I roll over and reach out, feeling the emptiness in the bed beside me.
Did I imagine it all?
I half wonder if I dreamed the whole thing, until I flex my fingers and feel the snug platinum band beneath my knuckle. I stretch and smile, feeling that delicious familiar ache he always leaves in his wake. It makes my muscles clench and stickiness trickles from me. Dear lord…I think he filled me to the brim. I bundle the sheets between my thighs to mop up, then push myself into a sitting position.
There’s a tumble of hair over my face and I brush it aside to peer around. It takes a moment to focus, but it’s quickly clear that he’s nowhere in the room.
“Teo?” I say, my voice husky with sleep – and probably several hours of moaning. There’s no reply, and I slide from the bed. The early morning air is cool, and I stoop to pick up his white shirt that’s still lying at the foot of the bed. The crisp cotton hangs to my knees, and I push the sleeves up my forearms as I walk to the door. The fabric carries his scent; a hint of lemony cologne and the rest is all him – rich, clean, and oaky…so male it has my core clenching again. Dammit, it’s like I’m in heat.
“Mateo?” I call out again as I pad through to the kitchen. There’s still no sign of him. No aroma of coffee percolating. I run an eye over the rest of the apartment. It’s not like he wouldn’t hear me if he was here.
Where could he be?
Pulling the shirt closer around me, I look toward the stairs leading upward. To the door that has remained locked since I got here. Suddenly, I’m consumed by the urge to go up there. And to be quiet. I tiptoe up the stairs, bare feet silent on the cool tiles. Still silent as I move past the bookshelf and the small sitting area near it.
The door is ajar and light streams from within. I stop in the doorway, peering around the space inside. It’s an office; no surprise there. It’s decorated as strongly as the rest of the place – rich and masculine, more red brick wall like the bottom floor of the apartment. A deep, leather chair is pushed up to the desk. Although the sprawling oak surface is littered with folders and crumpled paper. Not the meticulous tidiness I’ve seen in the rest of Mateo’s home. And then I see the man himself.
Standing with his back to me, he’s in a pair of black sweatpants, the waistband snug over trim hips that lead up to where his torso is bare. The smoothly moving muscles of his shoulders almost distract me from paying more attention to what he’s actually doing in here. And that’s a problem, because what he’s doing is all wrong.
The back wall of the room is dominated by a huge whiteboard. It’s covered with scrawled notes in dark ink; lines leading to scribbled notes and printouts that have been taped to the surface. I step closer, feeling my throat tighten as I do. Some of the printouts are reports of some kind. Most of them are photos. My father is at the center of it all. So is Mark. A smiling photo of Kyle is taped above them, and my eyes are glued to it. Near it is a picture of me.
Oh, my God!
***
Mateo Ricci
A sound behind me has me spinning around, and suddenly I’m staring straight into horrified hazel eyes.
“What the fuck?!” I snap. But it’s more from alarm than anger at seeing her. I have no right to be angry. I’ve betrayed her trust.
“What the hell are you doing, Mateo?”
“Andy, I—”
She steps closer to the board, her face growing pale as she looks at the work I’ve been busy with. There’s no sense in trying to hide anything now; she’s seen it all. I see her sway slightly as understanding begins to dawn. She stretches a hand out, fingertips trailing over a page.
“This is from Kyle’s journal.” Her voice is barely audible. She turns accusing eyes on me. “How did you get these?”
I can’t help myself…I drop my gaze to the floor. Guilt swells in me.
“You went through my things. You took photos of his journal when we were in my apartment.” It’s not a question. She’s figured out.
“Yes.” I confirm it because there’s no point in lying.
“While I was sleeping. After you’d fucked me!” Her voice rises.
“Andy, it’s not what you’re thinking…”
“Oh? And what am I thinking?”
I want to reach out to her, to pull her to me. I know that I can’t. She’ll go off like a keg of gunpowder. Already I can feel the rage simmering from her. I’ve infiltrated her world and strip-mined her darkest secrets and now they’re all here, displayed like damning evidence of my betrayal.
“I’m running an operation on Mark Whitlock and your father.” Might as well let it all out now. “They’ve been the subject of an FBI investigation for…” How do I tell her this? “For quite some time.”
“FBI investigation?” She turns back to the board. “What for?” Her hands are clenching and unclenching into small fists at her sides.
“Corruption. Racketeering. Drug running. Human trafficking.” I shrug. “Take your pick.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but somehow it comes out trite. God, I want to hold her so badly. But I can’t. She’ll think I’m trying to distract her, and it’ll push her over the edge. There’s disbelief on her face when she stares up at me, then turns back to the board.
