Fate Book (15 page)

Oh hell no!
“So it
is
you? You’re behind all this? You’re this…
man
with the answers?”

I glanced at Santiago, but his ice-cold gaze gave nothing away.

My father grumbled under his breath. “Dakota, honey. I promise everything will make sense.”

“But I—”

My father held up his hand. “Go to the dorms, pack your things. I’ll be right behind you.”

“You’re taking me home?” I asked, unsure if this was a good or bad thing. Home sounded kind of nice right about now.

“I’m taking you to an apartment off campus.”

I guessed he wanted to do that because of the fire, but I wasn’t going anywhere. “Hold on—”

“Now!” he screamed.

I stared for several moments, thinking through the options. There was no use in talking to the man when he was pissed. Anyone who’d spent more than five seconds with him knew that much. But did he honestly believe that a little bullying would frighten me away? After everything I’d been through?

“I’ll wait outside. You’re coming with me to the dorms, right?” I said to Santiago.

My father looked at me. “Santiago won’t be joining us.” His gaze bounced back to Santiago. “Will you?”

What the hell was going on? I looked at Santiago, then at my father, and then back again.

Santiago’s expression was as cool and deadly as a morgue freezer. “Guess not,” he said to my father.

“Best say your good-byes now,” my father said to me.

Good-bye? Good-bye?

I looked at Santiago once again, but he ignored me, and it stung. I wasn’t really sure why, but it did.

Suddenly, I didn’t care what was happening or what my father had to do with this mess; I simply wanted to leave and not have to look at either of them.

“You both disgust me,” I seethed. “And don’t bother coming to my dorm. I don’t want to see either of you again.”

Furious, I left the house, got in my car, and drove down the coast back to campus, my mind unable to form a coherent thought.
My father and Santiago know each other. My father is in San Diego. He knew I was at Santiago’s house. My father is behind everything! Why would he put me through all this? And is Santiago really gone from my life?
My mind whirled and spun and made random loop-the-loops, but nothing connected.

How could my father know some random guy I found on the Inter—

Shit, shit, shit.
The photo wasn’t random.

I gasped.

When I’d opened my laptop on that fateful day of deceit to create my fake boyfriend, my browser had been parked on my father’s website. Being a photographer, he had tons of links leading to portfolios, advertising various shoots he’d done over the years.

Christ. That’s it
. I’d followed one of the links.

How could I have not remembered that? The link had a gorgeous photo of a man standing on the beach, looking out across the waves. I remember being captivated by that tormented look in his eyes, and thinking how I felt just like him.

So…Santiago is a…supermodel?
I burst out laughing. The thought was ludicrous.

I continued to the dorms, my mind an impossible mess. But one thing I knew, I would figure out my own housing. I’m sure the school had somewhere for me to go, so my dad could just pound sand. I mean, what was this? The only rational explanation was that my father was some overprotective bastard who hired someone to stalk me.

When I got to the lobby, there were several housing employees handing out flyers and forms. It looked like they were putting everyone up at the visitor center until the affected rooms could be cleaned. I asked one lady about Christy, and all she could tell me was that there’d be a public statement made later and that I’d better go pack some things while I had the chance.

I took several deep breaths, bolstering myself to go upstairs. Dozens of other students carrying boxes poured out of the building.

When I got to my floor, I instantly noticed the smell of char and dampness. People milled about in the common area at the end of the hall talking about what had happened. Arson. Contraband toaster. Smoking in bed. That’s what people were saying, so I guessed no one really knew. I made my way down the soggy, carpeted hallway to my room and opened the door. There was no sign of a fire, but everything was damp and had a weird smell.

I felt sick to my stomach thinking about Christy next door.

“Hey! You completely flaked on me last night! Where did you go? Why didn’t you answer your cell?” Bridget staggered in, mascara smeared down her rosy face.

“Huh?” My mind snapped to. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry, Bridget. I ran into that guy, Santiago. We sort of got into a fight.” I looked inside my purse and grabbed my cell. “On vibrate. Sorry.” I shoved it in my pocket.

