Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Focus, I remind myself. This is about keeping her safe. I slip on the dark suit pants and button the shirt—black, crisp. Then I ease on the jacket, glancing at the reflection. Not bad. The fit is perfect, hugging my shoulders and chest in a way that suggests I actually belong in some high-end club.
When I step out into the living area, she’s not back yet. My heart kicks up, knowing the next time I see her will be… well, potentially the last moment of calm before we dive into the unknown. I cross to the window, looking out at the tall pines that stand like silent guards around the property. I hope this lead isn’t a bust, because if Morris Rolfe is connected to the threats against Isabel, we need to put a stop to it—fast.
Finally, I hear her footsteps. I turn around, and all the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Isabel’s wearing the black dress, her hair swept up, a few loose strands framing her face. She looks every bit the seductive, high-rolling VIP she needs to be tonight… and I’m having trouble remembering my own name.
Her gaze rakes over me, lips parting. “You clean up well,” she says softly.
I clear my throat. “So do you.”
For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other in the warm light of the safe house. The tension is practically palpable, but neither of us moves to cross that line. We can’t. Not now, not with everything at stake.
She breaks the spell, grabbing a small clutch from the table. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding grimly. “Let’s go find this bastard.”
We gather our essentials, double-check the plan, then head for the SUV. My heart pounds with a mixture of anticipation and dread, but one thing is crystal clear: I’ll do anything—absolutely anything—to protect Isabel tonight. Even if it means pretending we’re intimately entangled, even if it means pushing down every urge that stirs when I see her in that damn dress.
She slides into the passenger seat, and I slam the door behind her. When I climb in, our eyes meet, and some unspoken understanding passes between us. This isn’t just another job. For both of us, it’s personal.
I fire up the engine, and we pull onto the dark road leading away from the safe house. Next stop: Club Greed—and the next step in a game that might be far more dangerous than either of us is willing to admit.
Chapter 8
Isabel
The black SUV rolls to a stop outside Club Greed, and I have to remind myself to breathe. My heart is racing, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation flooding my system. Lincoln and I step out of the SUV, and he hands his keys to the valet. We’re on the guest list, courtesy of a tip from my contact at the police station, who knows Chloe Huxley—wife of the club’s elusive owner, Devereaux.
My pulse thrums with excitement and a trace of nerves. This place already looks wildly out of my comfort zone, but in the best possible way. The building itself is enormous—tall, dark windows that hide whatever decadent secrets lie inside. Music pulses through the walls, heavy bass notes spilling onto the street. Standing close to Lincoln, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy, masculine, and maddeningly appealing. The heat from his body radiates toward me, steady and reassuring.
He places a hand on the small of my back as we head for the entrance. Normally, I’d scoff at such a proprietary gesture, but tonight, it feels right. We’re supposed to look like a couple, anyway. And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I enjoy the protective weight of his palm there.
The bouncer, a giant man with arms thicker than my thighs, barely gives us a second glance once he confirms our names on the list. He unhooks the velvet rope and nods us forward. I can’t help but feel a tiny jolt of power as we stride in, skipping the waiting crowd. Even though I know this place is dangerous—Morris Rolfe might be lurking in its shadows—the thrill of the unknown sparks something inside me.
We step into a sprawling foyer lit by a massive chandelier. The overhead fixture is shaped like a twisted helix of metal and glass, dripping with crystals that refract light in wild patterns across the marble floor. A hostess in a black bustier and fishnet stockings flashes us a sensual smile, gesturing us through another set of doors. The moment those doors swing open, the music hits full force, a throbbing beat that vibrates in my bones.
I glance at Lincoln, and he nods curtly, urging me onward. I straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and follow the hostess into what can only be described as a den of vice. The entire place is bathed in pulsing reds and violets, shadowed corners revealing glimpses of couples pressed intimately against walls or tangled on curved velvet couches. There’s a bar area front and center, a long stretch of mirrored glass that seems to glow from within. Several bartenders—decked out in tight black outfits—serve drinks while patrons either lounge or, in some cases, make out with blatant abandon.