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In the meantime, stay out of trouble. RH. Were you expecting a love letter? No. Of course not, but that doesn’t make me wish that there wasn’t some—I don’t know. Maybe one sentence that didn’t seem so businesslike. This is something he might leave for his assistant before he went out of town.
I glance down at my to-do list for the day, from a man accustomed to issuing orders. He didn’t even bother couching any of his demands in ways that might make me actually want to comply. A please or if you’re up to it would have gone a long way. I reread the note, looking for a reason to forgive his bossiness, but it leaves me even more prickly, and I fire off a text.
Lexie: Stay in the apartment? And exactly what am I supposed to do here all day?
Rafael: Did you not see the part about calling your parents and drafting a statement?
I’m happy to give them a statement. More than happy. I’ve done everything but stand on my head to get someone in authority to listen to what I’ve discovered about the traffickers. But there’s no way I’m contacting my father, although I don’t mind calling my mother. I’m already starting to feel claustrophobic. I need to get out of here. And even more important, he needs to understand that I’m not his captive. I don’t give a damn how good he kisses.
Lexie: I have to run over to Judite Furtado’s shop. I won’t be long.
Rafael: No.
Lexie: I have a feature to write. Pesky deadline and all that.
Ten minutes later, and I still haven’t heard back. Surely he doesn’t think I’ll go away quietly.
Lexie: Giana and Sabio are welcome to join me. You can come, too, if you’d like.
Rafael: You won’t be going today. I won’t be going ever.
Lexie: She won’t be at the shop over the weekend.
Rafael: Pity.
What a prick.
Lexie: Where I come from, guards are able to protect a woman in a small boutique.
It’s childish, but it gives me a great sense of satisfaction to press Send.
Rafael: Where you come from, guards are easily tricked, which means they’re not protecting a damn thing.
Clever comeback. Annoying, but clever.
Lexie: This conversation isn’t over.
I toss the phone on the bed. The interview won’t have the same flavor, but I probably don’t need to go to Furtado’s shop to write the piece I’m working on. Ugh. I can peruse the website and talk to her on the phone or via email. If the magazine needs pictures, they’ll send a photographer anyway. I hate half-assing things—because that’s what this feels like—but I know all about picking my battles.
Plus, he’s right. It’s too soon to have a sense of the fallout from last night. I might have left myself exposed—too exposed. I need to think through the next steps, but first I need some tea.
17
RAFAEL
“I hope you’re not calling to tell me my husband is missing,” Valentina quips sarcastically before saying hello.
I smile at her insolence. “Isn’t he with you?”
“No.” She sighs. “He left at the crack of dawn.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“That would make your entire weekend extra special, wouldn’t it?”
I’m not a huge fan of Marco, but I don’t want her marriage to fall apart. She’s too invested in a life with him, and it would destroy her dream.
“No, sweetheart. It wouldn’t. Nothing will ever convince me that he’s anywhere near good enough for you, but you love him, and I love seeing you happy.” But if any of that changes, and he’s responsible for any of your unhappiness, “missing” will simply be a code word for brutally tortured before his bowel was ripped out.
