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)
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Here goes nothing.”
He steps out of the SUV first, handing the keys to the valet, then circles around to open my door. The gesture is so gentlemanly it makes my stomach flutter. I take his hand, letting him help me out. My heels click on the pavement, and I smooth down my dress, the air tingling with the muted thrum of bass from inside the club.
He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close. It’s a move that feels shockingly natural now, like we’re slipping into the roles we’ve spent all week rehearsing. My heart stutters at how easily I nestle into his side, how my hand seems to find his lapel without hesitation.
We approach the velvet rope, where a poised hostess checks our names on an iPad in her hands. “Mr. Zane,” she says with a polite nod, glancing at me. “Mrs. Zane. Welcome back.”
My breath hitches at hearing that name aloud, but Lincoln responds smoothly. “Thank you. We’re looking forward to tonight.”
She smiles a bit too knowingly, parting the rope to let us pass. As we head inside, the pounding music grows louder, colors flash across the dance floor, and the familiar swirl of heat and neon washes over us. My hand tightens on Lincoln’s jacket, the memory of our steamy kiss dancing along the edges of my mind.
Whatever happens in the next few hours—whatever we discover about Rolfe, or what secrets he might be hiding—I know one thing for sure. That kiss was real in a way I never anticipated. And as we merge into the crowd, my thoughts remain locked on Lincoln, on the taste of his lips, and on the unspoken promise that maybe this is just the beginning.
We’re here for a mission, yes. But as I glance up into his eyes, catching the lingering trace of desire there, I realize that what we share is far from pretend. And that, above all else, might be the most dangerous truth of all.
Chapter 17
Lincoln
I can tell something’s off the moment we’re ushered into the private section of Club Greed. The music here is softer than the pounding bass in the main area—more of a sultry lounge vibe than a full-blown rave. I was half expecting to walk into something wild and raucous, but instead, the atmosphere is strangely subdued. Soft pink and gold lights illuminate couples dancing in a mini-ballroom area off to the right, and a cluster of plush white couches lines the left wall, where people drape themselves, and are either whispering or making out.
A hostess in a sleek black dress greets us, offering us complimentary champagne flutes. Her smile is polished, but her eyes flick across me and Isabel with a hint of curiosity. Before either of us can ask a question, she guides us deeper into the room, murmuring, “Enjoy your evening,” then disappears back to the entrance.
I cast a quick glance at Isabel, who’s got her hand hooked around my arm. Her expression is poised, but I sense her nerves in the light tremor of her fingers. The memory of our kiss—of how we practiced being husband and wife in a way that felt anything but pretend—burns fresh in my mind. It stokes a warm coil of tension at the base of my spine, but I force myself to focus on the mission.
We weave past the slow-dancing couples, the gentle rhythm of a low-tempo track filling the air. The dancers move in unhurried circles, bodies pressed close in a way that’s definitely more than friendly. A few of them glance our way, flashing smiles or winks as we pass. The entire room seems to hum with a current of possibility, but I’m acutely aware we’re here for one reason: to find leads on Morris Rolfe.
Isabel leans in toward me, her voice pitched low. “So much for a big, exclusive party. It feels more like… a meetup?”
I nod, scanning the space for familiar faces. “Yeah. Let’s ask around. See if anyone knows where Morris is.”
She exhales slowly, and we exchange a brief look of determination. Then I guide her by the waist to the far side of the mini-ballroom. There’s a small group of people chatting—two men and a woman, all dressed in high-end evening wear that probably costs as much as my entire monthly paycheck. I force a relaxed smile, slipping into character as the confident husband just out for a sultry good time.
But the moment we approach, one of the men shakes his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, we haven’t seen Morris. He and Devereaux sometimes skip these smaller meets.” He sips from his glass, shrugging. “This is more like a… how would I put it… an introduction night. See who’s interested in the bigger events.”
Isabel stiffens beside me, but she plasters on a practiced smile, laying a gentle hand on the man’s arm. “So this is just a… meet-and-greet? Like a mixer?”