Cry No More Read online

  While they waited for their food, she played with her napkin, folding and refolding it. She fidgeted with her blouse, because it was tighter than she liked. Then, because she couldn’t ignore him and she knew he was silently watching her, she said, “You’re very at home here.”

  “I was born in Mexico.”

  “But you said you’re an American citizen. When did you get your citizenship?”

  “I was born with it. My mother was American. She just happened to be in Mexico when I was born.”

  So he had dual citizenship, just like Justin.

  “And your father?”

  “Is Mexican.”

  She’d noticed he said “was” when talking about his mother, and “is” when it concerned his father. “Your mother is dead?”

  “She died a couple of years ago. I’m fairly certain they weren’t married.”

  “Do you know your father very well?”

  “I lived with him half the time when I was growing up. That was better than living with my mother. What about you?”

  Evidently that was all the small talk he was prepared to make about himself. Tit for tat, though, so she told him about her family, and the rift between her and her brother and sister. “It’s hard on Mom and Dad,” she said. “I know it is. But I just can’t be around Ross or Julia now without—” She shook her head, unable to find the right word. She didn’t want to hurt either of them, yet at the same time she wanted to bang their heads against something.

  “Do they have children?” he asked.

  “Both of them. Ross has three, Julia has two.”

  “Then they should be able to understand how you feel.”

  “But they don’t. Maybe they can’t. Maybe you have to actually lose a child before you really understand. It’s as if part of me is missing, as if there’s nothing but a great big hole where he used to be.” She bit her lip, refusing to cry in public. “I can no more stop looking for him than I can stop breathing.”

  Diaz regarded her with those somber eyes, eyes that saw straight through to the core. Then he leaned over the small table, cupped her chin in his hand, and kissed her.

  16

  It was just a small kiss, but it was so damnably unfair of him that she just sat there, stunned. Too much had happened in too short a time; she felt dazed, off balance, totally unable to cope. She caught his wrist with both hands, then didn’t know what to do or say when he released her chin and lifted his mouth, leaving her still hanging on to his arm.

  That grim mouth was softer than she’d expected, and gentler than she’d ever imagined. The kiss hadn’t been passionate; it had, in fact, been more comforting than anything else. She hated him for that. She shouldn’t want any kiss from him, but if she had to have one, she certainly didn’t want it to be for comfort.

  She glared at him. “What was that for?”

  One corner of his mouth quirked in his equivalent of a chuckle. “I don’t guess,” he said, “that you’ve ever seen what other people see in your eyes.”

  “No, of course not.” When he didn’t say anything else, she waited a minute, then, goaded, said, “What?”

  He shrugged, and seemed to be considering the matter, picking his way through various words and discarding them. Finally he said, “Suffering.”

  The word punched her, hard. Suffering. God, yes, she had suffered. Only parents who had lost a child could possibly understand. Yet this man, whose contact with emotion seemed tenuous at best, had seen and responded. And she had slipped even further down that blasted slope.

  The waiter brought their meals, and she was glad to devote herself to the empanaditas, which were one of her favorite Mexican dishes. The tuna-stuffed pastries suited her taste today, and she plowed through them, not stopping until her plate was clean. Getting her throat sliced seemed to have really revved up her appetite. There was nothing like a brush with death to make you appreciate food.

  Diaz made equally short work of his enchiladas, though he drank only half his beer.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked, indicating the bottle.

  “Well enough. I just don’t drink much.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Never have.”

  “Vote?”

  “In every election since I was of age.”

  And he wore his seat belt, too. She regarded him with exasperation. Had there ever before been such a sober, civic-minded assassin?

  At some point during the day, she had lost her fear of him. She didn’t know exactly when or why, but she couldn’t have found comfort in his arms if she’d still been afraid of him. He hadn’t changed. Had she? The past week and a half had been nothing but an emotional roller coaster, and the strain had to be taking a toll. She had to be losing her mind for her to be attracted to someone like Diaz.

  She had at least kept him from realizing what she was feeling, she thought. She hadn’t responded to his light kiss; in fact, her reaction had been perfect, though unplanned.

  “Are you finished?” he asked.

  She looked at her empty plate. “I am unless I lick it.”

  Again that little quirk of his mouth. “I mean, would you like something else?”

  “No, nothing else, thank you.”

  He paid for their meal, and as they were walking to the truck, she realized how much money he had spent today. “I’ll reimburse you for your expenses,” she said. Let him think Finders was reimbursing him; she intended to pay with her own money.

  He didn’t say anything, and she wondered if she had offended him. He was half Mexican, after all, and had spent part of his formative years here. The machismo of the culture had to have affected him at least a little.

  “Give me an itemized statement,” she continued, unable to leave it alone.

  His expression was blank again. “How should I list the bribe?”

  “As a bribe. We pay them all the time. How else would we get information?”

  “There are other methods. But sometimes a bribe will work.” He took out his cell phone and called someone, presumably the same boy, to meet him and collect the truck. But it was a different boy who showed up, somewhat younger than the first one, and with an engagingly roguish grin. Diaz gave him the keys and some money, and the kid hopped behind the wheel and roared off.

  “Brothers?” she asked.

  “Not mine.”

  “I mean, are the two boys brothers?”

  “Probably. They live in the same house, but they could be cousins.”

  Milla and Diaz walked across the bridge to El Paso and collected his other truck. “Where to?” he asked. “Back to the office, or home?”

  “Home.” She wanted to change clothes, because the skirt had become uncomfortably tight after she’d eaten. “Then, if you don’t mind, take me back to the office.” She had to pick up her car. “If you don’t have time, I’ll just call a cab.”

  “No problem.”

  “By the way, how did you get into my house the other night? I know the doors and windows were locked.”

  “They were. I unlocked one. You need a security system.”

  She hadn’t before; her neighborhood was very low-crime. “Would that stop you?”

  “Not if I wanted in.”

  He waited downstairs in the living room while she ran upstairs to change. She didn’t bother looking for anything that would hide the bandage on her neck, because the weather was too hot. Instead she put on crisp yellow slacks and a white sleeveless blouse, and ran back downstairs.

  He was examining the rocks scattered around the living room; she had used the prettiest ones as decorations. The rest were in various containers: a big blue bowl on the coffee table, two clear vases, a huge glass piggy bank. “What’s with all the rocks?” he asked, his head tilted to the side like a quizzical dog’s.

  “I picked them up for Justin,” she said, going very still. “I thought he’d probably like rocks. Don’t little boys like to throw rocks, and carry them around in their pockets? I guess he’s too old for