But I keep thinking about the meeting that’s going to take place shortly. I check my watch. In a half hour, I have to be at an entirely different café, meeting an entirely different man. The man the red folder is for.
I’m a little too fascinated by Rafael Mendoza, though. His manner throws me off. It’s the cagey way he answers my setup questions, like he’s more interested in watching me than what I’m going to say. That should worry me right there, but for some reason, it makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Protected? Maybe it’s because of his hands. It’s those nice fingers, and the calluses on his palms. I actually don’t mind calluses on a man’s hands, because they tell me a lot about a guy. They tell me he’s used to working with his hands. That he’s not afraid of getting dirty. That there aren’t the accompanying rings of dirt under those well-trimmed nails tells me that he’s also fastidious.
He’s also devouring me with his eyes, like watching me is more filling than eating that plate of meats and cheeses in front of us.
He watches me eat a few slices of meat and cheese, and then that grin tugs across his face again as I lick my lips. For a moment he looks rakish and utterly sinful. “Tell me about yourself, Lucy Wessex?”
I’m utterly flustered at that. What can I tell him that is safe? Private? “Oh, I’m pretty boring.”
“I shouldn’t think so.” He nudges the cheese knife at his side toward me.
I blink and look at the charcuterie plate in front of us. I’m eating, wolfing down food, but he’s not touching it. Didn’t he say he was hungry? Why is he not eating? He’s just . . . watching me. Like a hawk. Or a predator.
This is starting to feel like a trap. My heart pounds. “I . . . I think I need to leave.”
Again, his hand touches mine. “Stay. Please.” He gestures at the food. “You’ve hardly touched it.”
My stomach is rumbling, but I’m no longer hungry. There’s something off about this. Something too watchful about Rafael Mendoza. He’s giving me mixed vibes and I don’t know what to think. “I really do need to go.”
“Will I see you here again?” he asks. Again, he nudges the knife toward me.
His question flusters me even more. I shake my head, heft my purse under my arm, and then stand. “I’m leaving for home soon.”
“Be safe,” he tells me. He doesn’t get up. Instead, he picks up a piece of cheese from the plate and eats it, as casual as could be.
I watch him for a moment longer, my head whirling and full of confused thoughts. “Thanks for the food. I really do have to go.”
Then, I rush out the front of the shop and across the street, trying to keep my steps hurried but casual.
I pause to look back once I cross the street, to see if he’s still in the café. The table is empty. I glance around to see if he’s following me, but there is no one near, no one on the street other than a couple laughing and talking in soft voices under a nearby awning.
Rattled and not entirely sure why, I head down the street for the reveal.
? ? ?
An hour later, the show-and-tell is done and I head back to my hotel room.
I don’t relax until the door is locked and I sit back down on the edge of my bed. I’m trembling. The luxury purse feels like a ball and chain, and I wish to God I could pitch it out the window. I give it an angry toss onto the bed, feeling frustrated and unsettled.
I was so calm when I met the clients. Said my piece. Gave them the information. Sipped my drink. Left.
And yet I meet one handsome stranger in Lima and I’m all rattled. What is it about this guy that throws me off? Is it because, for the first time, I felt like someone actually saw me instead of Rose’s friend? Is it that I’m attracted to him and the timing is incredibly lousy? The thought unsettles me. I can’t afford to be distracted.
He . . . wasn’t after the information, was he? Was he using me to get what I carried? He hadn’t shown interest in the purse, but I don’t trust anyone anymore.
On a whim, I shift on the edge of the bed and open the purse. I pull out the red folder and flip through the sheaves of xeroxed copies inside. Some of them are of receipts. Some are of emails to a government agency. It looks legitimate, but what do I know? There are thin sticky notes highlighting passages that are inane, and the flags are placed at random spots. This one has a sticky flag by a request to purchase a stapler. I guess stapler must be code for something.
There’s a quick knock at the door, and then I hear the doorknob rattle. I shove the folders back into the purse, my heart pounding.
Fouquet storms into the room, his too-plastic face furious, his eyes wild. I instinctively draw back a little, and when his gaze lights on me, his nostrils flare with anger.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarls and advances toward me.
I get up from the bed and retreat, holding the case in front of me like a shield. “What did I do?”
“You met a man at the café!” He pulls back as if to backhand me.