Luli’s cheeks drew in as she set her chin. “Whether the police believe me or not, I expect they will deport me, seeing as I have no legal right to be here. My prospects in Venezuela are dim. I’ve had to make arrangements for that possibility.”
“I bet you have.” He couldn’t recall the last person to be so bold in their stalk of his money. He was reluctantly fascinated. “Stealing is a crime.”
“Only if I collect it.”
“Indeed.” He picked up his cup to sip and allow that lethal threat to sink in.
She might have paled slightly, but the sun had set and the light was changing.
“You could kill me,” she acknowledged. “Or I could simply disappear. Contingencies have been prepared for that possibility, as well. The investigation into that would be very thorough and go on a very long time.”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman with a keyboard. What did I do to deserve this wrath?”
Her hands, so prettily arranged in her lap, turned their palms up in a subtle entreaty. “I’m aware that my only value right now is my ability to reverse the inconveniences I’ve arranged.”
“I’m confident I can reverse them myself before they do too much damage. Your value is nil.”
“You’re probably right.” She nodded, not even sweating. Her only betrayal of nerves was the rapid tattoo of the artery in her throat.
Gabriel had a weakness for puzzles. There was a twelve-year-old boy inside him itching to lock the door, put on his noise-canceling headphones and hack his own system until he’d found every Easter egg she’d hidden there. Not because he was worried. Purely for the game of it.
And there was a thirty-one-year-old man who wanted to put his hands on the twisted pieces of this woman and see how quickly he could untangle her and make her come apart.
“If what you say about your circumstance here is true...” He set aside his coffee mug again. “One could argue that by taking control of my grandmother’s assets, I am taking possession of you.”
There was that intriguing stillness again. The screen of her mink lashes, so ridiculously long and curled like a filly’s, hid her eyes while her mouth might have trembled.
“One could argue that,” she admitted in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “I’ve done my utmost to protect all of her assets. Including me. Which wouldn’t stop you from unloading me. As assets go, I’m probably at my top value right now. If you were to sell me, for instance.”
He told himself she was mistaking him for someone with a conscience that could be played upon, but his stomach clenched in revulsion.
“Of course, if you were to do that, I would make every effort to use what I know of her business interests to my advantage,” Luli continued.
Such a cool delivery. He told himself to focus on that, her complete lack of emotional hysteria despite the topic they were discussing.
Instead, he was compelled to ask, “Is that how she acquired you? Off some auction block?” He would turn the fortune over to the authorities, not wanting a penny of it if it was built on something so ugly.
“No.” She shifted the fit of her hands, interlacing her fingers, but her knuckles remained white, telling him she was in a state of heightened stress, even though that was the only visible sign of it. Why? Because her story was true? Or because the lie she was telling had grown too heavy and unwieldy to carry?
“My mother lived in a building my father owned in Caracas. She was his mistress. He was in government, married to someone else. He sold the building to your grandmother without making arrangements for my mother’s upkeep. Mae was trying to have her thrown out. My mother cut a deal with her to take me as an employee in exchange for allowing her to stay there. I’m working off my mother’s debt.”
She named a figure in bolivars that would calculate to about a hundred thousand dollars.
Was that what a human life was worth? Pocket change?
“You were fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you left? Even if she deducted room and board, I would think you’d have paid that off by now.”
“Where would I go?” Her hands came up empty. “If your grandmother has my passport, it’s long expired. I have no right to be here and there’s nothing for me in Venezuela if they deport me. I could live on the streets, I suppose, and work under the table as other illegals do. How is that better than this? At least here I’m safe, fed and clothed.”