Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Are you ok?” I ask, startling him as well in the process.
“I should have protected them.”
I pad across the floor and kneel before him, placing my hand over his on the armrest. “You can’t blame yourself.”
He moves his hand, like he doesn’t want my touch. He’s a very confusing man, leading me to think he wants me, only to reject me. Hot and cold. Cold and hot.
“You should get some sleep,” he says.
I stand. “Don’t treat me like that.”
His eyes blaze into mine. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a child who you must shield from bad things. You didn’t need to come and rescue me.”
He laughs. “You think I should have let you stay at your place and fight off the killer alone?”
“I’m a lot stronger than I look.” He has no idea the self-defense training I’ve had. “I just might surprise you.”
His eyes study me. Harsh. Unrelenting. Like he’s not buying a word of what I’m trying to sell him. His hand is so close to my knee, and I bring it an inch closer to where my leg is resting against the arm of the chair.
His fingers take the bait and lazily trace over my skin, moving up to the inside of my thigh.
I can barely stand, teetering as my desire grows.
Devereaux grips my thigh, bringing me closer. “What kind of game are you playing, Swan?”
“I’m not playing anything.” Much. If he knows something about this case, I want to keep him talking.
“What happened in the hot tub shouldn’t happen again. I didn’t ask you to stay here so I could sleep with you.”
“I know you didn’t.”
He releases my leg and stands in one quick movement, towering over me. “You should go to bed.”
“Can I see that card first?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t read too much into it.
He hands me a black card that he must have been holding in his other hand. “Here. The line is dead.”
I can still have it traced. However, I don’t tell him that. “Thank you for trusting me with this,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”
“There’s just something about you.”
My chest warms. “Thank you,” I hand him back the card and repeat the number in my head until I’m back in my room. I punch the number into my note app on my phone, so I can get the number over to Finn for them to trace it.
The next morning, it takes me a minute to remember where I am when I wake in a strange bed. I change into a pair of jeans and a black sweater before I venture downstairs.
“Oh, hi,” I say when I spot Devereaux in the kitchen, cooking at the stovetop.
He glances over his shoulder. “Hungry?”
“A little.” I have so much on my plate today. I run through a mini to-do list. I still need to call my sister and let her know about Derek being married. Ugh, a text just won’t do for that convo. I also need to get this number to Finn. We need to look into this prostitution ring Devereaux mentioned, because if he’s right, then whoever is running the ring is most likely our killer.
I think back to Luna’s words about how she made more money doing other things. And then she winked. Is this ring that other thing? Was she involved in this somehow?
Is it why she’s dead?
“I’m making eggs and toast,” Devereaux says, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Sounds great.”
He sets me up a spot with a napkin and silverware on the kitchen island and brings me a glass of juice.
“You’re so hospitable,” I tell him, slipping onto the padded stool.
“I want to apologize for last night,” he says as he fixes me a plate of food and slides it in front of me. He leans against the counter. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.” I don’t want him constructing more walls because I need to figure out what else he may learn.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I didn’t ask you to stay here so I could fuck you.”
The way he says the word fuck has my body pulsing with need. He stares at me like the word conjured up images in his mind as well. He shakes his head, continuing, “I just mean, we shouldn’t have crossed that line.”
There’s a thing about crossing lines. I’ve always believed in black and white. There was never a gray area or blurred lines. I’ve always lived my life so far away from any line that I could never get worried if I’d accidentally cross it or not.
But sitting here, staring at the way Devereaux’s sleep pants hang low on his hips, how his shirtless chest flexes, everything is gray. Maybe that’s why I like my guest room so much.
“I know,” I say.
“I want you to know while you’re here with me under my roof, I won’t take advantage of you.”