.

             
But I’m too smitten
to stay mad at him. Throughout dinner, we steal glances at each other and exchange secret smiles.

             
Tonight.

             
Tonight.

             
Tonight.

             
T
o my
embarrassment
, t
he men pick up the tension between the two of us and pass lewd comments
and I find it hard to ignore them.

             
I suspect Diago finds it hard too because I notice him frowning.

    
             
I hurriedly finish dinner and flee the table, while Diago lingers.

             
About an hour later, he barges into my room pushes me onto the bed and kisses me and immediately, I forgive all his earlier remarks because, well, I melt
like chocolate
in his arms.

             
‘Imasorry,’ he whispers, between kisses. 

    
             
‘Christa makes you bad,’ I say.

    
             
He kisses my nose. ‘That is my mother,’ he chastises.

    
             
‘No she isn’t,’ I want to shout, but I don’t. Maybe he has a need to call someone mother. Leave him to his delusions. For now.

             
Suddenly we hear unfamiliar voices outside. Dia
g
o lets go of me and
peeps
through the blinds.

             
We have visitors – six men, probably drug dealers. Dia
g
o
’s
brow creases and his eyes turn hard. 

    
             
He looks at me, a flicker of annoyance on his face.
‘I have to go to them,’ he says, his voice an admixture of irritation and disappointment. ‘Business ...’ 

    
             
Damn
Christa
! Anything to
diffuse this flourishing of emotions between us
, I suppose
.

             
I
bite my lip, shrug then say,
‘Okay.’

    
             
Later, eh?’  

    
             
‘Um ...’ I place both my hands on his chest
.
‘
H
ow do you say ‘maybe’ in Spanish?’ 

    
             
‘
Maybe
?
Eh
,
Quizás
?
’

    
             
I
nod
.
“’
Quizás
”,
’
I echo.

    
             
He chuckles and smacks my butt. He walks to the door, pauses and turns around. I blow him a kiss expecting him to leave, but he strides over and shakes his head from side-to-side.

             
He places both hands on my shoulders. ‘Say
absolutamente.
’

    
             
‘Sounds like a brand of Vodka. What does it mean?’

             
‘Um ... definitely ...’ he says, his hands sliding down my back and cupping my butt.

    
             
‘I see,’ I sigh, quivering at his intimate touch. ‘I
was
going to say that, but I didn’t know the Spanish word for it. But now I know – “a
bsolutamente”
.’

    
             
‘Good girl,’ he says, kissing me one last time.

    
             
Hours pass and he does not return.
I spend hours looking at the door.
Fuck him
!
I’m going to bed.
I thump my pillows several times and
snap off
the light.

             
I’m
awakened from my sleep when I hear him whisper my name.

             
‘Diago,’ I moan.

             
He
plants kisses all over my face before he quietly leaves.

             
Christa won after all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I l
aze
in bed
and think of
Diago and the intimate kisses we shared
last night and I hug my pillow
. Then I remember the FBI. Fuck! I jump out of bed and stare at the spot housing the listening device. They must have heard all our conversations - about ‘
M
aybe’ and ‘
D
efinitely’ and that I hated Christa because she made Diago do bad things. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

             
With both hands on my head,
I contemplate my quandary. It’s my fault; I pla
nted
those devices for them. I should have just said
‘N
o
’
.
As much as I
want to remove the bug from my room
,
I know one thing - you don’t cross the Feds
. T
hat’s what it’ll tantamount to. They’ll make you sorry you did. The bugs stay, unfortunately.