My Sinful Desire (Sinful Men Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  My stomach clenched. Evil butterflies swarmed my belly, the nightmarish, haunting kind.

  As the orchestra swelled during the gorgeous piece of music, I clutched my belly. When Holden joined in on the piano, I dropped my head to my knees. Ryan rubbed my back and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. I clasped my hand over my mouth, then whispered, “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

  I took off.

  In the bathroom, I washed my hands over and over, as if that would somehow give me the answer. When I pushed open the door to leave the restroom, I found Ryan waiting in the hallway. The sounds of Beethoven playing from the ballroom could still be faintly heard.

  “You’re worrying me. Are you pregnant?”

  I laughed. Deeply and maniacally. Oh, but it would be easier in some ways if I were.

  But as I met his gaze, the pendulum stopped swinging. I had my answer. It came in his presence here, his pursuit of me tonight, his clear and real concern for me. It came in the facts too. It was his mother’s pattern; it was his family’s story.

  “I lied to you,” I blurted out.

  He furrowed his brow. “About what?”

  I grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him to the end of the cavernous hallway, standing against the gold-trimmed, scalloped wall as I confessed. “I lied to you about the pattern. I did make it this morning. But it’s not a pattern, Ryan. It’s a code. A hidden code of addresses. And those addresses match names of people who lived there years ago. Do the names TJ and Kenny Nelson mean anything to you?”

  He froze. His face turned white. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Then, he managed words, and they sounded dry and cold as he whispered barrenly, “What did you just say?”

  I repeated the names.

  “TJ and K,” he hissed, his eyes full of fire. He stepped back, his hands shooting behind him to grab the wall. As if he needed to hold on to something. “How do you know those names?”

  I quickly explained what happened that morning—reversing the steps, then calling Jenna, then finding the addresses from years ago. “I don’t know what it means,” I said, my voice rising with desperation. Maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe everyone would have a good laugh at my half-baked code-cracking. “I might be overreacting. Maybe I’m just going crazy. It’s possibly nothing at all. But is there a chance that it means something? Is there a chance that these are the two names that John has been looking for?”

  56

  Ryan

  I might be shocked to my bones, but I was dead sure of one thing.

  There was no way I was keeping this to myself.

  “Let’s go get John.”

  Treasure Island glittered across the Strip.

  The glass of the window cooled my forehead as I stared at the hotel across the street from the room at The Venetian. Sophie had rented this suite for the event. The orchestra members had used it as a green room before going onstage, and now for me it was a waiting chamber.

  The gold-colored hotel shone brightly back at me. I could still remember when my father had taken me to see the towering structure. To my young eyes, Treasure Island had seemed majestic, a true giant among its neighbors, and I’d gazed skyward with that childlike sense of awe, my father’s arm around me as we explored. My memories of my dad were here in this city, and through it all, this was my home, and always would be.

  And through it all, too, I’d been a fucking mule, carrying secret names and addresses in a goddamn dog jacket pattern.

  I’d held on to that pattern all through high school, college, the Army, and beyond. Stowed it safely away because I’d thought it meant something to my mom.

  Something real. Something about hope, the future, and another chance.

  It was supposed to be her redemption.

  What was it really though? Was it her own notes she’d never had a chance to toss out? Names of users? Names of dealers she owed money to? Or worse? And if so, had I simply been in the right place at the right time when she was arrested and she’d thrust it into my hands, whispering for me to keep it safe for her?

  She knew I’d do what she asked.

  I was her favorite.

  I was the only one she could ask.

  Latent rage roiled inside me, rising and twisting through my veins. I breathed out heavily, an angry plume, like a dragon. The lights on Treasure Island flickered, and I snapped my gaze away, staring at my black leather shoes as my emotions shape-shifted again.

  Now, I was flooded with shame—so much shame at having been deceived.

  Because, dammit. She could have asked me to throw the fucking thing out instead. Lord knows I would have. I would have crumpled it up on the way to school the next day and chucked it in a trash can. At least then I wouldn’t have carried it around like some sad sack year after year. I wouldn’t have held on to the patternless pattern like a fool, running my fingertips over it as if it were a symbol of her freedom someday.

  When now it seemed more like a glaring piece of evidence.

  A lie now exposed.

  What else had she told me that was a lie?

  I wanted to know so badly my bones vibrated with coiled tension. I wanted to know who those men were. I wanted to know what role they played in my father’s death.

  The tension in me spiked, and I pressed my fingertips to the dark window.

  When the door creaked open, I turned around, straightening my spine and lifting my chin, ready to stop guarding the secrets my mother had asked me to keep. John and Sophie walked into the suite.

  “Sophie said you had some new details,” John began, cutting to the chase as he motioned for me to take a seat on the couch. Sophie sat next to me, and John opted for a chair.

  “Thanks for taking the time out of your night,” I said, then drew in a deep breath, letting it fuel me, letting it feed me as I proceeded to tell John about the pattern that was never a pattern. I traded off with Sophie, and she weighed in too, explaining her role in the discovery and then sharing the names.