“Did you hear about our neighbor?” she asked.

“Yeah.” There wasn’t much to say. It was just…sad. Heartbreakingly sad.

“It sounds strange, but a part of me still hopes she’ll turn up at a friend’s house.” She sighed loudly.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d heard they took away the body.

“Well,” she sighed. “Where’d you spend the night?”

“At Santiago’s,” I replied.

“Santiago’s? Normally, I’d be squealing and asking you inappropriate questions because he’s so frigging hot, but that doesn’t seem right.”

She had no idea just how wrong everything was. One more “un-right” thing wouldn’t make a lick of a difference.

“Don’t worry; you’re not missing out on anything juicy.” I shrugged. “Santiago and I didn’t do anything—wait, where’d you spend the night?”

She smiled and made a little bow. “The fire was all over the news, so I stayed with Eric at his place.” She let out a long, happy breath. “Once again, normally, I’d be oozing details and basking in the glory of my conquest, but I’m not in the mood.”

There was a knock at the door and one of the coordinators popped her head in to tell us we had twenty minutes before they closed the floor.

Bridget looked around the room. “Damn. I’m going downstairs to see if they have garbage bags. Everything’s sopping wet. I’ll bring you a few.”

I thanked her and started sorting through my damp drawers. I felt my phone buzz and checked it—my father. I ignored it and kept pulling stuff out, setting down the clothes into soggy piles on the damp bed. My phone buzzed two more times, each call sending my thumping heart into a deeper tailspin of anger. On his fourth attempt, I couldn’t take it anymore. “What?”

“Dakota, don’t speak. Just listen.” His voice was hard and cold.

“No. You listen! I’m beyond pissed. Do you hear me? Whatever sick crap you and—”

“I’m not fucking around, Dakota. You need to listen.” I’d never heard him swear at me. Not once. Not even on the rare occasion when I’d done something stupid.

“Okay.” I tried to keep my voice from trembling.

“I spoke to the fire chief this morning. He said they thought the fire next door was caused by a curling iron.”

“Dad, I don’t underst—”

“They just called back. They found something. You need to get out of there.”

“But I—”

“Santiago is on his way. Do as he says. Do you hear me?”

“Dad, please…you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Baby, I love you. Just…stay with Santiago until I come for you. He’ll keep you safe.”

The knock at the door was so loud that I jumped.

“Safe from who?” I asked, but the call had ended.

Santiago burst through the door, panting. “Why didn’t you answer?” he blurted, and then noticed the look of horror on my face. His chest expanded with a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

He walked over, gripped me by the shoulders, and then hugged me. I supposed it was obvious that my mental state was on the fragile side.

Santiago pulled back and his demeanor suddenly shifted from human being to man on a mission. “You can cry in the car if you need to, but it’s time to go.”

I felt too terrified to cry. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” he replied.

“For how long?” I asked.

“As long as it takes.”

“Who are we running from?”

“Very, very bad people,” he replied.

I somehow sensed my life really did depend on Santiago now. I didn’t like the feeling of being so vulnerable and weak.

I reached for my purse.

“You can’t take anything with you,” he said.

“Why not?”

He grabbed the phone in my hand and threw it onto the sopping wet floor. “Your identity has been compromised. There might be devices planted on your things.”

Compromised? Devices? Those were words used by shady spies. “This is not happening.”

He growled impatiently. “Yes. It is. Now deal with it.”

I protested with a hiss. “I need a few things. Underwear, socks—”

“Fine, but…” he looked at the trash can and emptied the moist, crumpled pieces of paper on the floor. He handed me the white plastic shopping bag. “Use this.”

I held the slightly grubby bag in my hand. “I’ve got an overnight bag. It might be dry—”

He shot an angry, impatient glance my way and then marched over to the door. He quickly peered into the hall. “You will use the bag. You have exactly five seconds.”

