What He Didn't Say (17 page)

Now, she was back.

In his sights.

His narrowed gaze skimmed up her, from the slim jeans that made her legs look long and coltish to the dark green blouse that reached to midthigh and was cinched with a leather belt. Her hair was loose, the rich, wild tumble of fiery auburn streaming over her shoulders.

Despite the anger brewing inside him, he remembered how it felt to slide his fingers through those long tendrils that clung to his hands like licks of a flame. The memory had heat coiling in his gut, a great gnawing ache. For a few seconds, he couldn't shove back the memory of how it felt to hold her. Kiss her.

With a silent curse, he rose. He hadn't come here to do either. He intended to talk. To let her know exactly how he felt about her forcing herself on the two people who meant most to him in the world. People who now might be in even more danger because of her.

He'd gotten Caitlin's room number from Emma-Lee, so he held back, watching as she waited for an elevator. She rubbed
a palm over the back of her neck, a gesture of such weariness that he struggled against a feeling of empathy.

Fisting his hands, he watched her step onto the elevator, followed by an elegantly dressed man and woman. When the elevator doors slid closed, he headed for the staircase. What he had to say to her, he would say in private.

In her room.

Alone.

 

W
ITH FATIGUE ROLLING
over her like fog, Caitlin slid her key card into the lock on the door of her hotel room. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for about five years.

In the next instant, a hand settled on her wrist. She jolted. Then swallowed the shriek welling up her throat when she saw who the hand belonged to.

“Rafael.”

“Welcome back.”

In the brightly lit hallway, he looked anything but welcoming with his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes resembling hard, blue ice.

Since his fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, it was a sure bet he felt her pulse jittering. “I planned on coming to see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Plans change.” He grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “I came to see you instead.”

“So you did.” Her stomach tight with nerves, it took her two attempts to get the key card into the lock. She watched as he rolled the suitcase into the room. The door closed behind him with a metallic snap.

After dropping her purse on the bed, she turned to face him. “I imagine you got a call from Sister Anne.”

“And from Érico Braga after you left the go-kart track in São Paulo. Why did you go to Brazil, Caitlin?”

“Why do you think? You've spent the past three weeks
telling me next to nothing about your past. Your mistake was expecting me to just accept that. I don't take anything at face value.”

“Because you got burned once.”

“It was a learning experience. My career took a huge hit. I don't intend for that to happen again.”

“It's a shame you can't trust.”

“The same goes for you, Rafael. I base my stories on facts.
Corroborated
facts. You refused to give me anything to work with, so I went to Brazil. Period.”

“Did you find out all you need to know about me?”

She matched his steely gaze. “You know I didn't. It's obvious Sister Anne and Érico Braga care deeply about you. And know you well. But all either would tell me about you were generalities. I hope you appreciate their loyalty.”

“I do.”

Because her feet were killing her, she kicked off her shoes. “Do you know what was going on at the go-kart track when I got there?”

“Why don't you tell me?”

“More kids than I could count were riding the karts, having a blast. Érico Braga explained that one afternoon a week, he opens the track for children whose families are too poor to pay to rent the go-karts.” She stepped toward Rafael. “But you already know that, don't you? Because I'll bet my only pair of Italian stilettos that you fund those sessions.”

When he didn't answer, she shook her head. “You don't need to worry, because Érico Braga wouldn't confirm that, either. Nor would Sister Anne verify that
you
purchased the X-ray machine I saw being uncrated. Or that you pay for the shipments of equipment and medical supplies that arrive at the clinic from an anonymous donor several times a year. Even so, I suspect you're their personal philanthropist. Instead of
living in the lap of luxury here, you donate a great deal of your NASCAR winnings to worthy causes there.”

“You have no proof of that.”

“Doesn't matter. I've been an investigative reporter long enough to know when I should listen to what my gut's telling me. In this case, it's sending the message that I'm right.”

