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)
His job is to wait. To negotiate. To turn black into white with mere words.
And he’s damned good at it.
“Did she demand any answers?” he finally asks.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I meet his gaze. “She didn’t get any.”
“She won’t stop,” he says. “Not unless we stop her.”
I don’t respond.
He steps closer now, closing the space between us. “She’s not supposed to matter to you.”
“She doesn’t,” I say.
But the words, though I want them to be true, sit like acid on my tongue.
Nate stares at me for a good minute before he speaks again. Then, “You keep telling yourself that.”
My muscles tense but I don’t move. Don’t react. I step past him. It’s time to end this conversation before it becomes something else.
Before he pushes further.
Before I give him more than I already have.
“It’s handled,” I say.
“For now.”
I pause at the door but don’t turn back toward him. If I do, he’ll see it.
Whatever this is between Delaney and me, Nate will see it. He can read people better than anyone I know, and though I’ve learned over the years to hide everything from him, this—this thing that I don’t quite understand—is stronger than I ever imagined it could be.
I leave the office and walk into the hall.
And for the first time since I stepped into Delaney’s apartment…
Since I put my hands on her…
Since I let this go further than it should have…
I allow the thought to land fully.
I didn’t handle it.
I lost control with her.
And that is exactly how all of this starts to go wrong.
24
DELANEY
I don’t call ahead to make a reservation at the club. I only got in last time because I finagled my way in when I got the tip from one of my fellow investigative journalists that Samson Vexley was going to threaten Preston Darnell. A hundred-dollar bill and a wink and a smile can do wonders.
I can do the same tonight, especially if I dress the part. Last time I wore a black number that didn’t show much. Tonight? Crimson and low-cut, even with the marks on my neck. Gets the job done every time.
I have it on good authority that Samson will be there tonight.
Another reason not to call ahead. If I give him warning, he may decide not to show.
I’m done doing that.
The man at the entrance stops me before I take three steps.
“Members only.”
Smile pasted on. Tits out. “Is Bobby here? He let me in a few nights ago.”
“Bobby’s off tonight.”
I pull a Ben Franklin out of my clutch. “I’m a friend of Mr. Vexley’s. Mr. Samson Vexley.”
He takes the bill and says nothing more.
“Let her in.”
The voice comes from behind him. The guard steps aside immediately.
Nathaniel Vexley stands just inside the threshold, hands in his pockets. He resembles Samson in height and build but is more refined. Hair shorter, with not a strand out of place. And his eyes aren’t amber. They’re green. Strikingly green.
“Ms. Cross,” he says.
“Mr. Vexley.”
He smiles. Sort of. “You’re persistent.”
“I’m curious.”
He furrows his brow. “That’s not always a good thing.”
“For whom?”
“Come in,” he says.
“Thank you.”
The club is busier tonight, probably because it’s Friday. Women are clad scantily, making me feel overdressed in my little red number. I finger the justice pendant at my neck and then jerk my fingers away. Nervous habit. One Samson knows about. I don’t need his lawyer brother to pick up on any sign of anxiety.
Nathaniel walks beside me. “Samson isn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I didn’t expect him to show up at my apartment either.”
“Did he.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. He knows, anyway. Nathaniel Vexley always knows. I’ve done my research.
He stops near a closed door. “Try not to make a scene,” he says.
“I don’t make scenes.”
“For your sake, I hope you don’t.”
He opens the door and gestures me inside. He says nothing as he nods to his brother and then leaves.
Samson sits behind a large desk, jacket off, no tie, and shirt sleeves rolled up showing off his impressively corded forearms. I stop my breath from catching.
He raises his eyebrows for a split second.
He didn’t expect me here tonight.
Good.
“Delaney.”
“Samson.” I walk straight toward him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t come around the desk.
I stop just short of it. I’m close but not close enough.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
I lean forward slightly and rest my hands on the edge of his desk. “No hello? No ‘nice to see you?’ No ‘gee, that was a great fuck we had’?”
He squirms—only slightly—in his chair. Good. That got to him.
“So I was looking through my notes,” I say casually.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “I’ve warned you.”
I ignore him. “And it seems like you didn’t expect him that night. Am I right?”
“Delaney—”
“You weren’t supposed to be dealing with Victor Halstead,” I continue.
“That’s not a question you should be asking,” he says.
“It’s not a question,” I reply. “It’s an observation.”