Wren’s eyes widened. “Oh shit. You beat me then.”
This wasn’t a competition, but he was glad he’d made it in there instead of her.
“How’d you do it?” she asked.
“I figured out the identity of one of the admins—through befriending one of the pissed-off ex-admins—and was able to compromise his e-mail and recover the password.”
“Ah,” she said. “So what did you find?”
He sighed. “Look, I’ve seen worse men than him.” He took care not to say his name out loud. Just in case. “But he’s right up there with some of the worst, I’m not gonna lie.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“That subforum has instructions on how to access the Dark Web, where there is basically a female shopping list for sick fucks. Darren uses vulnerabilities to find data of”—he paused as he scrambled for the right words—“the more vulnerable of the population. Mostly single women. He offers them money to appear in videos doing whatever his subscribers order. If the women say no, he often doesn’t take that as an answer and threatens them. His promises on how they will be treated in said videos are not kept.”
Wren’s face paled, and she swallowed on a nod. “Okay.”
He’d never had a hard time reciting the crimes of the people he hacked, but looking into Wren’s eyes while saying these words was proving to be difficult. He glanced around, but they were alone. He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper anyway. “He takes advantage of young women, or those with no families, or women who are here illegally. Sometimes he’ll give them money, other times he’ll just drug them. He films their assault, and he threatens to kill them if they talk. They usually have no recourse, no one to help them, and they can’t go to the police. This is all done on the Dark Web and, as far as I can tell, he’s been doing this for years.”
Wren’s brow furrowed. “Do you think Arden is mixed up in that?”
“I haven’t found the connection yet, but I know it’s there. When this is over, we’re going after him, too.”
She took a deep breath and looked away, blinking her eyes rapidly. No, Darren was her mission. His destruction would be by her hands alone. She needed it.
“Look, Wren…”
“That’s not what he wants from me,” she said.
He had to be honest with her. He hadn’t been about the earrings, and he’d paid for it. “Then why was he asking you all those questions at dinner about your family?”
“Why would he take me out in public if he planned to rape me?”
“I don’t know.” Roarke gritted his teeth, his fingers itching to get back to his computer, to do more work, because the better job he did, the safer Wren would be. “I wish I had more time to flush this out…”
“The anniversary dinner is the last time I have to deal with him. We’ll get those files, and I’ll disappear.” She turned a fierce glare on him. “Remember? That’s why we’re doing this thing where we pretend you didn’t get me off in my apartment hallway.”
“Jesus Christ, Wren.”
“I have the crew and Marisol to protect me while I’m at the mansion. And I can take care of myself. He’s not getting me, Roarke.”
That sick feeling returned, lining his stomach like slow-acting poison. He speared his fingers through his hair. “That might be what you’re telling yourself, but pep talks don’t do it for me. I like facts, and the fact is, the Saltners are shady as fuck.”
“The facts”—the color was back in Wren’s cheeks now, reddening as she clenched her fists at her side—“are that Marisol and I know what we’re doing. We’re not just winging it. Jock is running the cameras, and I’m going to walk out of there even if I have to spike someone in the balls with my heel to do it. Okay?”
“I prefer a less violent backup.”
She gave him a withering look.
He reached out and gripped her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her nostrils widened, and she stiffened before relaxing into his grip. Her eyelids fluttered as he rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “I’m not pretending anything,” he said. He still remembered how she looked in his lap, the way she writhed on his fingers, the smoothness of her skin under her palms. And best of all—or maybe worst of all—he remembered exactly how she tasted. “You’re the one who told me to leave.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, they were wet. “Because it was the right thing to do. Neither of us are emotionally capable of figuring out what’s happening between us.”
She had a point. He could try to reduce what was happening between them to lust, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t separate how badly he wanted Wren from everything else he’d always loved about her, how she kicked in every protective instinct he had. His feelings for her were too overwhelming to combine into a mission that might take the last chunk of his soul.
Her mouth said one thing, but those eyes, those expressive eyes, were telling him to prove her wrong. For a moment, he thought he could. Kiss her, tell her they’d work it out, that it didn’t matter if she had to vanish. But that line was a real, tangible thing to him, a wall between them that he could touch and scratch with his nails. Climbing over it would change everything.
So he dropped his hand from her chin and absorbed the disappointment that flashed through her eyes. “You’re right,” he said, his voice as dead as he felt.
She winced and turned away from him. They gave each other a few seconds to gather themselves, to back away from that wall, to retreat to separate sides. Finally, she glanced at him over her shoulder. Her expression was blank. “Ready to go? I think we both have more work to do.”
Right, back to the computer, back to where everything made sense, and he didn’t have to attempt to read horrible things like emotions.
They walked to the car in silence, a heaviness between them that hadn’t been there when they arrived. See? This was why he hated talking. It never did anyone any fucking good. Talking wouldn’t save Wren. His computer would, which was why he needed to get back to HQ as soon as possible.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wren fingered the jewels at the neckline of her dress as the Town Car made its way to the Saltner estate in Kalorama.
