Life can be a brutal game of survival and unexpected threats.
Elena learned the family cattle trade from her Argentine father. After losing him and ownership of her family property, she’s determined to preserve her traditional lifestyle. When she travels to Buenos Aires for a business meeting, she finds herself drawn to Charon, her millionaire landlord who wants to unload her heritage. He’s off-limits, but before she can convince him to keep the land, a shocking murder hits close to home.
Charon, a former corporate bodyguard with plenty of money but no direction, takes charge of Elena’s safety to prove he can still protect assets. As her shock following the murder of a neighbor wears off, her determination to maintain her lifestyle fascinates him. Accompanying her to Patagonia, he discovers the windswept grasslands offer stark beauty and unexpected threats.
Can he keep her safe and still protect his heart?
Reader advisory: This book contains violence, suicide, human trafficking, and the assassination of a secondary character.
General Release Date: 3rd September 2024
Charon approached a café with a limestone edifice on one of Buenos Aires’ busiest boulevards. The city’s classical stone architecture reminded him of Europe, but a nearby asado teased rich, meaty aromas. He could have been anywhere, but he was in Argentina to deliver bad news to his renter, Elena. He planned to sell the estancia where she grazed cattle and sheep. Having never met her face-to-face, he struggled to anticipate her response, but he would soon find out whether her reactions were as disciplined as her quarterly reports. He doubted it, but only top-tier assholes delivered life-changing news over video feeds, so he’d deliver it in person.
He sheathed his sunglasses in the pocket of his leather bomber jacket and ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. In the coming weeks, the southern hemisphere’s cool season would arrive, but he would be long gone.
Entering the upscale café, he unzipped his jacket and strode toward a marble-topped table where he could monitor both the bustling café and the congested street. Amid lush, potted plants and efficient kitchen staff ferrying endless streams of small plates, children pressed their noses to plate-glass windows, couples in smart business attire chatted and babies snoozed in strollers. He sat in a bistro chair and spread his legs. Elena should arrive any minute.
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.
Unlocking the screen, he scanned his messages.
Will be late. Train station is busy. Apologies.
At least she texted. Setting aside the device, he tapped his foot and followed the pattern on the black-and-white tiled floor. He wondered if he should eat or bide his time with a copy of the Financial Times. Before he could decide, a server approached wearing a canvas apron. His gelled, black hair glinted beneath the lights.
The server smiled. “¡Buenos días!”
“Buenos días.” Charon hoped he wasn’t butchering the greeting. He made a cutting motion with his fingers to order a cortado, a cup of strong, black espresso cut with milk. He had tried yerba maté, the local tea, and alfajores, chocolate-covered double-decker sweets filled with dulce de leche, but the city’s traditional, Italian-style coffee met his needs. It also came with a glass of seltzer and a couple of cookies. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” The server waved down a passing busser. “Nico, limpia esa mesa…”
Charon turned his attention to the busy boulevard. Within minutes, he had his order, and the staff faded into background noise. He tried to relax and enjoy the drink, but idleness made him twitchy. He pulled a copy of the Financial Times from his jacket and stroked his beard. The markets were going to hell—
Ten more minutes. Traffic.
Drumming his fingers on the marble tabletop, he tried the cookies. Their sweetness highlighted a subtle spice. He considered saving one for Elena, but she probably disliked carb-laden treats. She ran cattle on the thirty-thousand-hectare Patagonian estancia her father had previously owned. Charon was her landlord, but in exchange for profit sharing and a clear conscience, he suppressed the rent. She could buy her own cookies.
He reached for his phone to check for a third message, but he stopped himself. Growing impatient with Elena’s delayed arrival served him no good. Time would move at the same pace whether he stayed inside the café or ventured back onto the sidewalk. Lately, he had too much time on his hands. Fiji might be nice. He watched people dart along the sidewalk.
The server cleared his throat. “Sugar?”
Charon blinked and looked away from the busy street. The server’s canvas apron had a berry-colored spot, but he wore a blank expression. The cutting motion had saved Charon from speaking, but ignoring the server would label him a rude American. He was Greek. He forced a smile. “Sorry. No sugar, thank you.”
The server shrugged and left.