  TJ Nelson and Kenny Nelson.

  Marshall’s words rang in my ears. The detective would probably give a right arm for those names.

  57

  John

  Yes.

  This was everything.

  My eyes surely flickered with wild hope. This was what I wanted.

  Names.

  I’d been hunting these names for the last few months. Ever since Bianca tipped us off.

  These had to be the guys we wanted. The guys she’d said had called her. The names she didn’t know either.

  My fists tightened with anticipation.

  “Are those the guys you’re looking for?” Ryan asked, his expression taut. “Because you asked me when I first met you who she was associating with at the time. You said you had new evidence and were trying to determine the validity of it. Is this the corroboration you needed?”

  I’d kept my lips shut the first time we’d talked, holding all the cards, telling him little.

  He hadn’t needed to know. Hell, he didn’t need to know when I was still trying to assemble the clues.

  But as he swallowed roughly, I could tell he was hoping the information exchange would flow both ways tonight. And truth be told, I owed him one. “I can’t say for sure, but this is as close as we’ve come, and it lines up with my leads,” I said, giving him something. He released a deep breath, clearly relieved this wasn’t a fool’s errand after all. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but I really appreciate you sharing this—”

  “I did nothing.” He pointed to my sister. “She figured it out.”

  I cracked a smile. No surprise she’d done the hard work. My brilliant sister. “I like to say she’s my code breaker,” I said lightly.

  Sophie waved us off. “Hardly. There’s more to it, but the other rows are going to take more time to figure out.”

  “I might need you as a consultant on this case, then,” I said to her.

  Her expression was earnest, hel
pful. Exactly how I knew her to be. “You know I’ll do whatever I can, and whatever you need,” she said.

  “This is a good start, and I appreciate it.” I turned to Ryan, scratched my jaw, and gave him some details. “I want to let you know we’ve been looking for Stefano’s accomplices, so I’ll share what I’m able to.” I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, eager as I spoke, sharing what I could—there were others involved, and we wanted those others behind bars too. “We believe that Jerry Stefano did not act alone the night of the murder. We believe he had help. We believe he had both a broker who arranged his hits, and a getaway driver who, of course, drove him away from the scene of the crime that night. At the time he was questioned, Jerry repeatedly claimed that after Dora Prince hired him, he acted alone in the crime. He steadfastly stuck to that statement for eighteen years and still remains wedded to it. But we have reason to believe he never gave up the names of his accomplices as a sort of exchange. In return for his silence, these two men made a pact to look out for Mr. Stefano’s child, who was born shortly before he was incarcerated.”

  He seemed to take in the information quickly, absorbing it.

  “Wow. That’s a lot,” he said, rubbing a hand across his jaw, taking his time as he asked the next question. “Do you think my mother protected their names too, in some sort of exchange?”

  That was the question. The biggest one of all. What was the exchange? What was Dora Prince protecting the Nelsons for? That was what I need to know.

  “I don’t have the answer to that. But this is the biggest break we’ve had so far in potentially finding the other men who we believe were involved in the murder of your father,” I said.

  Something seemed to change in Ryan when I said those last words.

  Cruel words.

  But words that were surely a part of him now.

  Except, as I read his face, I swore he was hearing them in a new way.

  And my senses went on high alert. I rubbed my thumb against my forefinger, a habit, one I indulged in when I had a feeling a witness was about to serve up the goods.

  58

  Ryan

  Even though I had heard those words countless times over the last eighteen years—murder of your father—they took on a deeper meaning then.

  They echoed in my bones and resonated in my blood.

  For so long, I’d protected the rest of my mother’s story. Kept it locked up in case the truth would ever set her free. For nearly two decades, I tried to make sense of my mother’s urging me to stay quiet about the drugs, and if her warning had something to do with the other men involved rather than with her quest to prove her innocence.

  But this was no longer about her. This was about finding everyone who was responsible for my father’s death.

  Every single one.

  And to do that, I had to speak the whole truth.

  Everything I’d kept locked behind bars in my head.

  “There’s more I have to tell you,” I said, steady and even. Strong too. I looked to Sophie, who’d been by my side the whole time, like a partner, like a rock, like my foundation. She had given me strength to speak the truth to her, and to speak now for my family. Her blue eyes were full of honesty, full of love. She’d said a few minutes ago I lied, but that was nothing compared to what I had done my whole life.

  The lies of omission.

  The lies of protection.

  I shucked them off. Shed them all. Everything was coming undone.

  Scrubbing a hand across my chin, I unraveled another secret. “I found my mother doing cocaine when I was thirteen. She told me she was quitting. She said she met her lover, Luke Carlton, in Narcotics Anonymous. She also told me Jerry Stefano was her dealer.” John arched an eyebrow, tilting his head at that bit of information. I explained more. “She always claimed she’d been framed for the murder because she owed him money. That’s why she was taking on more work for the gymnastics team,” I said, serving it all up, giving everything to the one man who might be able to exact justice. A sense of freedom rushed through me as I answered each and every question John asked.