Her frustration growing, she curled her fingers into her palms. “In my line of work, I expect people to lie to me. The reasons vary—self-preservation, embarrassment, a need to gloss over the image. It's up to me to find the reasons for the lie.”

“I haven't lied to you, Caitlin.”

“Well, you've done a spiffy job of erecting roadblocks when it comes to me finding out the truth about anything that doesn't directly apply to your racing career. My problem is, I can't figure out why. What's your motivation? Why keep the good stuff you do secret, when publicizing it would be a plus for everyone? It's exactly the type of PR your sponsor wants people to know. Your fans would eat it up. Tons of them would send donations to Sister Anne's clinic. There's no downside.”

“There is,” he countered, his eyes darkening to the hue of a stormy sea. “I told you that people could lose their lives if certain information about me got out. You think that's not a downside?”

“I don't know what to think because you're not willing to explain anything. You just expect me to accept it as the truth.”

“Damn right.” He took a step toward her. “Every situation is different. I'm not some athlete who decides he doesn't like media interviews, so he gives you a bad time. I have a good reason for keeping certain information to myself without having to explain why.”

Biting back a soft shriek of frustration, she pivoted, stalked
to the far side of the room. Dragging in a few deep breaths, she counted to ten. Then counted again before turning.

“One of the basic things I learned in Journalism 101, is that you're only as good as your last story. I imagine there's something equal to that in NASCAR racing. It's how you did in your latest race that people talk about. Right?”

“Your point?”

“Suppose I came to you and told you it was a matter of life or death that you place last in the race next weekend in New Hampshire.
Dead last.
But instead of explaining why, I insist you simply take my word for it. That certain unnamed people could be at risk if you don't, and
their
safety is way more important than the career you've worked your butt off to build.” She angled her chin. “What would O Tubarão do in that circumstance? Take my word for things? Purposely blow a race just because I asked him to? Hardly.”

She knew she'd made her point when Rafael blew out a breath. He rolled his shoulders as if trying to loosen muscles that had knotted there. “No,” he agreed tightly. “I would need an explanation.”

Caitlin felt a rush of satisfaction, but said nothing as she watched him move to the room's lone window. He hooked a finger at the edge of the curtain, drew it back, then gazed out into the dark night.

“You saw the e-mail Anne sent me,” he said, keeping his eyes on whatever was beyond the window. “How did that lead you to her?”

“I memorized her e-mail address. I gave it, and your e-mail addy, to the computer whiz at the magazine. I don't know how, but he tracked the e-mail to the Nossa Senhora Aparecida Clinic.”

“So easy,” Rafael scoffed. “I've gone to great lengths to ensure my ties to Anne remain hidden. Yet, you found her with little effort.”

“I wouldn't have, if not for the computer guy.”

Rafael turned from the window, crossed his arms over his chest. There was a hardness in his face that stretched the skin over his high, exotic cheekbones. “My parents died in an accident when I was barely two years old. I have no memory of either of them. Since I had no blood kin, I wound up in an orphanage in São Paulo.”

It took Caitlin's jet-lagged brain a few seconds to realize he was actually talking about his childhood. The emotion flooding through her started her hands shaking.

Wordlessly, she lowered onto one corner of the bed and waited for Rafael to continue.

“Then a flu epidemic swept through the town where Anne lived. Her few remaining relatives were too poor to take in another child. She wound up at the same orphanage. For some reason we bonded the first day she arrived. Became fast friends. Basically inseparable.”

“How long were you together there?”

“Ten years,” he answered. “The buildings were old and poorly maintained. One night, an electrical fire started in the attic of the dormitory where Anne lived. Only half of the kids in that building got out alive.” A shadow of old pain flashed in Rafael's eyes. “At first, I couldn't find her. I panicked, tried to run into the burning building. A fireman stopped me.”

“But she
had
gotten out,” Caitlin said quietly. A hollow feeling inside her belly told her his story was only going to get worse from here.

