“What if I get my brother to accompany me?” I have to do this. Now that I know where my birth father is, I want this story. More than I’ve wanted any other story in my entire life.
“Commander Pritchard?” Lincoln’s eyes widen. “If you can get him to go with you, I’ll approve your travel.”
“Fine. Give me a day to arrange things with him and reach out to my contact at the prison. But be prepared to book me that flight.” With a grin, I practically skip out of his office and head back to my desk. By tomorrow, I’ll have everything arranged.
I hope.
Chapter Three
Trevor
My desk phone buzzes,but I don’t bother to look away from my computer as I hit the button. “Yes, Marjorie?”
“There’s a Dani Monroe here for you, Trevor.”
My world screeches to a halt. Dani? Here? Four days after the anniversary of her brother’s death? This isn’t good. But I can’t refuse her anything. Not after all the pain I caused.
“Send her in.”
Smoothing my hands down my dress shirt, I blow out a breath, trying to ease the stress of the day, then stand and open my office door.
The woman walking down the hall bears little resemblance to the one I last saw in New Haven more than six years ago. The Dani I knew was soft and curvy with a shy smile that belied her confidence. Long hair used to fall halfway down her back in ebony waves, and her kohl-lined eyes never missed a beat.
But now… My jaw hangs open as she strides towards my office, purpose in her steps. She’s lost at least thirty pounds, and the urge to take her out for a steak dinner flares up for a moment until I remind myself I don’t have the right to comment on anything a woman does with her body.
Her smile’s different too. Instead of shyness, now, there’s unease. Like she doesn’t want to be here but has little choice. She’s cut her hair into an angled bob, and it frames her heart-shaped face in a way that makes her look in command of her entire universe.
“Trevor.” Her voice is strong, but not entirely steady as she offers me a firm handshake. Too firm, in fact. One of my knuckles cracks when she squeezes, and she releases my fingers quickly. “Sorry. Kind of a must in my world. Never let a man have a stronger grip than you.”
“It’s okay. Come on in. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?” I don’t know how to act around her. Fall to my knees and beg forgiveness for killing her brother? Avoid mentioning it completely? Ask her what she knows? Austin told her some of it, but last I heard, not everything. The air in the room seems to get thinner by the second as she shakes her head.
Dani takes the chair across from my desk and tugs at her black suit jacket. “I wouldn’t be here if I had another option.”
“Well, that…makes me feel like shit,” I mutter to myself as I pull a notepad from my drawer, then meet her brown eyes.
“Dammit.” She tucks a thick lock of hair behind her ear and fiddles with a simple, silver drop earring. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not exactly. But Austin’s out of the country for the next six weeks or so, and I only have one shot at the interview of a lifetime. He sent me to you.”
If this woman asked me to fly her to the moon, I’d do it. Even though I’ve never piloted a damn thing in my life. I owe her that much for what I did to her. Breaking her heart, then killing the only blood family she had? Hell, I owe her the world.
“What do you need?”
“A chaperone.” She spits the words out like they’re the worst thing she could possibly say.
“Where do you need to go that’s dangerous enough to need a chaperone?”
“Caracas, Venezuela.”
Oh, shit.The one place I hoped to never see again. “Dani, Caracas is where—“
Anger churns in her gaze. “You don’t have to remind me what happened there, Trevor. Gil died, Austin barely survived, and you…” Her eyes shimmer for a moment, and I see a hint of the real Dani. The one she hides from everyone. The one I was stupid enough to walk away from—no, to abandon—all those years ago. But just as quickly as the mask slips, she blinks hard, and it’s firmly in place again. She’s back to being professional, almost unflappable.
Dani pulls a small tin from her purse, opens it, and scoops a golf ball-sized lump of…something purple into her palm. Her fingers work it into various shapes, and I stare at her hand—the perfectly filed nails with no polish, the soft skin, the way the tendons and muscles flex and dance.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush a bit darker, and she unfurls her fingers, revealing the purple sparkling blob. “Thinking putty.”
“Huh?”