  When I was done, Sophie excused herself to the restroom.

  John thanked me profusely. “I know it’s not easy to share all that. But I’m grateful, and this will help. I assure you.”

  “Find those fuckers,” I said, looking him in the eyes.

  “That’s my goal.”

  “Are you going to talk to my mom about all of this?”

  John nodded. “I will, but she usually doesn’t say much.”

  I scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

  “And I’ll have to coordinate with her attorney, so it’ll be a few days.”

  “I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Appreciate that.” John extended a hand. “By the way, it’s no secret that I wasn’t thrilled when I found out you were dating my sister. But she’s incredibly happy. And all I ask is that you keep it that way.”

  “That’s my goal,” I said, and it was number one on my to-do list.

  59

  Sophie

  I understood everything now. Why he visited his mom so much. The way the secrets had twisted over the years, like a string running through a labyrinth. Ryan had kept them all inside his head, locked up tight, clutching like a lifeline the wish of his one living parent.

  My place wasn’t to judge the guilt or innocence of Dora Prince. The state of Nevada had already done that. But my role, the self-appointed role I embraced, was to be there for my man.

  “I’m proud of you for speaking all those hard and terrible truths,” I said as the town car driver took us to Ryan’s house after the event, and the intense visit with my brother ended.

  “I barely know what to think anymore,” he muttered, staring out the window as the streetlights and cars in his neighborhood streaked by.

  I dropped a hand to his shoulder. “You were brave to tell him.”

  “Hardly,” he said, mocking himself as he turned to look at me. “If I were brave, I would have said something years ago.”

  I stared at him levelly and shook my head. “You didn’t know what you were dealing with. You still don’t entirely know. That’s why it’s brave. You took a chance.”

  Once we were inside his house, I grabbed his shoulders then cupped his cheeks. “You said something now. That’s all that matters.”

  He swayed closer to me, his eyes floating closed, his hold on gravity seeming precarious.

  “Come with me,” I whispered.

  I took his hand and led him to the couch, holding him close. Johnny Cash leaped on the cushion and curled up at our feet. Running my hands through Ryan’s hair, I let him rest his head in the crook of my neck, sensing what he needed right now was a safe landing. I wanted to be that for him. I wanted to be everything he needed.

  “I just . . . Soph . . . if she . . . I don’t know.” His words beat out a staccato rhythm of what was said and unsaid.

  “I know.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “I know.”

  He sighed heavily, then pressed his lips to my chest. It wasn’t sexual; it wasn’t the start of something dirty. It was a gesture of the familiar, of comfort, and I was glad he found it in me.

  “For so long, she’s said one thing to me. She said she was set up. She said she was framed.” His voice was low and sad.

  My heart ached. It cried for him—heavy, mournful tears for what he had borne all those years. “So you go see her and you ask her. You tell her you need to know for your own peace of mind.”

  He shook his head. “She won’t tell me. Talking to her is like pulling teeth.”

  I brushed a kiss on his forehead. “Then you find the answer in yourself,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him. He held me tight.

  We stayed like that, curled together, him in his tux, me in my dress, nestled snug on the couch, a ball of fur by our feet. We talked more, whispered confessions and admissions, hopes and wishes.

  “There were days when every
thing felt so out of control. So beyond anything I could ever manage,” he said softly, and for a moment, I understood that there was something more to his quest for control in the bedroom. With the way his life had spiraled, I suspected some part of his mind needed the solidity of that kind of dominance—sexual dominance—just like I needed submission to let go. I kept that notion to myself, though, not because it was a secret, but because it wasn’t my goal to psychoanalyze him. Whether that was his reason, or whether he simply liked it that way, I was happy to be on the receiving end.

  “It was hard to manage because you carried so much. The weight of so many secrets. The pressure of so many things you should never have been asked to keep to yourself. Forget guilt or innocence or who was framed or not framed. You were fourteen. You deserved to be fourteen, not a secret keeper,” I said fiercely.

  Then, when the conversation seemed to unwind, and sensing it was time to move on to something lighter, I sat up, straightened my hair, patted him on the leg, and said, “How about you teach me how to play pool finally? I believe that was one of the promises you made when I stayed here last weekend, and pretty much the only one you failed to deliver on.”

  A sliver of a smile crept across his face. “I failed to deliver on something, did I?”

  I nodded. “I’m wretched at pool. Show me how to play.”

  He stood up and offered me his hand. “Why do I have the feeling that after one game you’re going to be a pool shark?”

  “If that’s the case, maybe for this first round, we should just play strip pool?” I ran a hand between my breasts as if to demonstrate the possibilities.

  A groan escaped his throat, and he looped his arms around my waist. He brushed his lips against my neck. I closed my eyes and smiled, and we were right back there. Our flirty, dirty, and naughty side was never far away. All was not perfect. All was not completely right in the universe. There were so many questions left unanswered. But we had moved through something difficult together tonight, and each obstacle we faced made us stronger.