Page 12 of Vicious Temptation

“Were you able to get in contact with someone?”

“Change of plans.” I say it before I can question why I’m suddenly willing to spend another minute in this man’s truck. Maybe I’ll regret it tomorrow, but he stayed when he didn’t have to, and not once has he acted like helping me earned him anything in return.

Ryuji would’ve stayed, too.

Three

Thiago

We pull up to what looks like a large warehouse with wide metal doors stretched across the front. I barely cut the engine before Remi is out of the truck without a word. Unbuckling my seat belt, I climb out after her. The rain is barely a mist at this point, but the cold cuts straight through my wet clothes the second my boots hit the pavement.

She glances over her shoulder before continuing toward a side door as though she’s already decided I’ll follow. I remind myself to be patient. The first time I saw her picture, the night she was assigned to me back in Texas, something told me she’d be…complicated. Less than an hour in her presence has proven I seriously underestimated her.

She already pointed a Glock at my chest without the slightest hesitation, and everything about the way she handled that weapon told me it wasn’t panic that made her draw. She watched my hands instead of my face, controlled the distance between us, and never once let the muzzle drift. Those aren’t instincts you pick up at a gun range on the weekends.

Her file warned me she was dangerous, but it never mentioned how disciplined she was.

Remi presses her thumb against a small panel beside a heavy steel door. A green light flashes, and she pulls it open. The lights overhead flicker on one by one as we step inside. She moves differently once we’re through the door. Her attention shifts to every corner and exit we pass, taking stock of the space before continuing deeper into the building.

That answers one question. Whatever training Remi has goes far beyond knowing how to handle a gun.

The corridor opens into a larger space with a bar, a low sofa, and enough entertainment to keep someone occupied for hours.

“This is nice,” I say, taking it all in.

As expected, she doesn’t answer. She simply gives me a look that tells me she knows I’m only trying to keep the conversation going.

I don’t bother trying again.

She slips out of her jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair, revealing intricate black ink that winds from her shoulders to her wrists. The tattoos suit her. Nothing about Remi feels accidental; from the way she carries herself and sizes up a person to the art she’s chosen to wear on her skin.

Rain still glistens in the loose strands of her hair, and her shirt clings to her frame, but she never bothers smoothing it down or checking her reflection. It’s as if none of it crosses her mind.

Most people want to be seen. Remi only seems interested in seeing everyone else.

“I’ll be right back,” she says before disappearing up the spiral staircase.

She doesn’t strike me as the type to bring a random man home, and while this place has everything someone could need, it doesn’t feel completely lived in.

The air carries the faint scent of oil and metal with something heavier beneath it. I remember the oversized doors at the front of the building. Between the smell, the layout, and the way she handled herself under the hood, I’m willing to bet there’s a garage on the other side.

“A tow truck is already en route.”

I turn toward the staircase. She’s halfway down, tugging a black hoodie over a fitted tank top. The movement is quick, but not quick enough to hide the outline beneath it before the fabric falls into place.

“Hopefully, they get to it before someone else,” she says, making her way behind the bar.

“Yeah, that car wouldn’t last past sunrise out there.”

She shrugs as she cracks open an energy drink. “I’d find it.” She says it with the same certainty as when she told me she had it handled earlier. There’s no threat behind the words because, to her, it’s already a fact. “I obviously don’t have dry clothes for you to change into, but I can toss your shirt in the dryer for a few minutes.”

I reach for the hem, then stop. “Is this all right?”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

I should’ve expected that answer. Pulling the shirt over my head, I hand it to her. Her eyes make one quick pass over me before she turns away. No pretending she didn’t look, and no interest in looking twice.

I’m not sure which one surprises me more.