He left, leaving me utterly dumbfounded, but I shouldn’t have been because Mr. Preston saw right through me. I wanted the Governor Hopeful deceased, by any means necessary.
Chapter Forty-One
Kiyah
“You’re mad,” he said once he returned to the living room after Mr. Preston decided he didn’t want his men used as hired hitmen to deal with the man who was hellbent on ruining our lives.
I started to shake my head and dismiss how I felt, but anyone with half a brain cell could tell I was furious.
“I thought Mr. Preston was a great candidate,” I responded evenly.
“And I ruined that,” Grant said, sighing as he sat beside me.
I shrugged. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about it. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked curiously.
“Because I could feel the tension pour out of you when I spoke to him, you jealous bastard,” I said teasingly.
He chuckled and said, “Guilty.”
“Hopefully, Black Hawk and Sentinel Security will be strong candidates.”
Grant shook his head.
“Black Hawk backed out of the interview because of an emergency engagement.”
“Well, I guess we have to put all of our eggs in Sentinel’s basket.”
“No, if we don’t like what they’re offering, then we’ll keep searching.”
I shifted on the couch until I was facing him.
“Do you think we have the luxury to endlessly vet security companies?”
“Not at all, but we also have the right to be selective and pick a group that will be the best fit.
“I think you wish that were true.”
Silence fell between us. His jaw twinged in displeasure.
“How’s your headache?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Present but not excruciating.”
“We have some time before Mr. Stone arrives. It might help if you lie down.”
“I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” I replied, standing from the couch. I smoothed a hand across his cheek. He caught it and pressed a kiss against the back of my hand, giving the fingertips a gentle squeeze. Our eyes met, and the fire radiating in his was inextinguishable. Desire and logic feuded like mortal enemies. My head ached, sure, but the yearning did a good job of blurring the pain.
I walked away, my eyes never leaving his. My fingers skimmed the back of the couch where he still sat pretending to be the epitome of a loving, caring husband who would never ravage his slightly ailing wife. But I knew better. It wouldn’t take much—the slick tilt of my lips and a gentle rock of my hips would unravel him.
Like clockwork, he left the couch, loosened his tie, and advanced on me. I climbed the stairs, throwing flirty glances at him over my shoulder.
“Nothing too crazy,” he warned, voice low and rough.
“Don’t fuck up my silk press.”
Grant chuckled, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt.
