I’ve dozed off in his arms when the sound of ringing pulls me from sleep. I don’t want to wake up. Not now. Not ever.
I groan when I feel him stir against me.
“That’s mine,” he grumbles, swinging his legs out of bed. It’s daylight now, and I run hot eyes down his naked body as he stands and stretches, then reaches for his phone. I see him frown as he glances at the screen. “Gotta take this,” he mutters, then leaves the room. I strain to hear what he’s saying, but his voice is too low, and I hear little more than a couple of curt words that sound like he’s disagreeing with someone. A minute later, he’s back, looking preoccupied.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sitting up, the sheet tucked around my chest. After the intimacy of the past few hours, this tense version of him is something I don’t like.
“Just business,” he replies. “Can I get you breakfast?”
I give a nod. I really think I could get to enjoy having a husband who knows his way around a kitchen. Not that we’re going to be married in that way. Not for real. And not for long. Just until I can get this fucking mess out of my life.
“I’d love that,” I say. “Can I help?”
“Of course not,” he replies. “You need your rest.” He shoots me a wink, and I grin, then flop back against the pile of soft pillows and check out his fabulous ass as he leaves.
Yeah. I could definitely tap that again.
“Can you bring me some coffee? Cream. No sugar.” I call out, stretching languorously beneath the sheets.
“Sure,” he responds. “You want a side of sass with that?”
I grin again. Dammit, I like this guy.
“Only I’m the one serving it,” I shoot back. He doesn’t reply, and I frown because I can hear his voice again, and I’m pretty sure he’s not speaking to me. I slide from the bed and pad silently across the room, pausing in the doorway. Although the air is growing fragrant with the rich scent of coffee, he’s not in the open-plan kitchen area.
I duck my head through the door and glance around the room. It takes me a minute to realize that he’s stepped out onto the patio. He’s pulled on the dark sweatpants he’d worn last night after showering, and he has the phone pressed up against his ear again. I see him dip his head as he gestures with a hand, once again speaking out of audible range. Something’s definitely bugging him.
Of course, I have to know what it is. When I make my way back into the bedroom, it occurs to me that the window opens out alongside where he’s standing. If I crack it just a little, I’ll probably be able to catch his conversation.
Like eavesdropping, Andz?
I shake my head. After all I’ve been through, it’s wise to be cautious. I hold my breath and ease the window open. The double-glazing has done a fine job of muffling the sound outside because as I open the window, I’m astonished at how loud the traffic and city bustle are. Along with Mateo’s voice.
“No!” I hear him say sharply. “No, that won’t work.” There’s a pause as the person on the other end says something, and then, “You can’t come here,” he snaps.
Come here? Who wants to come here?
I feel a swell of anxiety. This place is supposed to be safe. Nobody is supposed to know we’re here. Has he told anyone where we’re hiding? Why would he do that?
There’s another pause as whoever it is seems to argue the point.
Then Mateo continues, “Look, I’ve got it under control, alright? You’re going to have to take my word for it.” I pull back from the window as I hear his footsteps pacing along the balcony toward me. I’m sure he won’t see me here, but it’s too close for comfort. Though why should it be a problem? He’s probably just talking to a colleague. He said he’d had a business call earlier. It occurs to me that the man must have dropped everything and run to come and save me. I should be grateful.
So why am I holding my breath as I listen in to his conversation?
When his voice lowers again, I feel myself go tense.
“Because I have a plan,” he says. “He has no idea what’s about to go down.” He scoffs in response to something on the other end, and then my blood runs cold when he adds, “I know. Don’t worry."
"I’m marrying his daughter.”
Chapter 5
Mateo Ricci
“You’re doing what?” Reed says, disbelief heavy in his tone.
“I’m marrying his daughter,” I repeat. There’s a moment of silence as this sinks in. It’s not often Bryant Reed is at a loss for words. But this revelation is a doozy. Which is saying a lot. As my ex-department head from my FBI days, Reed has seen some freaky shit go down.