Shit.
I turned the bag inside out, scooped a pile of clothes from the bottom drawer of my dresser, and shoved them inside. They smelled funny but were actually dry. Then I saw my notebook peeking out from beneath the wet pillow. I snatched it up and checked the thing. It was lightly damp on the outside, but fine. I shoved it into the bag between two T-shirts. “Okay. Ready,” I said with a shaky voice.

Santiago grabbed my hand and walked me out of the building as if we were escaping a ticking bomb.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“This is your car?” I asked as we approached the large, black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows, parked curbside.

“Put your seat belt on.” He opened the door and waited for me to slide in before slamming it shut.

He quickly got behind the wheel and sped out of the lot.

“Santiago?”

His dark eyes focused intensely on the road ahead as he weaved through the local traffic. “Not now. I’m concentrating.”

When we approached the red light, his head whipped from side to side. He hit the accelerator and roared right through the intersection.

My nails dug into the black leather seats. “Holy shit. Are you trying to kill me?”

“Funny,” he mumbled to himself. “The girl asks if I’m trying to kill her.”

“Nothing about this is funny.”

“Agreed. Now let me drive.” He looked in the rearview mirror and then made a hard right.

I looked behind us, but didn’t see anyone following.

He took another hard right into a parking garage and pulled into a spot next to a silver Suburban with tinted windows.

“What are we doing?” I asked, panting.

“Changing cars. What does it look like?”

He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and hit the remote. The lights on the Suburban flashed. “Get in.”

He’d been planning for this. An escape with me. I couldn’t begin to articulate how frightening I found that to be. Why would I, of all people, need to have an escape planned for me?

I got in the truck, and he calmly exited the garage, pulling into traffic like we had all the time in the world.

“Are we being followed?” I asked.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s my job to know,” he replied.

“Job.” I laughed, and shook my head. One more piece of the puzzle slid into place. “I’m your job. So you’re some bodyguard?”

“Something like that.”

“Did my dad hire you?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

“Are you going to tell me anything?”

“No,” he replied.

“No?” Did he really expect me to go along with all this without him telling me what was happening? “Why the hell not?”

He glanced at me, clearly annoyed. “My job is to keep you safe, not answer questions that will only make you…less safe.”

“Less safe. Wow! Fucking unbelievable. You ruin my life, and I get riddles.”

“Don’t start,” he warned.

“Screw you.”

He huffed. “Nice.”

“What do you expect me to say? Oh, thank you, Santiago. Thank you for stalking me, making me think I’m crazy, and then tearing me away from my life without so much as an explanation as to why I’m being subjected to…your
job
?”

“Ask your father,” he replied coldly.

“He’s not here. Otherwise, trust me, I would.”

We pulled onto the freeway, and Santiago’s dark eyes continued scanning the mirrors.

“So,” I said, “are you going to tell me who you are and why you’ve been stalking me?”

“I told you. It’s my job. I work for your father. But let’s get one thing straight: I never asked for this assignment. You,” he glanced my way, “chose me.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“The photo.”

Oh.
My brain ran a couple of queasy laps.
I picked out a photo. I put it on Facebook. My dad saw it. Poof. Santiago.
No, the pieces still weren’t forming an explanation of any sort.

I ran my hands over my clammy face. “I’m guessing my father isn’t the photographer who took your picture. Probably isn’t a photographer at all.”

“No,” he said.

“And you’re not a model,” I said.

“No.”

“Is your name even Santiago?”

“No. That’s the name you made up. My name is Paolo. I’m actually Italian, not Spanish.” I hadn’t noticed before—too busy going out of my mind, I supposed—but his accent had changed.

He hit the fast lane, but kept the speed under eighty.

“Well, that’s a start. And my dad, what is he? Some spy? An assassin? Do you work for the CIA?”

Paolo continued concentrating on the road. “No.”

“Then what?”

“We keep an eye on things and we gather information. There is no name for us,” he said, his accent now completely unmasked.
Der iz no name for usss…
“We don’t exist.”

Jeez. Well, that explains oh so very much!
“Have you been trained in the fine art of not answering questions?”