The bodice of her red dress was covered in sewn-in jewels—which was where they’d hidden the camera and microphone. There’d be no removing them in case of a gift from Darren.
She’d declined an earpiece, unable to fit it in her ear properly in a way that was undetectable. She wasn’t blowing this just so she could hear Roarke’s voice in her ear the whole night.
Darren was on the phone, talking business about Alpha. In fact, he had been since his driver came to the door to get her. If he was any other guy, she might have refused to even get in the car while his phone was at his ear—because rude. But with Darren, she was relieved. No awkward small talk. She could take a breather before she walked into hell.
While she knew Darren had been involved in what happened to her and Fiona, she hadn’t known about the forum that Roarke had found. Hearing the words from Roarke’s mouth back at that rest stop had made her physically ill. While Wren had escaped before they’d been able to film her, Fiona had not. Wren would never forget her friend’s hollowed-out expression when she returned to college and promptly dropped out. The knowledge that Fiona’s assault was probably ordered by some pervert online made Wren want to stab someone. Actually, not someone, but the man sitting next to her. The man responsible.
She hadn’t told Roarke the truth even though she’d had the chance. This mission was his, his revenge for Flynn, and she knew, if she told Roarke what had happened to her, he’d be distracted. So she’d bide her time. Just like he wanted to avenge his brother’s murder himself, she wanted to avenge Fiona’s assault herself.
The car approached the entrance to the gated community, stopping for the driver to enter a numeric code before the gate swung open. She tried to see, but there were shields on either side of the keypad, like horse blinders. She knew the van
holding Roarke and the crew was around somewhere, just outside the gate.
The car drove inside, and she turned slightly in her seat to see the gate close behind her. Why did the clang feel like a prison cell closing?
She turned around to see Darren slip his phone into the pocket of his tux. He sighed and faced her, his gaze raking over her body. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re a successful businessman. I understand that means you work around the clock.”
With the way he studied her, he seemed to be unsure if she was patronizing him. Which she had been in her head, but hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Yikes.
“I mean,” she added, “I was a little put out you ignored me, but I guess you’ll turn your phone off now?”
A grin spread across his face. He wanted her to be annoyed. Ugh, was he trying to play hard-to-get alpha male? That would be the worst. He reached over and squeezed her thigh through her dress. “I can’t turn it off completely but the ringer is off, and I’ll only answer it if there’s an emergency, how’s that?”
“That’s great. I’m sorry to be like that, but our date last time was cut short so…”
“Yes.” He cocked his head, the shrewd gaze once again daring her to lie. “How is your friend?”
There was something off about his body language, his expression. He didn’t believe her. She wasn’t sure what he didn’t believe. She hoped it was something minor, like her friend being in the hospital, and not something major, like—well, her whole identity. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she froze every muscle in her face so her fear didn’t show through. Why would he still invite her if he was suspicious of her? He did give her that look often. Maybe that was just what his face did. Act like nothing is wrong, be the pretty vacuous date.
She smiled at him and hoped it didn’t look forced. “She’s fine. Thanks for asking. Some burns from the airbag.”
“Ah, those things are nasty,” he said, still with the smug grin, like he knew something she didn’t know.
“Yeah, they are. And she has some bruised ribs.”
“She’ll heal.” He peered out the window and rested his chin on his hand. “Tonight there won’t be any accidents like that, I’m sure.”
That sounded…like a threat. Inside, her nerves were blaring out a warning, but all she could do was smile and say, “Right, I’m sure there won’t be.”
He nodded, and she slipped her hand under her leg, digging her nails into the skin until the point of pain in order to keep herself from freaking out. She’d be okay. Marisol had confirmed she’d made it inside and was the model catering employee. Their plan was solid.
Wren took a couple of discreet deep breaths and smoothed out the long satin skirt of her dress. The top was heavy with beading but the bottom was light, with a slit that cut way up to the top of her thigh. Again, Marisol had come through with the wardrobe. Roarke had seen the dress but hadn’t seen it on her. Which was probably for the best.
The car turned down a driveway, either side of the entrance framed with brick columns. They drove up a hill, and at the crest, the lights of the vehicle illuminated a mansion. There were several cars in front of a wide stone staircase that led to the front door, and multiple couples—women in long, glamorous dresses and men in tuxes—were exiting the cars. The driver parked the car along the bank of the long driveway and stepped out.
She’d seen the plans of the estate, studied every detail, yet there was nothing like seeing this much wealth spread out before her, brick by expensive brick. Columns stretched from the first to the second floor, and the third floor held a balcony that was already populated with drink-holding guests.
The mansion was sprawling and the yard—could something the size of three football fields still be called a yard?—was lined with tall trees. Although she knew the neighbors were not far because she’d seen their houses, the Saltner estate seemed to be in its own little world. She swallowed, the isolation pressing down on her like a hundred-pound weight.
Calm, Wren. You have Marisol.
