by Eva Charles
I reach into the tote for my wallet. “Let’s split it.”
“No.” He drags the shot glass with the check out of my reach.
“You’re a source. I don’t feel comfortable with you buying me dinner.”
He gazes at me, sliding the pad of an index finger over his right temple. “I don’t feel comfortable splitting the check.”
What? “You’re kidding.”
“No,” he says, taking a few bills from his wallet. “I’m not. And right now, my comfort is more important than yours. Don’t you agree, Kate?”
There’s nothing unethical about me letting him buy me dinner. It’s just not my practice. “Fine. I’ll make an exception this one time.” Just like that, once again today, I’m trading my principals for the story. I’m not proud of any of it.
He narrows his eyes, capturing mine, and holding them steady. His gaze is piercing. “You’ve put up with my shit for an hour and a half. It hasn’t been easy for you. Once or twice, I thought sure you were going to haul off and punch me in the face.” He pauses for a breath, or maybe for effect. “You must really want this story.”
I shove my wallet back into the tote without responding. He’s not looking for an answer, just gauging my reaction. I feel the weight of his stare while I reposition my bag, which doesn’t need repositioning, on the bench. It seems lighter. I peek in and push a few things aside to have a better look. My heart drops into my stomach. It’s not here. My gun is gone. And my phone. Did I have them in the bathroom? I try to remember. Yes. I definitely did.
“Looking for these?” Sinclair places the small handgun and the phone in the center of the table, between us.
How the hell did he get them? He removed the gun from a holster attached to the inside of my bag—without me knowing. I’m seeing black spots in front of me. “How? When—when did you take them?”
“I’m a man of many talents, Miss McKenna.”
Maybe I didn’t have my bag with me in the ladies’ room. I’m not sure, anymore. “You rummaged through my purse while I was in the bathroom?”
“Come on. You really think I went through your purse while you were in the bathroom? What fun would that have been? Any two-year-old could have done that.”
I had the tote with me because I brushed my hair and reapplied lip gloss. It was heavy when I lifted it off the vanity in the bathroom. I’m sure of it. The butterflies have returned, but they’re quickly chased away by a raging storm. “When did you take them?” I demand.
“While I was offering you a visit to Wildflower.”
I remember him reaching under the table. I thought maybe he was scratching his leg, or picking up something he dropped. It was just a matter of seconds—right? The truth is I didn’t think much of it at the time—all I could think about was getting access to Wildflower.
“It was like taking candy from a baby.”
Original. I ignore him and his stupid smirk and reach for my things.
“You will not take possession of your phone or your weapon until I’ve tucked you back into your car after our visit to Wildflower.”
My eyes dart between him and my gun. Tell him to go to hell. Grab your things and leave. But I don’t. I’ve come too far to walk away now. “I can’t agree to that.”
He shrugs. “That’s the way it has to be. I hold them, and you get to see Wildflower. If you don’t like it,” he nudges my belongings toward me, “take your gun and your phone, and go home.”
“I thought you didn’t deal?”
“It’s not a deal. It’s an ultimatum.”
I don’t understand why I’m considering his terms. I know it’s a bad idea. Although, if he took my gun from my purse while it was sitting next to me—if he can do that—my gun and phone won’t offer much protection, anyway.
I’m rationalizing, and I know it.
Keep your eye on the prize, Kate.
I blow out a breath. He was a highly decorated special forces operative. An officer in the military. His father was the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff during the last administration. He went to Harvard. He has sisters and a mother. Ted Bundy didn’t have sisters, right? Or was his sister his mother? Stop, Kate. Stop.
“Okay.” The word is weighted with hesitation. “But I want to text a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Fiona. She’s a friend from Boston.” Colin knows who I’m with, but Sinclair doesn’t know that. I want him to see me tell Fiona that I’m with him. Besides, if something happens, I’d rather have Fiona on Sinclair’s tail than Colin. If Smith Sinclair thinks I’m a pain in the ass, he needs to meet Fiona in mama-bear mode.
