Page 24 of Resist

Not blonde like I’d expected.

I zoom in on the screen as if that will help with the image quality so I can see if that unique-looking birthmark on Saxony’s wrist is there, but the photos aren’t clear enough.

Grabbing my cell, I have Stuart on the phone in a second.

“Where did you take these?” I ask in greeting, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. He’s used to me by now.

“It was across town a few weeks ago.”

“Why?” For a quick second, jealousy roils inside me as I wonder if Stuart has met her.

“You asked me if I’d heard of her, and so I figured you needed to know for a client. I asked around, knew she was meeting with someone . . . I made a point to get some shots for you.”

“Who was she meeting with?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Where did she go after?”

He chuckles. “That’s the funny part. She went into the hotel and never came back out. Either that or she did come back out, but dressed as someone else.”

“Hmm. Did she—never mind.”

“Is there a problem, Ryk?”

“Nah. Just trying to figure something out.” And not sound like a crazy man asking if he noticed a dark-red birthmark on the inside of her wrist.

“She’s hot . . . in a dominatrix kind of way.”

“That she is.” And my mind immediately veers to her other look. The soft blonde hair and pale-pink lips. Equally as hot.

“Do you want me to do the usual workup on her for you?”

I stare at the picture a bit longer. “No.”

“No?” There’s surprise in his voice that matches how I feel.

“No. Thanks, Stu.”

I hang up and wonder what it is about her that has me holding back when normally I could know the answer to my question in days. If she’s one and the same woman. Where she lives. What color her goddamn kitchen counter is, for Christ’s sake.

It’s that voice of hers. It’s distinct, with a hint of rasp and a whole lot of sexy, and there’s no mistaking that voice no matter how hard she might try to disguise it.

With a sigh, I scroll through the pictures a few more times. The two women couldn’t look more polar opposite, but there’s something about the images. Something I notice as I flip through them, study them, scrutinize them that tells me I just might be right about my hunch. She might not have blonde hair in the photos, but my hands were on those curves the other night. A man doesn’t forget curves like that.

“Who are you, Vee?” I murmur as I sink back into my chair, my anger at being left high and dry slowly morphing into a small sense of satisfaction that I was wrong. She did get her hands dirty.

But then that creates a whole other list of questions. Number one being what the hell happened in that hotel room the other night, because judging by how wet she was, she wasn’t just going through the motions.

Hell no.

So what the fuck put the fear in her eyes?

The intercom on my desk buzzes again. “Mr. Lockhart?”

“What part of not now do you not understand, Bella?”

“Mr.—”