Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
It’s only been two days, but I can’t stop thinking about how her cunt felt around my fingers. How she tried to mask her moans and gasps but couldn’t. How she shook beneath my touch, walls practically sucking in my fingers.
And how absolutely turned on and pissed off she was when I denied her orgasms. The fire in her gaze replays in my mind every time I close my eyes and brings a smirk to my face.
“Where is she going?” I ask.
“It seems she’s meeting a friend for lunch at Seattle Brewing Company.”
I hum. That’s a small brewery close to my office building. What’s she doing in Seattle? She won’t willing leave Heathens Hollow unless there is a reason, so it begs the question: who the hell is she meeting?
“Take me there.” My tone is much rougher than intended.
Jasper bows his head and opens the rear door for me so I can slip in. As soon as we’re on the way to the restaurant, I pull out my phone and flick to my files. The background check on Marco Pollozo arrived last night but I was too busy going over permits for my new hotel that I didn’t get to check. Now that I have the time, I pull up the file on Fiora’s so-called “trustworthy” cop.
Beady dark eyes stare back at me as soon as I open it. He’s wearing a Seattle PD outfit and badge, but there’s no light in his eyes or smile on his face. He’s a completely normal man. Millions of guys who look like him are on the street. By the time I flick away from his picture, I’ve already forgotten him. He’s lived a completely innocent life. Two parents, one sister. Went to University of Washington for a semester a few years ago before he dropped out and became a police officer. A late bloomer, because he turns thirty next year. That’s three years older than Fiora.
He has no criminal history and no marks on his record. He’s just a normal cop without a blemish to his name. But the cop part is the problem. Sure, all-powerful families have police under their thumbs and in their pockets. Cops are the ones who turn a blind eye to the more wicked side of business, and in Mason’s case, ignore straight murder altogether. They are mostly points of contact and not close friends with a Godwin daughter. Marco’s dark eyes flash through my mind. Something is fishy. Everyone has their own motivations. Their own secrets. Until I get to the bottom of it, Fiora won’t be seeing him.
I go through Marco’s background check one more time for anything I missed before Jasper clears his throat.
“We’re here, sir. But…”
At his hesitation, I look out the tinted window. Fiora sits at a table on the outside patio, the unusually warm autumn sun shining down on her face. She’s in a long burgundy sweater dress, her black hair pulled over her left shoulder, diamonds dangling from her ears. The man sitting across from her looks more like a frat boy than a friend, and there is even a golden retriever sitting at his feet. But then the man leans over and pats Fiora’s hand, and heat rises to my neck.
When is she going to learn?
I open the back door and step out onto the street, eyes directly on the back of Fiora’s head.
It looks like she needs another lesson.
Chapter 22
Fiora
I didn’t want it to come to this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m pretty sure I got away without my two babysitters noticing, but as I scan the area, I’m still not sure. I didn’t see them on the ferry, but knowing The Vault’s owners, I wouldn’t put it past them to hop on a helicopter and be here waiting for me.
Bobby sits across from me at the restaurant, eying me like a piece of juicy meat. Although he just turned twenty-seven, he still acts like he’s back in college. Popped collars, chains, douchey sunglasses that went out of style years ago. I asked him to meet two days ago, and he brushed me off because “the yacht won’t sail itself, Fiora.”
But Bobby is Mason’s best friend—or should I say was his best friend? It’s still so hard to think of him in the past tense. He should be right here with us, blocking Bobby’s lame attempts at flirting with me and getting us drunk on mimosas so we can head to a weekday afternoon game. Instead, I’m forced to listen to Bobby recount the tales of “babes on the boat” before I can even ask about anything else.
At least he brought his cute dog, Millie.
I scratch at the golden retriever’s ears as Bobby talks about perfect weather for skinny dipping and how one-piece swimsuits are totally a crime against humanity. The only reason he has those “babes on the boat” is thanks to his rich father. Bobby is a trust fund baby through and through, coasting off the fame and money of his father’s tech business. He used those funds to link up with the most prominent people in the city, including my brother.