He’d heard from several old friends the same was happening in Manchester and that he should come see for himself, but he’d managed to avoid a trip thus far. He had no desire to go home and wanted even less to see how the near slums he’d grown up in had gentrified through outsiders’ money.
“You okay?” Her voice drifted toward him from the kitchen.
The question pulled him from the images he still carried of gray-washed factories that matched even grayer air. He didn’t care how much money had been put into an update, he had no desire to see it.
“I’m good.” He’d already taken one of the plastic medical waste bags in the first-aid kit and wrapped his bloody T-shirt, her cloth napkins and the waste from his stitch-up job into the red plastic.
As he glanced at the still-open bag, he caught the light scent of her on the air—a mix of vanilla and maybe lavender?—before his gaze roamed over the crumpled bloody shirt.
Why had he come here?
He’d exposed her, as surely as if he’d sent an email straight to Richard Moray with her name and address. That damnable voice tickled the back of his mind once more. Don’t underestimate Moray.
Not only had he done that, but he’d dragged an innocent into battle right along with him.
He wrapped the package into as small a ball as he could, then shoved it into another of his cargo pockets. He wouldn’t leave Moray’s stench anywhere near Gabriella Sanchez.
And if he weren’t such a bastard, he’d remove himself, as well.
* * *
Gabby kept her eye on the chicken sautéing in a large pan while she pounded the flank steak for the beef enchiladas. She could still remember her grandmother’s gentle voice, instructing her in the old kitchen on Castle Street on how to prepare the steak before cooking.
“Pounding the meat’s better than pounding your grandfather.”
She smiled at the old flash of memory and the giggles that had erupted at the imagined image of Tito Jorge beaten under her grandmother’s meat tenderizer. Gabby still grieved the loss of her beloved grandfather, more than a decade now, and she knew her grandmother grieved, as well. Theirs had been a love for the ages, and Gabby had believed herself destined for the same.
Yet here she was.
She’d spent her twenties lamenting her inability to find someone and had sworn to herself on her thirtieth birthday that she was done with sulking and being disappointed. But the memories of her grandparents—so in love—still managed to grab her by the throat every now and again.
On a sigh, she brought herself back to the moment. The kitchen on Castle Street had long since been renovated, the near-decrepit appliances updated with brand-new ones, and her grandmother had moved back with her youngest daughter and son-in-law in Mexico for the majority of the year. Gabby still missed her every day, but she knew her grandmother loved the quieter life in Guadalajara more than the increasingly frenetic pace in Dallas.
“That smells good.”
She turned to see Knox, clad in a gray T-shirt that was a size too small, and she struggled to keep her footing. What was it about this man? He’d invaded her business. Hell, he’d handcuffed her.
And she still couldn’t quite shake the raw interest he managed to gin up.
She also couldn’t deny the sheer exhaustion she saw in his liquid blue gaze.
“I’ve got a cot in the storage room, as well. You’re welcome to pull it down and set yourself up in my office.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re dead on your feet. I thought you were dead on your feet an hour ago.”
“I’ll recover. This isn’t the first—” He broke off, and she turned back to the meat, a small smile tugging at her lips. He might not want to admit how tired he was, but the abrupt cutoff was indicative of his exhaustion.
Now the real question was, how much could she get out of him?
Avoiding the twinge of guilt at the deliberate hunt for information, Gabby settled in to find out all she could. “Okay, big, strong man. Then go sit down and get out of my way.”
“Do you mind if I put on a pot of coffee?”
“Along the wall. I’ve got a single brew, and you can pick whatever you’d like in the top cabinet.”
Knox busied himself with the task, and she snapped off the gas, transferring the heavy pan to the counter and a waiting rack. Her grandmother had taught her many things, and the draining of the meat was key to keeping the enchiladas soft but not soggy.
“Would you like a cup?”
“No on the coffee, but I’d love one of the green teas in there.”
Knox settled across from her a few minutes later and pushed over her mug. “That really smells good.”
“It’ll smell even better wrapped up in fresh tortillas and cheese.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“Maybe if you sit there nicely and keep your handcuffs in your pocket I’ll give you some.”
He did perk up at the mention of the cuffs, a small spark of mischief alighting in his eyes. “I’ll be good.”
The promise was about the enchiladas—rationally, she knew that—but she couldn’t quite dismiss something else in the words.
I’ll be good.
Did she really want him on his best behavior?
Ignoring the flight of sexual fancy, she refocused on the man before her. He might wear it well, but she had to admit exhaustion still painted his face in craggy lines.
Once more, that slight twinge of guilt pinched the back of her neck, but she resolutely ignored it as she changed the subject. “You’re MI5, right?”
“Technically, we’re the Security Service. MI5 is no longer our formal name, but it is what we’re known as.”
“I thought the jewels were originally removed out of England under the direction of MI6.”
His heavy-lidded gaze widened before he caught himself, his normal poker face snapping into position. “How’d you come across that information?”
Gabby shrugged, playing it cool. While she sensed she should parse out what limited information she’d gleaned, she was more than willing to speed up the information exchange if it would ensure her friends stayed safe and the danger they’d all experienced was firmly put behind them.
“Lilah, Cassidy and Violet have told me what they’ve been dealing with,” Gabby offered up. “And don’t forget, the rubies belong to my friends’ landlady, Josephine Beauregard. Her father was given the gems fair and square and asked only to remove them from England.”
“Why?”
Why?
Although she knew she’d started this, his questions held something more than simple curiosity. He didn’t know.
“Because they’re cursed.” A low snort was her only response, so she pressed him, curious as to his response. “You don’t believe in curses?”
“No.” He took a sip of his coffee before something seemed to register in his mind. “Do you?”
“Of course.”
When he only continued to stare at her, his cup midway to his mouth, Gabby continued on. “I absolutely believe in things beyond our control. Forces for good. Forces for evil. They exist.”
“And you think the rubies are cursed?”
“I