She tried the last door, behind her, and found it locked. She pulled out the lock picks she’d hidden as pins in her hair, releasing a soft tendril that curled against her cheek. Making quick work of the lock, she stepped inside the room and shut the door behind her, more relaxed at having one more barrier between herself and that foreign world.
It was Stone’s den, complete with an entire wall of ceiling-to-floor bookcases. Skye let only her gaze skim along the spines of several first-edition classics and beautiful sculptures. Again using a cocktail napkin to cover her fingers, she began her search in earnest. Surprisingly, the drawers of the desk were unlocked—probably because he had little to hide in there. Pencils, pens, the usual office supplies.
The second drawer, however, had her sucking in a breath. There were two torn half-cards inside, but they didn’t fit together. There was writing along the edge of each, a name and a date scrawled in ink. Darren Boscoe was written on one. She remembered the card that had spilled from Darren’s dead hand. Same suit and number—eight of diamonds. This one was a match to the half she had in her things back at the motel. At least now she knew for sure that Darren was connected to Stone.
The other card had another name. Tristan Floyd. Her breath caught. Tristan was one of the men at the ranch, the one who’d delivered Jared’s phone message. He’d known she and Jared were meeting at the Roadhouse. Had Tristan been working for Stone?
She noted the dates on the cards. Darren’s was from eighteen months ago. Tristan’s was from five years ago, and it was a face card. Did that mean anything? There had to be more answers somewhere. But she found nothing else of note in the drawers.
Her gaze swept the room, looking for something that led to Loretta. Or something she could confront Stone with, and exchange for information on Loretta. The cards, while incriminating, could easily be explained away.
Her attention was drawn to the framed art on the wall across from the desk. The oil painting was massive, but what captured her interest was its subject. Zeus on Mount Olympus. Did Stone think he deserved to be among the gods, or that he was some kind of god? From what she’d heard about the man, and observed through her rifle’s scope, it was entirely possible.
On a hunch, she felt around the edges of the frame and found a hidden button. Her fingers released it with a touch, and the painting swung out toward her from a side hinge. A safe lay behind it, tucked into the wall. Skye wasn’t a safecracker. Her street skills only extended so far.
Footsteps sounded on the marble flooring in the hall, then stopped on the other side of the door. With shaking hands, Skye quickly swung the painting back in place and stepped away, gauging the distance to the nearest exits. She shifted toward the French doors that led outside, but before she could get closer to freedom, the den’s door opened and she altered her plan. Running in heels and scaling the six-foot stone wall in her dress wasn’t her preferred escape strategy. She’d have to talk her way out of this one.
Her gaze collided with familiar caramel eyes and her thoughts scattered. Jared. Had her telltale heart been beating loud enough that he could hear it from across the house? Impostor. Lub-dub. Impostor. The lub-dubs sped up and became more erratic as his expression hardened.
She straightened, preparing for battle, but her heart continued to hammer out its staccato rhythm.
“What are you doing here?” Jared forced his glance around the den before he allowed himself to look directly at Skye again.
Skye. In the flesh. Safe.
Relief coursed through him, as did a sudden hunger. He’d been totally unprepared for the impact of her lithe body dressed to the nines, her hair swept back except for a piece that had fallen to frame her face and accentuate eyes so deep blue a man could drown in them. They shimmered as emotions—guilt, acknowledgment, calculation—flashed in rapid succession, like sunlight dancing on waves.
She lifted one shoulder as if it were no consequence to get caught inside the host’s private study. Not just any host, but the wealthy, powerful Robert Stone.
Her top teeth sank into her plump lower lip. She released it to send him a sheepish smile. “Needed some air.”
“Most people go outside for that.”
“I was looking for a bottle of water.”
His brows went up. “There’s a fully stocked, open bar out there. You could have anything you want.”
“Except a goddamn sealed bottle of water.” She pressed her lips together.
“Sealed?”
