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cleaning products.
    “You should take off your hat.”
    “I’d rather not.”
    Irma shrugged, puffing on her cigarette. She didn’t care.
    Maria went through the motions quickly, collecting the dirty sheets and towels, emptying the trash and ashtrays. When the room was spotless and stocked with the meager amenities available, she stuck her head out the open door.
    “Finished?” Irma asked.
    “Yes.”
    She inspected the interior, offering no praise or criticism. “Bueno,” she said finally. “You’re responsible for this entire floor.”
    Maria didn’t complain, although it was a huge amount of work. There were ten or twelve more rooms that needed service, from what she could tell, and it wasn’t even checkout time yet. She’d have to move fast to keep up.
    “Don’t poke around anywhere else,” Irma continued. “Put your trash in the dumpster, and do your own laundry.”
    She only had one question. “When do I get paid?”
    “Friday.”
    Irma left her alone and Maria got down to work. By noon, she was sweating, resenting the itchy baseball cap on her head and the voluminous T-shirt under her smock. She didn’t stop cleaning for lunch, but she drank plenty of water.
    At the end of the day, when the work was done, she felt drained but satisfied. After returning her cart to the laundry room, she trudged across the courtyard, almost bumping into a man who’d walked in off the street.
    “Excuse me,” he said in a low voice, going around her.
    He was tall, dark-haired, sort of rough-looking. His T-shirt was dingy, his jeans were torn, and his goatee was scraggly. He seemed on edge and a little scary. Not the kind of person she wanted to stop and chat with.
    And yet she did stop. Because … she knew him. His appearance had changed dramatically, but she knew him. When he glanced back at her, their gazes locked for a moment. She’d never forget those eyes, a calm hazel, fringed by dark lashes.
    This was the last place she expected to see him. The man who’d saved her life.

4
    Maria .
    It was almost as if Ian’s subconscious recognized her first. He’d noticed the slight figure in the baseball cap but he hadn’t studied her closely. His job was to focus on the men who came and went here. Chuy didn’t have any female customers.
    He was aware that she’d stopped in her tracks, which was odd. These days, women crossed the street to avoid his path. Sensing her stare, he’d glanced back. Their eyes met for a split second before she turned and kept walking, her head down.
    Maria Santos.
    What the hell was she doing at the Hotel del Oro? Cleaning rooms, apparently. There was a pale blue smock slung over her shoulder.
    Ian didn’t think she remembered him. He hardly knew his own face in the mirror anymore, and years had passed since she’d seen him. She’d also been only semiconscious during most of their interactions. She might have fuzzy memories of a clean-cut border agent, but hedoubted she could reconcile those images with the man he appeared to be now.
    Maybe she’d paused to size him up as a possible safety threat. Or, worse, a messy hotel guest.
    No worries on that front. Unlike Chuy, he didn’t live here.
    Ian was almost certain she hadn’t recognized him, but he felt pretty confident in his identification of her. Even with the hat pulled down low on her forehead and a shapeless T-shirt disguising her slender curves, he knew her. He knew the shape of her face, with its fine features and dramatic eyebrows.
    He’d memorized every detail.
    The last time he’d visited her, the bruises on her neck were fading and the swelling on her cheek had gone down. He remembered holding her hand, rubbing his thumb over the delicate bones in her wrist.
    Ian shook his head, impatient with himself. He’d done this before. There were thousands of young, pretty Hispanic girls in San Diego. More than once he’d thought he’d seen Maria, only to realize his mistake when he got closer.
    That’s all it was. His