Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
She parts her lips. God, what I’d give to shove my tongue between them.
“Maybe I don’t want to,” she says.
She doesn’t understand the dangers that lurk in the darkness. The dangers that lurk around the marina.
The dangers that lurk around me.
Her feistiness grabs hold of me, singes my flesh.
I could close the distance.
Take her mouth.
End this constant edge that’s been between us since the moment I touched her.
I tighten my grip again, lean into her, narrow my eyes.
Then—
I release her.
“You need to stay away from the marina,” I say.
“No.”
“Delaney—”
“No.” She steps toward me. “You don’t get to tell me where I go.”
I grit my teeth. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“Then show me.”
Show her?
She has no idea what’s out there. What could happen to her.
No. Scratch that.
No one is touching Delaney Cross. No one but me.
I look at her.
Really look at her.
She’s already in.
She just doesn’t know how deep it goes.
I curl my hands into fists at my side. “Go to bed,” I say.
She lifts her eyebrows. Clearly not what she expected to hear from me. Frankly, it’s not what I expected to say either.
“That’s it?” she says.
“For tonight.”
Then I turn, walk to the door, and open it. Before I step out, I look back once.
She’s still standing exactly where I left her.
Watching me. No fear at all in her eyes. No confusion either.
That’s going to be a problem.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. Then I reach for my phone.
“Any news about who was there?” I ask when my call connects.
“We’re working on it.”
“Work faster.”
I end the call and start down the hall.
Delaney Cross thinks she stepped into my world tonight.
She did.
But she wasn’t the only one.
And whoever else has eyes on her is now my problem.
12
DELANEY
The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t move.
For a few seconds—maybe longer—I just stand there, staring at the wood like it might open again. Like he might come back and finish what I’m pretty sure we both wanted.
I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t help. My breath doesn’t steady. My pulse doesn’t slow.
My wrist—
I flex it once and then again, as if I can work the feeling out of it—the warmth and tingling that still persists.
I can’t.
The spot where he held me still burns. Not in a bad way. But not in a good way either. Because as much as I yearn for Samson Vexley, I know I can’t go there.
“Stop,” I mutter.
Like that’s going to do anything.
I drop my hand, turn away from the door, and force myself to move.
Kitchen.
Water.
Something normal.
I grab a glass, fill it, take a long swallow. The coolness should help. Ground me. Pull me back.
Yeah, right.
I set the glass down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes in the quiet space.
God, everything feels off.
I brace my hands on the counter and close my eyes for a second.
Bad idea.
Because the moment I do, I’m right back there. Samson’s hand around my wrist. The heat of his body when he stepped too close. The way his voice dropped just before—
I open my eyes.
No.
Not going there.
I push off the counter, move into the living room, and fire up the laptop on my desk. If I stay still, I’m going to keep replaying it. And I’m not interested in reliving the moment I almost let Samson Vexley kiss me.
Except he moved away. I didn’t. He did. Maybe he wasn’t going to kiss me at all.
I mean, look at me. I’m attractive, but I’m not the kind of arm candy a man like Samson would want. He’s gorgeous, but despite the expensive suits he wears, he’s not refined. Far from it. There’s an edge to him. A dangerous edge. I know because I’ve researched the Vexleys ad nauseum. And having now spent time in Samson’s presence?
I’m even more aware of the danger surrounding him.
I click on the file on the marina. I pull up everything I’ve already collected—notes, articles, archived reports. The official version of Victor Halstead’s death hasn’t changed in fifteen years.
Accidental fall. Poor visibility. Case closed. If others were there, they were never identified.
I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. The only difference is that now I’m in a position to learn more. To dig deeper.
I’ve been through these files, but now I look again, remembering how the bartender told me it felt like it “had to happen.”
I read through maintenance logs. City permits. Archived service requests tied to the marina property. Most of it is routine and extremely boring. Repairs, inspections, replacements that don’t mean anything on their own.
I scroll. Click. Scroll again.
I sharpen my focus. Concentrate not so much on what’s there but what’s missing.
A few entries are incomplete. Filed but not followed up. Logged without supporting documentation.
That’s interesting. I open one. It’s nothing. Just a date and a timestamp. No other details.