Killer Curves (Dangerous Curves 3)

Gabriela Torres glanced at her watch, and felt a combination of exhaustion and panic. It was past midnight, and she was supposed to have been out of the building more than an hour earlier. But Juana hadn’t shown up – yet again – so Gabi was stuck cleaning the whole damn place on her own – yet again.

She sighed, stretched her neck and shoulders. Lord, what she wouldn’t give for a whole day off. She’d sleep late, and have doughnuts for breakfast, and hang out on the sofa watching bad TV. She’d order in something greasy and delicious for dinner, and then drink cheap wine in a bubble bath. But days and nights off were non-existent in her life, and that was just her reality. At least for now.

Gabi poured water into the huge metal bucket, and added the industrial-strength floor cleaner. She paused, looked down at the floor, threw in a bit more. What the hell happened here, anyway, to make this place so damn filthy? Yeah, it was a garage, but this was meant to be the kitchen area. She cleaned like a mad woman, and yet every single time she walked into this place, she wondered if she’d actually been there two nights before. But it kept her in a job, and that’s all that mattered, really.

She mopped the floor, waited impatiently for the twenty minutes that it took to dry. It was now inching towards one o’clock and she stifled a yawn. The temptation to not wash a second time was overwhelming, but Gabi wasn’t a woman who took shortcuts. Not even when she wanted to just lie down and sleep – even this concrete floor looked comfy right now.

She had just finished washing the floor again, and was dumping out the now-black water, when she heard a car outside. She stopped dead, her breath ceasing to inflate her lungs. She looked around, freaking out now, wondering how fast she could get out the back door.

Gabi wasn’t supposed to be there… Mr. Spicer had been very, very specific on that point when he’d hired her two years before. Her hours were from five p.m. to eleven p.m. three times a week, and not one minute before or after. Tonight wasn’t the first time she’d had to stay late because of Juana – but it was the first time that anyone else had shown up while she was still there.

She hurried to the kitchen counter and grabbed her purse. She’d just managed to switch off the supply cupboard light when the front door opened. She heard two voices, at least two sets of footfalls, a sound like dragging. The men sounded angry – very, very angry – and she inched backwards, barely breathing.

“Put him here,” a man said. “Is there any tape?”

“Yeah,” another man said. “In that drawer.”

Gabi heard something sliding, assumed it was one of the drawers in one of the many free-standing tool boxes around the garage. She turned on her tiptoes, kept walking to the exit. Then she remembered her jean jacket and mouthed a silent curse to herself. Where the hell did she leave it? She paused, trying to remember. That was when all hell broke loose in the other room.

A man was shouting now, but the sound was muffled. She froze when she heard a sharp crack, and then it sounded like a body hitting the floor; as realization hit her, she forced back a small scream.

Somebody hit him. His mouth is gagged. The one guy just asked for tape. This is bad news and I need to get out of here now. Right now.