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That I’m on assignment meeting with a man named Smith Sinclair.”
“What if I say no?”
I don’t respond because we both know the answer to this. Add it to the list of things I’m not proud of.
He hesitates for a long minute, considering my request, or maybe he just wants to watch me squirm. “Go ahead. Text her. But nothing about Wildflower. That’s off the record.”
After I send the text, I place my phone in his outstretched hand. “You’re not going to rape and murder me, are you?”
Sinclair freezes, glowering down at me. “No. Just rape you and leave you to live with the consequences.” The ugly words fall like acid on my unprotected skin. “Are you actually stupid enough to trust my answer to that question?”
No. But it would give me a moment’s comfort. A little reassurance from him might trick my brain into sending an all-clear signal so that my heart stops pounding. A heart attack now would be such poor timing.
5
Kate
It’s a twenty-minute drive to Wildflower. During the car ride I don’t mention the Wilders. Instead, I pepper Sinclair with questions about himself and his family, personal questions, most of which he answers with astounding brevity. I also tell him about my family. While I don’t really believe he’s going to hurt me, I still make an effort to humanize myself, and to remind him he’s human too.
He’s quiet, with his eyes on the road while I brag about my brothers, all proud Marines, Sean still in the Corps, and Liam who died when his unit was ambushed in the desert. I also tell him about my oldest brother, Tommy, a former Marine who is now a Boston cop.
What I don’t mention is the complicated relationship I have with my family, how depression sank its poisonous fangs into my soul when Liam died, or that Tommy has never forgiven me for my mother’s death. I do talk about Nana, who lived downstairs until she wandered off in the middle of the night and we had to put her in a home. How she was a stubborn, God-fearing Irish woman who went to Mass every morning at St. Claire’s. I explain how Nana always found peace inside a Catholic church and comfort in the rituals, just as I do.
I prattle on and on, because no matter how much I kid myself, I’m nervous, and this is what I do when I’m nervous. Some people clam up. I don’t shut up. Sometimes it’s a chatty inner monologue, other times, like now, it’s a severe case of verbal diarrhea. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in God?”
Long seconds pass before he answers. “I’m not a churchgoer. But yes, I believe in God—although I’ve had moments of serious doubt.”
I’m startled by the frank honesty. It’s not an off-the-cuff answer. It’s thoughtful and feels sincere. I don’t trust people who say they’ve never once questioned their faith. How could you not?
Sinclair rests his elbow on the console between us. “I’m sorry about your brother. The desert has taken too many good people.” His voice is gentle, but heavy, like the desert has stolen much from him too.
Despite the way he’s behaved in the past two hours, there’s plenty to like about him, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. Maybe we could be friends if the circumstances were different—maybe more than friends. I cast aside the foolish thought quickly. “Are you close to your sisters?”
“Very close,” he answers, pulling into
a parking lot enclosed by a tall fence, sandwiched between two rows of dense, manicured hedges. It’s not only aesthetically pleasing, it affords absolute privacy to anyone in the lot.
Sinclair nods at the attendant who raises the remote arm so we can continue inside. I feel all the excitement of a child who has just arrived at the amusement park. I’m surprised I’m not bouncing on the seat. Wildflower might not hold all my answers, but it’s a piece of the puzzle. I’m sure of it.
As we drive around to the back of the building, I try to commit even the smallest details to memory. It’s often those seemingly insignificant facts that breathe life into a story and make it believable.
Sinclair stops at a cobblestone ramp, where he lowers the window and enters a code. A steel door opens and we proceed into an underground lot. This is unusual. Charleston floods frequently, so there are no underground parking lots, and few basements in this part of the city. At least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s too expensive to create the kind of barriers that can keep water out. Although cost is probably never a consideration for the Wilders.