“It’s safer that way.” She stopped, as if that was all the explanation required. He recalled how, at the Roadhouse, she’d ordered an unopened bottle of beer. Was she paranoid that someone would drug her?
He shook his head, baffled by the sidetracked conversation. “I didn’t mean why are you here, in Robert Stone’s private, locked den—though that’s dangerous in itself. I meant why are you in Stone’s home at all. You should have come to me first.” Her lack of faith irritated him. “What have you been up to the past twenty-four hours?”
Her chin tipped upward. “This and that. A call to your partner, retracing the credit card trail Loretta left, finding evidence against your boss.” She pulled off the cocky, confident attitude, but her eyes occasionally flicked about the room, as if looking for escape.
“I told you, Stone’s not my boss. What did you find?” He took a couple steps closer.
She squared her shoulders. “Nothing I’m ready to share with you. Look, I needed a place to breathe. I figured I’d confront Stone, but I couldn’t think in there, so I wandered back here.” She was back to lying to him, then. One step forward, two steps back. She was leading him in a merry dance.
“There were plenty of doors off the living room that would have taken you onto the patio or into the garden.” She’d been standing not five feet from one of those exits when he’d first seen her. “Better yet, walk out the front door and don’t look back. I’ll meet you somewhere and we’ll finally talk.”
She ignored his suggestion and slipped off her three-inch black stilettos. “Wriggling my toes in the carpet helps. Not sure how women wear these on a regular basis.” She dangled the shoes in his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if she planned to use them as a weapon, yet he didn’t sense she was a direct threat. Not at the moment, anyway.
Her comment had his gaze sliding down her body to the delicate arches of her feet. He just as slowly slid his gaze back up. “I doubt you had much opportunity to dress up at the ranch.”
Hurt crested on those waves in her eyes but quickly drifted away. She attempted another casual, one-shouldered shrug but it came off jerky. “Guess that won’t be a problem anymore.”
Fuck. Was that why she hadn’t come to him? She still thought that he’d had something to do with blowing up her ranch, even after talking to Dev. “I had nothing to do with that. Nothing,” he repeated when she snorted. He sucked in a deep breath. “Okay, maybe something.”
She arched an elegant eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Stone or somebody else must have followed me from California. Darren Boscoe, or the guy he met up with. They had to be Stone’s men.”
A line knit her brow. “I thought you were one of Stone’s men. You don’t seem like the type to be left out of the loop. And you know Darren’s full name.”
“Because it was on the coroner’s report. I was looking into it for you.”
“And Tristan Floyd? What do you know about him?”
“I don’t know that name.” The power of her distrusting gaze—it gave lost at sea a new meaning—had him blowing out a breath to steady himself. Her gaze slid to the door behind him and he sensed her desire to bolt, so he stepped closer, putting her within arm’s reach. “Are you ready to sit down and talk yet?”
“Maybe.” She looked up at him from under a thick curtain of dark lashes. “Maybe I was hoping you’d follow me.” Her tone was like a satin-gloved hand sliding down his torso to his groin, even though they hadn’t touched.
&
nbsp; “Stop with the games.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, husky with desire.
Her pink tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip. “Maybe I’m starting to trust you.” She jerked her head toward the direction of the party and her hair slid across her bare shoulder. He shivered as if it had touched him. “Out there, you didn’t raise the alarm when I showed up, did you?”
He took a step closer. “Of course not. I’m the one who told Meyer and Duffy to let you in if you showed up.” A flash of confusion crossed her expression. “Cut the bullshit. If you trusted me, you could have called me or gone straight to my house. You have the address. Why Stone’s study?” What did she think she’d find here? And would she tell him? It was important to him that she trust him. In turn, he had to trust that whatever she’d tell him was the truth. For Chelsea’s sake.
“I was looking for something.”
“And did you find it?” He took another step toward her and she stepped back, bumping against the desk behind her.
“No.” Her blue eyes flared in an intriguing mix of invitation and warning, strength and vulnerability. Or maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. “What are you going to do now that you have me cornered?”