Charon took another sip of coffee and checked his watch. If he could have predicted this delay, he might have called Alessio to say hello. Watching Alessio marry Nina had brought Charon joy, but it had also made him redundant. Nina, a cheeky mediator by trade, could calm Alessio with a look. Charon preferred a lively debate or a few rounds in the boxing ring, but Alessio had less and less time for those hijinks. No wonder Charon had bought the estancia.
Making financial decisions to alleviate boredom was a terrible investment strategy.
When Charon had met Argentina’s president at Alessio’s Sun Valley investment conference, the president had promised him three certainties about Argentinian life—great barbecues, enjoying Malbec wine and drinking yerba maté with family and friends.
Like an idiot, he assumed family and friends would find him as he and Alessio had once found each other. Instead, he had thousands of hectares of rippling, verdant grasslands, a standing invitation to the presidential palace and a smug, married friend. He should have asked the president more questions. For instance, were the capital’s trains always late?
Finding his coffee cup empty, he frowned. Buying a mountainous cattle ranch was an expensive midlife crisis.
“More coffee?” The server stood next to the table balancing a tray of porcelain dishes. He raised an eyebrow. “Food? Life advice?”
Charon appreciated the crack in the server’s professional demeanor. “I’m good.”
“You’re sure?” the server asked.
“I’m meeting someone.” He shifted his seat on the bistro chair. “A woman. She’s late.”
The server smiled and set down a small bowl of nuts. “This I believe. Women are always late, but they are worth it, no?”
“Not that kind of…” The server’s English was excellent, and his service was impeccable. In another life, Charon would have appreciated his effort to engage, but he wanted peace and quiet to troll his phone for Fijian resorts. To apologize for his brevity, he would leave the server a hefty tip. “Yeah, man. I’m good.”
The server raised his eyebrows and walked away.
Charon ate a nut. Maybe his attitude was the reason loneliness had settled around his life like a bad fog. He should stick around Buenos Aires and pick up enough Spanish to make friends with someone who wanted more from him than a political donation.
The Porteños would probably want to play fútbol, drink maté and share their struggles. What would he say in return? He knew his way around a private jet, had millions of dollars at his disposal and hated their treasured tea? Drinking it tasted like drinking dirt. He would rather be a lonely, rich asshole than a lying impostor.
A woman opened the café door and removed her sunglasses.
He recognized Elena from their video calls. She was the embodiment of lithe strength, padded with pleasure. He wanted to haul her into the café storeroom and coax a kiss from her full lips. Instead, he dropped his hands to his thighs and wiped away his sudden nerves.
A few inches shy of tall, her golden-brown skin reflected the summer sun’s intensity, and her medium-long, lush brown hair caught a sunbeam and glistened with subtle, red highlights. A light cardigan covered her shoulders and draped her curvy figure. Left unbuttoned, the sweater teased a long skirt accenting her narrow waist. He struggled to understand how she could be more beautiful in person than on a modern screen.
On video feeds, he’d seen her in everything from jeans to leathers, but the resolution must have been crap. Straightening in his chair, he vowed to ditch his phone for future video calls. Then he remembered there would be no future video calls. He frowned and lifted a hand.
Slipping her sunglasses in her purse, she scanned the room and waved.
He had no business admiring her assets. She was strong and graceful, but she was also completely off-limits. She depended on him for her livelihood. The responsibility their power dynamics placed on his shoulders deserved respect. Still, she was an unexpected pleasure. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he wondered whether an unconstrained life was worth the cost of ending their association. Maybe he should keep the estancia.
She threaded her way toward his table.
Standing, he cleared his throat and longed for the cold security of his pistol, his wealth or his legal team. He had nothing on him but his wits. If life were a transaction, he knew how to enhance his position, but seeing Elena for the first time had gut punched him.
He scanned the café to see if the other patrons had had his reaction. They chattered in Spanish, but he was the only visitor who had eyes for her. Catching his reflection in a gilded mirror, he found himself mooning over a woman, so he scowled and squared his shoulders. Who have I become? From the security of the marble bar, the café server was probably laughing. Charon decided not to give him the finger. Still scowling, he turned toward Elena’s approach.
She stopped short of the table and adjusted a wide, leather strap holding her bag across her chest. “You’re upset? I’m sorry I’m late. The train then”—she waved her hand toward the boulevard—“this mess. I would have been here on time.”
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