Sinclair parks between a covered motorcycle and an expensive-looking sports car. There’s no sign of water damage on the exterior walls, and the floor is pristine. The garage spans the entire width, but not the length, of the building. There must be a basement beyond the interior wall.
“It’s deserted.”
He nods. “Closed on Sundays, except in the winter.” I don’t know what I expected. It’s not as though he was going to whisk me around the club, introducing me to one prominent member after another. Still, I’m a bit disappointed that it’s so desolate.
“It must have cost a pretty penny to install an underground garage,” I observe out loud, hoping he’ll nibble.
“The Wilders have means.” So much for my casual observation. He’s back to the dismissive tone he used with me at the bar.
Sinclair doesn’t say much beyond watch your step, as he leads me to a back entrance and into an elevator. Before I step inside and the doors close, I scan the garage one more time, taking note of the exits.
The elevator doors open into a wide hall with plush Persian rugs laid over gleaming wood floors. Elaborate molding and still life paintings grace the walls. Not the kind with gracious bouquets in antique urns, but crude bowls overflowing with fruit and nuts, and trussed game flanked by decanters of fortified wine. My eyes stop on a painting of a helpless lamb, legs bound, so lifelike it causes a twinge of melancholy. But the lamb doesn’t appear despondent. There’s a serenity about it, as though it’s willingly accepted its fate. A sacrifice or a meal? Perhaps both.
As we make our way down the hall, there appear to be four doors, two on the left and two on the right, each lacquered in a navy gloss and outfitted with polished brass trim. Near each door there is a narrow marble table with a gooseneck lamp, where packages can be left or where one might rest a grocery bag while fiddling with a key. It all screams old money, like Ralph Lauren or one of his protégés hand-selected the decor.
I silently follow Sinclair to a door on the right, the one farthest from the elevator. He presses a few buttons on the keypad, and when the lock clicks, he pushes the door open and gestures for me to go inside.
I hesitate briefly before walking past him into the apartment. My arm grazes his abdomen as I pass. It’s a solid mass, harder than I expected. The brief contact sends currents scrambling haywire through me.
Sinclair is hot and dangerous with all that muscle, and even with everything going on, it’s enticing. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.
My pussy is awake and all atwitter, and for long seconds, I contemplate how I might respond if he makes a move. How it might feel to be pinned under that massive body, his cock hard and insistent, his warm mouth feeding on my needy skin. Kate! You’ll say thanks, but no thanks, and hope he respects it.
The door clicks shut behind me. The echo is deafening. I should be afraid. It’s the last thought that registers as I proceed into the sparsely furnished apartment.
It’s an open floor plan with soaring ceilings, more modern than the hall. I scan the rooms slowly, soaking up the details. It looks and smells like the housekeeper just left. There is not a single thing out of place—no socks strewn about, not a glass in the sink, nor are there any personal items anywhere to be seen—not a photograph or anything resembling a memento—not even a decorative sofa cushion that might hint of his style. It’s devoid of character, faceless, and I can’t imagine having anything in common with the person who lives here. Even my lady parts have stilled.
“Is this your place?”
“It’s a place I crash from time to time.”
Crash. I’m sure it’s a euphemism for have sex. If you’re not married, and you don’t live with your parents, why do you need a place to crash? Why? There’s something about this city, its people, so many secrets and unspoken truths. Although I have to admit, I’m oddly relieved that he doesn’t actually live here. “Do you share the apartment?”
“Like a roommate?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why would I want a roommate?”
Because this place has no soul, but it looks like it costs a fortune. And you don’t actually live here. “Who else lives in the building?”
“I’m allowing you to infringe on my privacy, but you will not violate anyone else’s privacy while you’re here.”
Hmmm. We’ll see. “Is the club downstairs?”
“Dining room is on the first floor. The spa and gym are on the second floor. There’s office space on the third and storage. Want some water?”
