Page 36 of Wicked Fortune

“Please,” I repeat, but the word catches in my throat as I see movement behind him. A shadow. A woman.

Lila.

She’s standing just beyond him, watching us with a cold, dark malice.

“You’re a fool not to realize he’s playing you. He’s a magician, you know. An expert at sleight of hand. You see what he wants you to see.”

“No,” I begin, but my words are cut off as the room shifts under me, everything twisting and blurring. The silk and lace are gone. I’m naked. Vulnerable. Trapped.

A scream rips out of me, and I thrust myself upright as my eyes fly open. I gasp, confused, my skin hot, my body tangled in my sheets.

Then I see Mr. Quack’s adorable yellow face on the nightstand, and my body goes limp with relief.

A dream. It had only been a dream.

But even so, my core is wet and my nipples are tight—and the featherlight touch of his fingers lingers like a ghost against my skin.

I’m curled up under a blanket on the couch, the television on mute, the images only for company. I take another sip of the wine I’d poured, telling myself the hour doesn’t matter. I need wine now to steady my nerves.

Holt.

With a sigh, I drag my fingers through my newly-conservative hairstyle as the reality of my plan settles around me.

A bad plan. A dangerous plan.

Jenny’s initials were right there on his desk blotter. And that conversation I overheard? A PR nightmare? Hardline events that were a liability? That had to be the meet-and-greets, didn’t it?

I can’t be sure, but the knot in my gut says yes, and I try to steady my nerves. Even in dreams, he’s got me wrapped around his finger, and he doesn’t even know it.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that’s the most dangerous part.

I force myself to take long, slow breaths. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Whatever’s going on at those parties, Hardline’s in the middle of it. Somehow, Hardline’s responsible for Jenny’s death. I may not have concrete proof, but I know what I know, and in my gut, I’m positive. And even though Bree would say it’s just woo bullshit, my gut is hardly ever wrong.

But if Hardline is at the center, then so is Matthew Holt.

A equals A, after all.

Fuck.

I toss back the rest of my wine, then head into my kitchen for another bottle. I refill my glass, then pace my living room as I empty it in four long swallows. And pour once again.

I don’t want those thoughts in my head. I don’t want to believe he’s bad. I’ve laughed with him. Craved him. Shared drinks with him.

Hell, I’ve admired him. The way he built that company. The command he exercises over everyone he employs. The way he worked his way to the top. The confidence he always exudes.

Or is it just a fake confidence based on lies? Are the stories about his rise fiction? Instead of climbing his way up using intellect and talent as footholds, did he really claw his way to the top, with lies and deceit and violence?

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to hug myself.

He can’t be the bad guy. A man like that—he should be the hero.

The words echo through me as I finish off the bottle, then plop down on the sofa, my blood too full of wine, my head too full of that man.

No.

I don’t want him in my head.