Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
“What does your gut say? Is he running?”
“He hasn’t returned any of my calls all day. He has to be running.” He shoves fingers through his dark hair. “Holy hell, Cat. I would not have defended him if I believed he was guilty.”
“I know that. Everyone who knows you knows that. Maybe he’s just taking a quick overnight flight and returning tomorrow.”
“Or he’s running.”
“He could be,” I concede. “But that could be about fear, not guilt. This is scary stuff he’s facing. How did Royce find out?”
“Walker Security oversees a huge portion of the airport security now. He got a flag. And he’s also got a private plane I can use to follow the asshole when we figure out where he went.”
“I know you want to talk to him for about ten different reasons, but if you follow him, you might look complicit.”
“That won’t happen. If necessary, Royce’s team will take him into custody and I’ll arrange for him to be taken into police custody. Unfortunately, it’s too late in this trial for the judge to allow me to get the hell off this ship.” His hands come down on my arms. “I want you to come with me, but I won’t put you in the sights of a man who might be a killer. Stay here at my place. Be here, in my bed, when I get back.”
“I’m in your bed for you and with you, not without you. Not yet.” I push to my toes and kiss him. “I’ll come back when you get back.”
“I’m not going to win this argument in the ten minutes I have before I have to leave, am I?”
“Not when you have to pack and leave.”
His phone pings with a text. “As if making your point,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and reading the message. “Royce is five minutes out, per his wife.” He slides his cell back into his jeans and kisses me. “I need to get ready, but know this, woman. I am going to come and get you when I get back.” He turns and starts walking away.
“You need to pack an overnight,” I call after him.
He pokes his head back into the room. “Can you grab me a razor and a new shirt?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He winks and disappears into the hallway, and I’m left in his room with his trust.
It matters.
And every single time he calls me “sweetheart,” I feel it with a flutter of my belly. I’m like a silly schoolgirl, and I was never a silly schoolgirl. I’m not sure what that says about me with him, but I’ll analyze it later. I change out of Reese’s shirt, put my clothes and shoes on, and then refocus on Reese’s overnight bag, which needs more than a shirt and a razor inside. I dart into action and cross to what I assume to be the closet. Flipping on the light, I find an incredible, wonderful closet fit for a hundred pairs of high heels with a few modifications, like actually buying that many heels. It’s all gray wood with a center dresser and rows of clothes framing it, with drawers and shelves stacked between rails.
Once I’ve spied a small leather travel bag, I snag it and head to the bathroom. I pack the razor first, a few random toiletries, and the cologne that smells the most like him today. I return to the closet, opening random drawers until I locate socks and, yes, underwear, of which he has a color assortment. I choose blue and red because, hey, I’m patriotic. I then grab a pair of jeans and pack them as I debate a suit but rule it out. He just needs a few shirts. I rotate and walk to the T-shirt row and reach for one in black and another beside it in blue, but pause when my eyes catch on a pink shirt. Pink? I grab it and my throat goes dry. It’s a female-cut T-shirt with flowers on it and a V-neck. Nothing to hide, my ass. He said he didn’t invite women here.
“That’s not my size.”
I whirl around to find Reese standing in the doorway, still bare-chested, but his pants are zipped and his boots are on his feet. “I noticed,” I say.
“It is, however—or was, rather—just right for my sister, who was here right before the trial started. She left it in my closet, because I shrank it, which, she says, I need to repent for by calling her more often.”
“Your sister,” I say, my throat dry all over again.
“Yes, Cat. My sister.” He walks toward me and shows me his phone. “Look.”
I feel like I shouldn’t look, but since he’s offering, I accept. I glance down at the screen to find a photo of a pretty brunette that favors him, wearing this exact T-shirt. “My sister,” he says. “She sent that photo to me today with this message.” He pushes a few buttons and then presents me with a text message. “From my sister.”