The benign smile is gone now, and his voice has become lower and colder.
The accent is much more noticeable now, too.
Spanish.
He turns to level an icy look right into my eyes. “No, we don’t know each other, Evelina. But you know my son, Andrés.”
My face goes white as the ground drops out from under me.
“I—”
“My name is Diego Torvallés, Ms. Nikitin. And Iknowthat you and my son know each other, because he spoke to me the other day, and mentioned that you and he were going on a date.”
I swallow heavily, trying not to shake.
“I—not a date,” I blurt. “We… We were just talking.”
His eyes narrow. “Ahh, so youwerewith him the other night.”
Darn it.
Part of me feels I should lie, because the vibe is all wrong here. Plus, he seems like the kind of man who could sniff out the truth from a mile away anyhow.
He also seems like the kind of man you innoway, shape or form lie to.
“I… I was,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We walked together after the ballet class that I sometimes teach here. Then he…” I swallow. “He gave me a ride into town.”
Diego says nothing. He just sits there next to me, his dark eyes peering into my very soul. The seconds tick by as my heart thuds loudly in my chest.
“A ride into town,” he finally says, his voice edged, his eyes glinting as they lock with mine.
I nod firmly. “Yes.”
Another few long, agonizing seconds tick by.
“You see, Evelina,” he murmurs, “my son ismissing, and has been since the night hegave you a ride.”
A razor slips dangerously down my spine, snapping it straight as dread pools in my belly.
“He… He is?” I gasp, hoping to hell I sound suitably surprised.
Diego nods. “Yes. But in my world, heirs as important as Andrés don’t gomissing.”
Alarm bells start whining in my head.
“They… Theydon’t?” I croak.
I shiver at the vicious way his eyes remain trained on me. “Why don’t we stop playing games, Ms. Nikitin,” he growls, the low, gravelly timbre of his voice raking over me like knives. “I know my son is dead, and judging from the overly rehearsed way your eyebrows shot up just now,” he snarls, “I can tell that you know, too.”
Whatever color was left in my face drains instantly. My hands are shaking as I grab my bags.
“I…I’m sorry, I need to go?—”
I jolt as he grabs my wrist tightly, keeping me pinned to the bench.
“No, what you need to do islisten very closely,” he says icily. “I very much doubt you personally had anything to do with my son’s death. But I alsosincerelydoubt that you’re not connected somehow.”
He leans closer to me, making my throat seize up as my skin ripples with fear.