“Thankfully. I found her with some other kids who'd crawled out through a rear window.”

As if trying to shove the memory from his mind, Rafael raked a hand through his dark hair. “It was windy, the fire spread, turning all the buildings on the grounds into a tinderbox. By dawn, everything was gone. The head of the orphanage put out a plea for people to adopt the children who'd
survived the fire. Or at least take them in on a foster basis. Anne got lucky—a good, solid family with two daughters took her in.”

Caitlin swallowed, feeling pressure build in her throat. “What happened to you?”

“A man and woman showed up. Said they lived in a town on the Bolivian border, that they already had six foster sons, but they could make room for one more. So many children needed homes that background checks on the people who offered to take them weren't done. I was sent home with that couple.”

“From your tone, I'm guessing you didn't wind up in a family like the one that adopted Anne.”

“Not even close,” he answered, his tone derisive. “I didn't know that at first, though. I had never been inside a house that was so big. Elegant. I was thirteen, and I thought I'd wound up in heaven. It turned out to be hell.”

“What happened?”

His gaze went past her, and he stood in silence, as if gearing up to tell her what was at the heart of the matter. What he'd said was bad enough, and Caitlin felt a prick of apprehension over whatever had happened in the house that had been a form of hell.

“I hadn't even been there twenty-four hours when one of the older boys named Cruz shoved me against a wall,” Rafael said finally. “He referred to my foster father as O Diabo—the Devil. Cruz said I was now O Diabo's property. So were all the police and politicians in town. Then he told me I was a replacement for a boy who'd just died and that I'd better cooperate. If I made a fuss, I'd die, too.”

A sick feeling settled in Caitlin's stomach. “What about your foster mother?”

“I never saw her again after we drove to the house.” Rafael raised a shoulder. “After Cruz walked off, I tried to sneak
out. That's when I found out all the windows had bars and the doors were secured with dead bolts that could only be unlocked with a key.”

“So, you were a prisoner.” The jittering in Caitlin's stomach echoed in her voice.

“Yes. I found a ventilation vent big enough to get through but the cover was stuck. Then O Diabo yelled for me. When I faced him, I saw a hovering cruelty in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He shoved me into a room that had a table stacked with balloons that were mostly deflated. He picked up a balloon that I could tell had something in it, grabbed me by the back of the neck and told me to swallow the balloon.”

“It had drugs inside it, right?”

“Cocaine, to be exact. He told me I had to swallow six balloons. Then I'd be driven to the border. After I crossed into Bolivia, someone would pick me up. He said if I didn't do exactly as I was told, I'd be killed. I was scared to death.”

“What did you do?”

“Fought. I knew I might die, but that was preferable to choking down even one of those balloons.” His voice edged with old pain, Rafael reached up, rubbed at a spot on his chest. “He pulled a knife out of his boot and slashed me. That's the scar you saw at Maudie's diner when little Lily Donovan pulled my shirt collar open.”

Caitlin thought of how close that scar was to his heart, and felt a shudder go through her.

“My wound was more long than deep. Fortunately, the blood made my skin slick. O Diabo couldn't keep a grip on me, or his knife. When he dropped it, I grabbed it and stabbed him. I snatched up a handful of balloons on my dash out the door so that none of the other boys would have to choke them down.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I hoped so. Later I learned he'd survived.”

“Did you get out of the house through the vent?”

Rafael nodded sharply. “With all the adrenaline pumping through my system, I ripped the cover off with my bare hands. After I got away, I tossed the balloons with the drugs down a sewer.”

“What did you do then?”

“Left town. I knew if O Diabo survived, he would try to hunt me down. I changed my name and appearance, made my way back to São Paulo. I soon learned that O Diabo was alive, and that he controlled most of the drug trade there, too. And that he'd put out a contract on a teenager named Marcos Sousa.”

“Is that your real name?”