Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“It’s business. It’s smart business.”
“Yes. Well, I took it a step further. She refused to tell me what was going on, and the vines were lost and bill collectors were calling. I’d lost any hope of painting. I was consumed by her screwups, and I couldn’t take it. I hired an attorney, Nick. I tried to take it from her. It was brutal.” Her hands clutch the railing. “She threatened suicide. She cried. She yelled. She made scenes at the winery, and I was losing my mind. I wanted her to go away. I needed her to go away. And then…she was gone. Then she was dead. And Nick…” She looks down, her grip tightening on the railing. “I killed her.”
Chapter Five
Nick
“I killed her.”
Faith’s words, her tormented confession, roar through me like a tiger trying to rip my throat out. I didn’t, I don’t, believe she is guilty of killing her mother or my father, but my father’s warning is burned into my mind: Faith Winter is the problem. She is dangerous. And mixed with her own statement, I need an explanation, peace of mind. I need to know what happened, and therefore what I’m protecting her—and myself—from, and I need to know now.
Still standing at the balcony, she has yet to look at me, like she doesn’t want to see what might be in my face. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to see what is in hers. Or both. Both, most likely. But I read people. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, and I glance down at her hands where they grip the railing, and her knuckles are white, telling the tale of dread and guilt. Urgency and need boil inside me, and not in the way they normally do for this woman. I step behind her, turn her to face me, and press her back to the railing, my big body pinning hers to it, my hands on the railing at her shoulders. “What the fuck does that mean, Faith?” I demand.
She looks up at me, her green eyes flashing with anger. “I shouldn’t have told you. Get off me.”
Her withdrawal stirs a spike of anger in me I can’t seem to control, when I control everything around me—except this woman, it seems. It’s a claw opening a wound I don’t even understand, and I don’t like anything I don’t understand. My hands go to her waist, my tone hardening. “I’ll let you when you explain yourself.”
Her hands go to my hands. “Let go of me, Nick,” she warns, her voice tight, icy. She tries to move.
My legs close around hers. “Not until you explain yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
“Attorney-client privilege, Faith.”
This time, it’s her anger that is hard and fast. “Are you serious right now, Nick?” The question rasps from her throat. “Is that what we are now? Or I guess we always were? Is that why you think I told you everything I just told you? Because I have attorney-client privilege?” Her fingers press into my chest, the prelude to the shove I steel myself for, as she adds, “I don’t know why I thought we could be more than that,” and then throws her body into pushing me away.
I don’t budge under her impact, not physically, but I feel the emotional jab of those words. “I’m trying to give you the room to say whatever you need to say. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Are you? Because that’s not what I feel right now. Not when you’re demanding what, a few minutes ago, I didn’t need you to demand. I wanted to talk to you.” Her voice lowers, but it’s not less biting as she adds, “Get off me, or I swear to you, Nick-asshole-fucking-Rogers, I will make you. And don’t think I can’t, though maybe I should add: Don’t worry. I won’t kill you. I’m not quite as skilled in that area as you might think.”
My grip on her legs and waist tightens. “I was not implying that you were a cold-blooded killer.”
“Just a killer.”
“Stop.”
“Gladly. Let me go.”
“Damn it,” I bite out, feeling that urgency and need again. “Talk to me, Faith.”
“Not anymore,” she says. “Not ever again.”
“Don’t do this.”
“You did this.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” I repeat.
“By acting like I really am a killer? Because that’s not what I needed from you, but then, that’s the problem. I know better than to need anything from anyone. Mistake noted. Lesson learned. Again.”
That wall she slams down between us is far more brutal than any tone or word spoken, and I don’t even think about what comes next. My mouth closes over hers, my tongue stroking against hers, and at first, she doesn’t kiss me back. I mold her close, deepening the kiss, demanding she give me what I want, and finally, her fingers curl around my shirt and that tongue of hers licks against mine. And there it is—exactly what I want, need, know to be this woman. Desire, hunger, sweetness. And damn it, I know what she meant now, and I am such a fucking asshole. I tear my mouth from hers, my hands cupping her face. “I know who you are. I know how you taste. And you are not a killer. And yes, I know that I’m a fucking asshole.”