“Humberto?” George swatted him on the arm. “Not so loud.” But it was loud enough for the large Cruzado to hear. Shooting the three guests a dark frown, Humberto quickly shortened the distance between them. He kept his voice low and spoke in English, but it was edged with warning. “It is important you continue to act the gracious guests of Señor Ruiz. Do nothing suspicious. I will tell you when it is safe to move. Perhaps tomorrow; perhaps not.” It was the most Humberto had ever spoken to them at once. Michael opened his mouth to ask a question, but Humberto silenced him with another look of warning. He then moved back to his post at the patio steps, narrowed eyes scanning the fields of the plantation dutifully. Clearing his throat in an obvious way, George lifted his coffee cup. “I think I’ll have one more, and then maybe we can have a look around the house. I thought I spotted an art gallery of sorts at the other end of the main hall.” When he got Michael’s attention, George pulled on one ear lobe and flicked his eyes at the manservant who was hovering just inside the house—the servant glanced over at them, and then quickly looked away.
