He blinked. “Come again?”
She dragged her fingers over the end of her braid. “It’s just— I know it sounds crazy. What could I possibly say to defuse the situation at this point? However, I can’t help but think maybe I can rationalize with him.”
Roarke curled his lip. He couldn’t help it. “The guy tried to kill you—all of us, Emmy included. I don’t think there’s anything you can say that’ll make him back off.” He dipped his chin, examining Laine’s face further. “Unless there’s something I don’t know.”
She shook her head quickly. “Of course not.”
“Would you share custody of Emmy?” He had to ask. Though the words “over my dead body” singed his tongue. He trusted Laine to put Emmy first, but he’d have a big fucking problem with that sonofabitch coming within fifty feet of Emmy—or Laine.
Her eyes widened. “No. I mean ... after all that’s happened, absolutely not.” She sighed. “I wish things could be different. That we’d just broken up like normal people and he wasn’t trying to kill us.” Her tone was dry but also thick with regret.
Roarke took her hand and kissed her fingers. “He’ll always be Emmy’s father. You can’t change the man he’s become, but you can make sure she remembers the father he was.”
She gave him a limp smile. “Thank you. I’d still like to call him. We both know the conversation won’t go anywhere, but I don’t want to always feel as though I could’ve gone about this a different way.”
Realization dawned on him. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist. “You’re considering what we discussed? Me taking care of Cameron?”
She chewed her lip and nodded. “Yeah.”
“And you want a clear conscience?”
Again, she nodded.
He cupped the back of her neck, then pulled her forehead to his lips. “Done. I’ll get you a secure line.”
Laine’s eyes glistened with gratitude. He stood before she could utter words of thanks.
As much as she might want to believe he was doing this to clear her conscience, he had one goal in mind:
Kill that fucker.
Laine’s handshook on the burner phone Roarke had given her. The device looked just like a regular cell phone but was an older model.
“There’s no way to trace that thing,” he assured her.
She exhaled a deep breath and perched on the edge of the office chair. They were still in the office for privacy, but Striker’s and Wraith’s voices carried from the living room. At the moment, it sounded as if they were arguing about a TV series.
Roarke back tracked to the door, closed it, then rolled his eyes. “Sorry.” He crossed the room and rounded the desk, leaning against its smooth, mahogany top to face her.
She smoothed her finger over the glass screen, bringing it to life. Then she dialed Cameron’s phone number. The digits had been tattooed on her memory during a simpler time.
A happier one.
She hit the speaker button as the line clicked on.
“Hello?”
Trepidation rang in her ears, and her heart rate soared to a dangerous level. Hearing his voice made him seem close.
As if he could hurt them.
Roarke’s fingers tightened on hers, and she fixed her attention on his face. On the calm devotion in his hazel eyes—the silent promise that they were safe.
“Who the fuck is there?” Cameron said, his voice low and menacing.
Disgust stung her heart. She hated that she’d once loved this man, that he was a completely different person than who she’d thought. “It’s me.”
Cameron spewed cruel, hateful slurs, mixing Arabic and English. “Fucking whore. When I find you?—”