He suspected his rabbit was never cornered, never completely defenseless. “We’re going to talk.”
But his body was at odds with his brain as he lifted a hand to her neck, then trailed his palm over the silk of her dress to the skin of her shoulder, which was just as sleek as the material barely covering her. He wanted more than conversation. He wanted to touch her. Her expression was wary, ethereal as she watched him inch closer. His skin hummed with the contact beneath his palm, and she quivered beneath his fingertips. Her gaze slid to his lips and she bit down on her bottom lip. He was tempted to dip his head down and taste her for himself.
Her teeth released her lip. “This isn’t talking. Touching wasn’t part of the bargain.”
“We haven’t struck a bargain yet.”
“Who’s Chelsea?” The question was like a bucket of ice water over his head. “Is she your girlfriend?”
He dropped his hand and stepped back. He sucked a shallow breath into his squeezed lungs. But before he could answer, the door swung open.
“Well, what have we here?” Ryan Stone asked.
Jared turned to face the man, cursing his timing. “I’m handling this. Go back to the party.”
“Should we call security?” his friend asked. Finn something.
Ryan snorted. “This guy is security, but I’m pretty sure this area is off-limits, even to him. Maybe we should take this to my father.” His eyes lit with challenge and a predatory type of glee. The little shit was probably angry Jared had kicked his friend’s girl out of the previous party.
Taking advantage of the interruption and Jared’s momentary distraction, Skye took off through the French doors.
Fuck, not again.
He was about to chase after her when Finn stepped between him and her escape route. “Guess she didn’t want you, man.” He grinned.
Jared moved around him and outside. He ran across the grass, but the grounds were pitch black and quiet except for the occasional lights along the footpath, the lanterns on the patio, and the chirp of crickets and soft spray of sprinklers on the lawn. After eyeing the tall stucco wall that bordered the property, he opted to head for the conservatory instead, supposing she could hide in there. Plants of every type filled the space like an overgrown jungle and he kept to the crushed stone footpath, but there was no sign of Skye.
He went back to Stone’s study, where the air still crackled with the electric connection between him and Skye. Ryan and his friend were gone. Shit. They were probably talking to Stone right now, telling the man what they’d seen.
“I want all eyes watching for Skye Hamilton and her vehicle,” he said into the mic that connected him to Meyer and Duffy. He rattled off the make and model of the truck again, though he doubted that’s what she’d been driving. She was too smart for that. He looked around the study, trying to see it through her eyes. What had she hoped to find here? Jared had already looked through everything he could get his hands on, hoping to find a link to Chelsea. Had Skye found anything? She would have had a difficult time concealing any papers or objects within her curve-hugging dress.
“What the hell,” Stone snapped as he stalked into his study. His cheeks were ruddy with anger and alcohol. “Ryan told me he saw you in here with a stranger, a woman.”
“Skye Hamilton.”
“Was she armed?”
“No.”
“I thought I’d done enough to keep her away.” Stone’s gaze moved about his study, not landing on anything in particular. What was Stone concerned she’d find?
“She seems the persistent sort.”
“What did she say?” Say? That seemed an odd thing for Stone to worry about.
“Your son interrupted before I could talk to her and she took off.” He looked toward the open French doors.
“She got away again?” Stone’s face reddened further. “I’m ending my contract with GSS. You and the other guards can leave now. I’ll find someone who can keep one troublesome girl from breaking into my home.” He pivoted and walked out.
Damn it. Skye owed him, big-time, for costing him his only lead on Chelsea. In fact, she owed him a new lead.
His gaze fell on the objects Skye had left behind. Her shoes still lay side-by-side on the floor near the desk where she’d left them, almost as if she’d known from the moment he’d cornered her in the office that she would be making a break for it. She’d jettisoned dead weight and used her escape hatch—again. First her duffel full of weapons, and now these.
He picked up the shoes by their straps. Sexy, simple black, but the heels were deadly, and highly impractical. The scent of jasmine wafted to him. How could someone’s feet smell like a goddamn flower?
