A strong, tanned hand with reddened, abraded knuckles shot down in front of her.
“Come, Rachel. We must go.”
She looked up at him, those fierce dark eyes, the bruise blooming across one cheek, the taut planes and angles of a warrior’s face.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.”
“Come, Rachel,” he repeated, making the effort to gentle his voice. “The police will be here shortly.”
She blinked in puzzlement. “But--”
“I have killed four men for you. Come.”
Gathering her scattered wits, she took his hand and let him draw her to her feet. She watched in dumb horror as her rescuer dug in his pants pocket and withdrew a wad of bills which his slapped on the bar. The bartender squeaked when he caught the man’s gaze.
“This should cover the damages.”
The bartender nodded and pointed toward the employee entrance in the back of the building.
“Gracias,” Diego said and rushed in that direction, pulling his woman along.