The door to the car opened, and Darren exited first and leaned in with his hand out. Wren took it with a smile and slid out of the vehicle. The house was like something out of the movies, complete with several spotlights on an impressive fountain. Darren slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they began to walk toward the front door. Her heels slid a bit on the stone walkway leading to the staircase. Even if she hadn’t been dreading this whole night, dressing up and attending exclusive parties in a mansion wasn’t really her thing. She’d rather be home in sweatpants, eating pizza and watching Jason Statham movies on repeat. She steeled herself for introductions and small talk and everything she kind of hated.
The house was lit within with yellow light, and when they entered the double front doors, her heels clicked on black-and-white tile. The foyer was massive, laid out in front of a wide staircase that led up to the second floor.
She was distracted thinking how much fun it would be to slide down the bannister of the staircase when a tray of champagne was presented to her. “Champagne, ma’am?”
“Oh, I’m okay right now,” she said, eyeing the flutes of bubbly, wishing she could have one to calm her nerves. But no, the last thing she needed was to be impaired.
“And you, sir?”
Darren took a glass with a slight nod. “Yes, thank you.”
Wren smiled at the waiter, a pretty, brown-eyed Hispanic woman… Whoa, it was Marisol.
She wore a wig—that had to be a wig—of long, brown wavy hair, as well as contacts. Her name tag said Carmen, and she smiled back, completely in the role, before moving on to the next couple.
Wren tore her gaze away from Marisol’s back before she gave anything away. She patted Darren’s arm as he sipped the champagne. “Is it good?”
“Yes,” he said, draining it quickly. “Could use some hors d’oeuvres though. Let’s get some food.”
“I could go for some bacon-wrapped scallops,” Wren said.
Darren laughed. “Oh, this is a Saltner party. You’ll be getting much more than bacon-wrapped scallops.”
Wren wanted to roll her eyes at his you-silly-girl tone. Instead, she focused on the fact that she really loved food, and damn it, she was going to eat something before stealing all his dad’s computer files.
He led her down the hallway, where they were stopped numerous times to make conversation. She was introduced to more people than she could count. Names that she filed away in case she’d need them later. She was probably the youngest one there, and if she saw another Asian or even someone with a shade darker skin tone other than Marisol, she’d be surprised as hell.
Eventually they made their way into the ballroom, and if she wasn’t trying to behave, she would have yelled jackpot. The room was lined with tables of food, like a chocolate fountain, a swan sculpture made out of fruit, and an entire table of caviar. Hell, there was even a beef carving station. If Darren didn’t let her eat, she might just kill him by the end of the night.
“Wow,” she murmured. “This is the best smelling room I think I’ve ever been in.”
Darren laughed. “You’re impressed with the food?”
“Look, I like food,” she said. “This ballroom is gorgeous, but the food makes it A-plus. Tell your dad your date is really happy to get some freshly carved prime rib with horseradish.”
Darren turned them around. “You can tell him yourself.”
She found herself face-to-face with Arden Saltner. She’d seen pictures of him, but nothing had prepared her to stand in front of the man. His tux was stretched over his wide stomach, and he looked down his nose at her. He had that puffy alcoholic look, but beneath it all, she could tell he’d once been a handsome man.
“Dad, this is my date, Lacy. And this is my father, Arden.”
The man reached out his hand to shake hers, and she clasped it, swallowing the bile rising in her throat at the feel of his slimy skin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Salt
ner.”
He pursed his lips as they shook and dropped her hand. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hand and his face. “She’s very pretty.”
That was it, no direct comment to her. It didn’t surprise her, as she’d met men like that before. And this time, she knew it’d be all the sweeter when they brought him to his knees.
“Your mother is around here somewhere. She’ll want to see you.”
“Of course.” Darren preened, taking the compliment that Wren was pretty as a reflection on his character. “I’m going to get Lacy something to eat, and we’ll find Mom.”
“You have a gorgeous house,” Wren said to Arden. “It’s an honor to be here.”
The man made some sort of grunt. “Yes, thank you.”
A woman touched his arm, and he turned away from them to greet another guest.
That was it, her introduction to Arden Saltner. He’d written her off as a pretty girl in a dress. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad to be underestimated.
Darren led them around the room, and she had to hand it to him because he was a decent date. He held her plate as she sampled all the delicacies in between sneaking bites of food himself.
Eventually they migrated to a high table, where an older couple was standing. Darren introduced them as his aunt and uncle. They proceeded to talk about boring family things, like the latest cousin to have a baby, who’d moved, and who’d done something horrid and disgraced the family, like voting for a Democrat.
There was a lull at one point during which Arden commanded the attention of the ballroom so he could stand at the center, holding his wife’s hand, to talk about their marriage and a lot of other things that Wren tuned out.
Marisol circulated the room, and Wren was impressed with how she’d transformed herself. She didn’t walk with her usual saunter, and her smug facial expression was nonexistent. She was altogether very bland and blended in to the background. Even though Wren was aware of her every movement, Marisol was doing a stellar job at not drawing attention to herself.
It was probably killing Marisol to act like this. She’d leave this mission and torment Jock or go clubbing.
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