“Who is he, Sloane?” With my tablet in my hand, I push to my feet and skirt the makeup table.
“Excuse me? Working here,” Marina says, but I ignore her. From Sloane’s body language, this wasn’t an easy admission for her, and that name definitely wasnotin her file.
“Can you give us a minute?”she asks Marina.“Please?”
Her friend huffs—I think—and jams her hands on her hips. “Fine. I can give you three. No more. Either that or you can finish up your own damn makeup.”
As soon as Marina slams the door to her room—a sound even I can hear—Sloane peers up at me, shame hooding her gaze.
“Austin, I’m going to put you on hold. Or…fuck it. I’ll call you back.” Jabbing the tablet screen to sever the connection, I set the device down and lean my hip against the desk. “Who’s Rodney Carriger?”
Sloane stares down at her hands clasped in her lap, and I lay my fingers over hers.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.” God, I wish I believed that. I want to. I’d give this woman anything. But this is all make believe, and even if it weren’t, I can’t possibly be enough for her. Not as damaged as I am.
“It’s not a nice story. Marina doesn’t even know.”Tears brim in her eyes, and shit. If the makeup artist finds out I made her cry, she’ll kick my ass into next week. Pulling one of the tissues from the box, I touch it gently to the corners of her eyes. The intimacy in that gesture is almost too much for my heart to bear without taking her into my arms and carrying her somewhere no one can hurt her again.
Her cool fingers brush mine. “Rodney worked for the Philadelphia police department. He was part of the team who arrested Dimitri.”
“Sloane? I have to ask. Assumptions in this business? They get people killed. But how do you know that?”Deep in my soul, I have no doubts as to what happened all those years ago. She was one of Dimitri’s victims.
Trafficked.
Sold.
Broken.
But she survived. Flourished, even, judging by all her accomplishments. They’re not enough, though. No professional accolade or award can make up for months or years of hell. Of torture. Of pain. My file has more commendations than most of the men and women I trained with, and they don’t mean a damn thing to me now.
“Please don’t ask me that.”
With the drape covering her upper body, she looks so slight. A stiff wind would blow her over, and she’s convinced she’s somehow to blame for Max’s death. For the man who broke into her home. For me being here in the first place.
“I have to. No secrets, remember? No shutting down?” Curling the fingers of my left hand around the arm of the chair, I pull the rolling monstrosity toward the couch, then sit so we’re face to face. “Do you really think I’m going to judge you for anything that happened fifteen years ago? For things that weren’t your fault? That you had no control over?”
“You should.” Sloane pulls a piece of fabric from the pocket of her bathrobe. My handkerchief. She kept it close.
“Fuck that. Never was much for following the rules.” Cracking a smile, I try to set her at ease, but it’s no use. What I’m about to say? It’s a risk. But Sloane needs to hear it. “I didn’t tell you how I lost my arm. And my hearing. Not the real story, anyway.”
She sniffles and dabs at her nose with the silky square, waiting for me to continue. The last thing I want to do is go back there, but if it’ll help her? No hesitation.
“Ambush in Pakistan. Middle of the city. The bombs were so close, they blew out my ear drums and damaged a whole lot of things inside my ear that couldn’t be fixed. My arm? A concrete wall collapsed. I pushed Austin out of the way, but I wasn’t fast enough to save myself.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry,”she says, her lower lip wobbling slightly until she starts chewing on it, then goes through the now-familiar pattern of unconscious movements that mark her stress levels rising.
“You could say everything that happened was my fault. I know that’s what I think. Doesn’t make it true, though.” My mouth is dry as fuck, and I reach for the bottle of water on the side table, draining half of it in a couple of swallows and trying not to let Sloane see my hand shake.
“You didn’t set the bombs.” Her words scroll across my glasses, and I look up at her.
“Exactly. And you didn’t turn Volkov into the worst excuse for a human being I’ve seen in a long damn time. I know he was charged and convicted for trafficking young women from Russia. The police report says he beat them, kept them locked in a basement in south Philly, and forced them to do unspeakable things. Your name isn’t listed among the victims, but…”
There isn’t a handkerchief on this earth that could dry Sloane’s tears now. Her foundation streaks, and she buries her face in her hands. Across my lenses, a single word flashes.
Crying.
“Sloane, you havenothingto be ashamed of. Nothing. If you were one of his—”
Her head snaps up, and though her tears are falling faster and harder than ever, there’s a fire in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “If? Why do you think he’s blackmailing me? I know the men he worked with. Both in Philadelphia and in Russia. I was not a dumb, naive child when I came to America, Griff. I was good with numbers. And art. But my family was starving. Mama worked fifteen hours a day to put food on the table. So when I found a man who promised to take me to America for twenty-five thousand rupees, I jumped at the chance. I was stupid. Desperate. And that choice tookeverythingfrom me!”