I nod, and he reaches into the refrigerator and lobs me a bottle of artisan water. I glance at the label. Someone else must do the shopping, because I can’t picture him putting a case of this into a cart. “What’s in the basement?”
I watch for a reaction, but he only shrugs. “Vermin. Although it’s exterminated frequently.”
I’m anxious to see the club, including the vermin in the basement, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. I hope he doesn’t think bringing me to this sterile apartment is going to satisfy my curiosity. “It’s getting late. Are you going to show me around?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
My heart skips a full beat. You fucker. “I thought that’s why we came?” I manage to keep my voice even and calm, without a hint of emotion, but my body is growing heavy with the possibility that this might be another dead end.
“I thought we came because you had questions.”
“I do have questions.”
He tosses his head back, guzzling every drop of the fancy-pants water without stopping for a breath. I watch, mesmerized by the ripples in his throat. When it’s empty, he crushes the bottle in one hand. The crinkling plastic startles me, even as I watch him do it.
While I’m still regaining my poise, he drops the flattened plastic into a recycling bin under the counter, then strides toward me, inching closer until there’s little daylight between us. I lift my chin cautiously, until our eyes lock.
Without a single word between us, he seizes control. I feel the floor beneath me shift as the universe tilts in his direction. My toes curl into the soft suede foot bed inside my sandals.
It’s warm in the apartment. Stifling. A sheen is forming on the back of my neck.
Sinclair takes hold of a small section of my hair, twirling it around a finger. When he releases it, the soft curl bounces off my cheek. “I love redheads,” he murmurs in a low seductive voice. “Is it true their pain threshold is higher?” His nimble fingers find my hair again, combing roughly through the strands. Just before he reaches the ends, he furls his hand and tugs firmly. “Is it, Kate?” My mouth falls open, but I can’t form words. “Do you enjoy having your hair pulled?”
I hate having my hair pulled. At least that’s what I always thought. But the tugging called my body to attention, put every nerve on high alert. And yes, I did enjoy it—all of it. But I especially enjoyed the way my scalp and
pussy tingled in sync, as though they were engaging in an erotic dance for my pleasure alone. I’m still enjoying it. Although I have no intention of telling him that. I shake my head in response.
His eyes are dark slits. “Liar,” he murmurs, a breath away from my temple.
The warm sensation caresses my skin. It’s a stark contrast to the cruel word, liar. Is that what it would be like with him? Cruelty swathed in a tender caress? Would I enjoy that, too? Oh, God.
My throat is parched. My brain thick with fog. I’m aroused. And confused. With every circuit misfiring.
“How badly do you want those answers?” He hooks a thumb under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What are willing to do to get them?”
His last question jolts me out of my he-is-hot-as-sin and I want to melt in the fires of hell trance. “You’re kidding?” I pant softly.
He smirks. It’s a menacing little smirk. “I’m not kidding. If I’m going to answer your questions, you’re going to make it worth my time. Or at least make it interesting. It’s not too much to ask, is it, Kate?” He stands inches from me, his voice sultry and rich when he says my name.
I don’t move. I can’t. My heart is pounding. It’s all I hear. That, and the small voice of reason nearly obscured by his chiseled features and strong hands. Go, Kate. Now! While you can, it shouts. But I don’t. My feet are stuck to the floor, and there’s nowhere to go, anyway. I can’t get out of this place without the codes, and he could overtake me easily if I run. My eyes dart around the room looking for an escape. I should at least make some effort to leave.
“Relax. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
His voice has lost the perilous edge, but I’m not convinced he’s any less dangerous. Or maybe I’m not sure that I need much convincing to do whatever it is he has in mind.
He steps away, and pulls out two ladder-back chairs from the table, arranging them about six or seven feet apart, facing each other. “I’m going to give you back your gun. We’re going to leave it right here, within your easy reach.” He places the gun on a table, near me, within arm’s reach. “That should help you relax so we can play a little game. Do you like games?”