she could sit up again without dying. She still felt awful, but at least it wasn't as bad as it had been.
The young man was standing at the doorway, watching her. Why did they bring me here, what do they want with me? She stared at her feet, not speaking, then glanced up at him.
He was still standing there, just looking at her. He wasn't as handsome as the older guy, who was breathtaking in a Hollywood star kind of way, like a twenty‑year‑old Richard Gere with wavy black hair. And a real bastard, too. This younger guy's black hair was very curly, looking like he'd never really succeeded in combing it down. His dark eyes were thoughtful when he spoke. “Rest now, querida. Carlos and the others will be here soon.”
He started for the door, then stopped. Walking across the room, he unplugged the telephone on the wooden dresser and took it with him, closing the door behind him. Kayla lay back on the bed, thinking: I don't want to rest. I want to get the hell out of here. . . . Her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the Spanish music playing from the other room.
The Volkswagen's brakes squealed as Elizabet pulled up in