Who is Ale Romero? Ever since I shook her hand in my office, I’ve had that question on my mind. I don’t know anything about her. I could ask Ras to look into it, but that will only feed into my growing obsession.
I need to maintain my tentative peace with Sal until I have what I need to make a real move against him. That means what happened tonight cannot happen again.
“No,” I say. But something tells me it won’t be long before my conviction is tested again.
On Monday, I’m in my office signing a batch of contracts when a knock comes.
“Come in,” I call out, lifting my gaze off the papers.
It’s her.
Cazzo. What is she doing here? I told Inez not to send her back to my office again. All weekend, I forced myself not to think about her. Every time she popped into my head unbidden, I did one hundred pushups. My arms are fucking killing me.
All that effort, for fucking nothing. The sun streams through the window, leaving a long patch of light on the ground, and she steps right into it. Madonna. She looks unreal. That hair. What I would do to twist it like a rope around my fist while I bury myself inside of her.
She brushes something off her uniform and sends me a guarded look.
I lower my pen. “What is it?”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened on Friday. You were right. I was drunk.”
I lean back in my chair. “I didn’t expect an apology.”
“I can admit when I’m wrong.”
Can she? Interesting. With the attitude she likes to give me, I would have expected her to be the type that doubles down. “It’s a rare quality.”
“I wasn’t behaving like myself that night,” she says. “And you’re my boss now. I’d like to put it behind us.”
My lips twitch with amusement. She wants me to know she’s not planning on getting herself into another mess like that again. Good. She learned her lesson. “You surprise me, Romero. I thought it would take far longer for you to get used to calling me boss.”
Instead of jumping into our usual bickering, she clears her throat. “You said on Friday we’d talk about my contract today.”
“Yes. Ras prepared it.” I open a drawer and pull out a few sheets of paper held together by a paper clip while she slides into the chair across from me. “Take a look.”
She flips through it without reading it. Then she meets my gaze. “There’s a small problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“I don’t have my passport.”
My body grows tense. Was she getting trafficked? It’s the first suspicion that crosses my mind and it turns my mood sour. “Why’s that?”
“I got robbed when I first got here. They took most of my money and my passport,” she says.
Not an unusual occurrence in Ibiza, but I don’t buy it. She’s not telling me the full truth. If she ran away from traffickers, she won’t be safe here. I need to find out who took her and make sure they won’t find her again.
“You said you’re Canadian.”
“That’s right.”
“Unless you have a work visa, you don’t have the right to work in Spain even with a passport.”
“People do it all the time.”
“Illegally.”
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“I am.” I can feel her panic as she deflates before my eyes.
“Is there something you can do? I really need this job.”
I lean forward and clasp my hands on top of the desk. She shifts under my gaze, more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her. “I want you to be honest with me,” I say.
“I’m not lying. I was robbed.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“What trouble? Of course not.”
More lies.
“Why are you here, Romero?”
“Why does anyone come to Ibiza?”
“I don’t care about anyone. I’m asking about you.”
When she just stares at me with scared wide eyes, I decide to be direct. “Did someone bring you here by force?”
Her brows furrow. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Sometimes girls are brought here against their will.”
She purses her lips and gives her head a shake. “No one brought me. I chose to come here.”
The words ring true this time. I relax a bit. No need for a manhunt after all.
“But why Spain? Why Ibiza? Canada can’t be that bad. Friendly people.”
“Cold as hell.”
Her deadpan response draws a chuckle out of me, and some of the tension in the room eases.
She sighs. “You want honesty?”
“Yes.”