Chapter Nine
“You planted these in my father’s study?” Ryan tossed the two half-cards into Finn’s face. “That’s why you wanted to swipe his key earlier? You’re a fucking idiot. What if he’d found them there?”
“He didn’t,” Finn said. “And now Skye has even more reason to believe your father’s the one she should focus on, not us.”
“How’d you know she’d be here tonight?”
Finn grinned. “She’s a hunter.”
Ryan paced his bedroom while the noise from the party continued down the hall. The room was actually a suite, with a king-size bed, a sitting area with a red rock fireplace, and the latest state-of-the-art entertainment system. All this luxury for the prince of sloth while Finn worked his ass off to create something meaningful.
The usual jealousy was there, but it was nothing compared to the high Finn was on. The jolt of awareness and lust he’d experienced in Stone’s study still hummed beneath his skin. He’d finally laid eyes on Skye Hamilton. It wouldn’t be the last time, he vowed. The picture Tristan had managed to text him hadn’t done her justice. The woman was as gorgeous as she was talented in the art of survival. And ballsy, too. She’d waltzed right into the lion’s den—and waltzed right out again. The thrill of hunting her would be far superior to any other expedition they’d hosted at the Hunting Grounds.
But what had she and Jared Bennigan been talking about when Finn and Ryan had interrupted? Their expressions had been intense. Maybe Bennigan had been about to take her to Stone for judgment. It didn’t matter anymore. Bennigan would soon be out of the way, after failing to do his job so many times. And if that wasn’t enough to keep the man away, Finn had other means. But maybe Stone would do the dirty work for him. Stone had no patience for ineptness—which was why Ryan didn’t have a job in the family company. The reminder made Finn smile.
“This isn’t fucking funny.” Ryan stopped his pacing and walked back to him, jabbing a finger in his face. “Nobody is supposed to know about the Redemption Club.”
“Relax. They don’t know an
ything about the Club. To an outsider, these are just a couple of torn cards.” He bent over to scoop up the symbols of Darren’s and Tristan’s debts. “When Tristan told me Darren brought his card to the ranch, and he saw Skye pick it up off the ground, I knew she’d come looking for answers. She already thinks your father’s responsible for screwing her over. Now, the woman will definitely be gunning for him, instead of us.”
“Which will bring my dad breathing down our necks.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind, considering you initiated the blackmail scheme. You didn’t think that’d bring his wrath down on you?”
“Not if he doesn’t find out. This is getting out of hand. There are too many curious people involved.”
“Skye will be taken to the Grounds before she can find anything. Besides, those cards give her a reason to stick around, looking for answers, and it’ll be easier to nab her.”
“And if you don’t succeed? If word gets back to my father about what we’re doing…”
“Nobody can tell him anything, other than Skye found Darren’s card. It won’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t know we rebooted his Redemption Club. He has no clue what you’ve been up to the past several years, or he would have stopped it long before now.”
“And it needs to stay that way.” Ryan threw himself into an armchair and slammed his fist into the cushion. “Why did you have to take a girl from so close to the Grounds? It’s your poor judgment that brought this down on us.” He kicked at the side table next to him, knocking it over.
Finn frowned. “I thought you outgrew tantrums around age twenty-five.”
“Fuck you.” The heat left Ryan, burning up quickly as it normally did. He expelled a breath. “You were right about one thing. She’s a magnificent specimen.”
“I told you.”
Based only on the photo Tristan had texted, which had shown Skye from a distance as she’d worked out in a boxing ring, Finn had fantasized about the things he could do to her while he had her. But he’d learned over the years that ninety-nine percent of the excitement was in the anticipation, and in the hunt itself, not in the sacrificing of the animal. Patience could be pleasurable in its own way, allowing him to stalk and learn his game's weaknesses. Except, now that he’d seen Skye’s eyes, and her fierceness, up close and personal, waiting would be damned difficult.
Stacking the Deck (Redemption Club Book 1) Page 11