With the Hardshaw Group takedown, he’d done the dirty work—nearly two years of it. The plan had been for him to be there when the agencies swooped in and made arrests. But he hadn’t been there. And since he hadn’t followed their instructions down to the letter, they’d arrested him too.
Who was to say they wouldn’t screw him over again?
If I was doing this with him, I should make him tell me everything before we took another step.
But…
I also knew he wouldn’t let me get caught up in whatever he was doing. He’d use me to help dig up what he needed, and then he’d cut me loose and take the responsibility on himself.
Only I wasn’t just worried about me.
I was worried about him.
Still, I knew if I pushed too hard, there was a chance he’d ditch me entirely and take this all on himself.
A few weeks ago, I would have been furious about his secrets. Now, I understood he was walking a thin line.
I wanted him to tell me. But I didn’t want to force it. I wanted him to tell me because he trusted me enough to know the truth.
So for now, I’d bide my time.
And if we got down to the wire, I’d find a way to force his hand.
I only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Chapter 6
The sun was beginning to set when I pulled up in front of the Morrison Hotel, where Carter had indeed booked us. I handed the valet attendant the keys to our car, and his quick glance—then the little pause—told me he wasn’t impressed. Not that I was surprised. Our car was several tiers down from the luxury cars he was used to seeing.
We hadn’t thought through this part of the plan. Or, knowing James, he had and just didn’t care.
But why wouldn’t he care?
A new thought tried to claw its way into my brain—James’s low expectations for how all of this ended—but I shoved it back down. He didn’t strike me as suicidal. And he would never purposely put me in the Knoxes’ path.
He grabbed our bags out of the backseat, rejecting the bellhop’s offer to take them, then strode inside and up to the front desk.
We weren’t the only people in jeans in the marble-encased lobby under the six-foot-high chandelier, but I couldn’t help thinking we didn’t look like we belonged. Then again, maybe I was projecting.
After James checked in using a fake ID with the name Jeff Beachum and a matching credit card, he asked if they had a map of the city. The woman pointed us to the concierge, who was talking to a couple about the best seafood restaurant within walking distance. The couple headed out, arms intertwined and giddy about their plans, and the concierge turned his attention to us.
James asked for the map, and the older gentleman handed him a rectangular paper, then asked if he could help us with anything else, like restaurant suggestions, or things to do.
I expected James to say no thank you, but he surprised me by wrapping an arm around my back and tugging me to his side.
“Actually,” he said, warm and polite, “this is the first time in ages that my wife and I have had a few nights away from the kids. Are there any type of performances within walking distance? Like a play or musical? Maybe a symphony?”
If the concierge noticed neither of us was wearing wedding rings, he didn’t let on. “We at the Morrison are grateful you chose us for your stay. Unfortunately, there aren’t any performances tonight, but there’s a comedy club a few blocks away.”
James looked down at me, all soft and charm. “I know you had your heart set on a musical, but would that be okay?”
I had no idea what he was up to, but I could play along. I gave him a warm smile. “We could watch one of those mindless action movies you love so much for all I care. I’m just grateful to have some alone time with you.”
James turned back to the concierge. “Can you get us two tickets? And a suggestion for a restaurant nearby. Something nice.”
“Of course,” the concierge said. “I can make dinner reservations?—”
“That’s okay,” James cut in. “We’re gonna spend some time up in our room, and I’m not sure how long we’ll be.”
