“I’ll have news on your father’s medical status in the next ten minutes,” he says. “We’re about to breech the hospital’s servers. The car following you is driven by one of Martina’s men, who doesn’t seem to care that we know he’s there, which reads like a message to me from Martina. He’s here. He’s watching. He’s waiting.”
“That’s exactly what this is,” I say. “Call me when you know about my father.” I end the connection and look at Emily. “Seth will know the truth about my father’s treatment by the time we get home.”
“That’s good,” she says. “That’s really good.”
But the fact that a drug cartel minion is following us home is not. It’s a detail that would scare her, despite the fact that she’d put on a brave mask and say it doesn’t, when she was already running and afraid when I met her. I want to protect her. I want to make her feel safe. I just need to end this hell with the cartel and tell her it’s over, once and for all. And I need to do it quickly, by whatever means necessary.
CHAPTER FOUR
EMILY
I don’t push Shane to talk during the short ride downtown to our apartment. I understand him well enough to know that he’s waiting on Seth’s call, battling inner demons he must first name before he can even think of defeating them. It’s something I know well from the many demons that consumed me after my father’s death. And Shane’s demons are clearly holding the same emotional blade on him that mine had on me, ready to cut him deeper and deeper if he lets them, with the worst demon of all, the one coming to claim his father: death. No, I amend silently. It’s not the worst. Guilt is the worst. All the guilt you put on yourself for everything you should have, could have, might have done differently with the person but can’t now.
I sigh, and sink deeper into the leather seat of the Bentley, letting the demon-filled silence speak to me, letting Shane speak to me. Because the truth is that, despite his silence, I do not feel shut out at all. Not when he allows his emotions to whisper darkly in the air, viciously taunting him and me with the way they affect him. Speaking to me in a way he would let them speak to no one else, and I am eager for that moment when we will be naked and next to each other as he’s promised. When I know I will fully understand what he is feeling and, then soon after, what he is thinking.
An eternity later, it seems, though it is only minutes, we turn into the parking garage of the Four Seasons, and Shane wastes no time finding us a parking spot in the private residence section. He kills the engine and we’re about to exit when his cell phone rings, and I swear every muscle in my body tenses, my nerves on edge with whatever news it will hold. Shane answers it, and almost immediately I surmise from a few words that again he’s speaking with Seth, who is not only the man who sees to our protection, but the man I know will have answers about Shane’s father’s treatment.
The communication is short, with Shane querying, “And?” and then: “Are you sure?” Neither of which tells me much. Finally, he says, “Make sure,” before he ends the call and slides his phone back into his pocket. But rather than turning to me, or getting out of the car, his hands settle on the steering wheel, and those demons of his aren’t whispering now. They’re shouting. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re holding knives and jabbing them in his chest and mine right along with it. “What happened?”
“The treatment program is real,” he says, without looking at me, his voice a tight band. “But the success rate isn’t eighty percent. It’s twenty. Seth had the records hacked to indicate eighty, to ensure that if Derek or Mike investigates, they feel like my father is going to make it.”
Oh yeah. Knives in the chest, all right. “Shane—”
“I need out of this car and garage,” he says, popping his door open. “I’ll come around and get you.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, exiting the Bentley.
I don’t wait on him. I don’t bother with my wrap, opening my door, and I’m on my feet, shutting it again by the time he’s standing in front of me, his expression stark, shadows clouding his gray eyes. We stand there, seconds ticking by, neither of us speaking or moving, his tormented emotions standing between us like one of those demons, and I hold my breath, waiting for his cue to what he needs or wants right now, afraid he will push me away.
“Come,” he finally says, his voice a rough, gravelly tone, his arm wrapping around my waist as he sets us in motion toward the lobby, our hips aligned, his instinct, thankfully, to keep me close, not push me away. So much so, in fact, that he holds on to me as we enter the garage elevator, and I have this sense he’s holding on to me to protect me. As if he feels like I’ll be gone soon too, and this affects me. Because he cares about me. Because he’s hurting and I want to take away his pain. There are so many things I want to ask him and say to him right now, but I know this isn’t the time or place. I’m not even sure this night is the right night for these things.
We reach the entry door and exit to the lobby, where one of the staffers greets us. Shane manages a polite, even friendly, reply, displaying a skill for appearing unflappable and unaffected by life that speaks to his success as an attorney. It also drives home the fact that he chooses to allow me to see the real him. He gives me that trust willingly, as I do him, and it’s not something either of us has with anyone else in this world. It matters in ways I don’t believe I even knew could matter before meeting him.
We continue our walk to the elevator, and while Shane still appears cool and casual, like he’s living any other night, he jabs the call button a little harder than normal, an edge of anticipation clinging to him as we wait for the doors to open. One second, two, ten, and when finally they part, Shane wastes no time guiding me inside the car. Still holding on to me, he punches in our floor and our security code. The doors close, and the moment we are alone, Shane’s hand comes down on the back of my head, and he’s leaning into me, his breath warm on my cheek, on my mouth. And my hand is on his chest, his heart thundering beneath my palm, and mine answers, pounding against my rib cage, his sudden lust for me overwhelming, contagious. I need him. I want him.
“Emily,” he whispers softly, a gruff, affected quality to his voice, and then he’s kissing me, the taste of all his emotions bleeding into my mouth: Anger. Guilt. Pain. More anger. It’s a kiss of dark chocolate, bitter but somehow addictive, sinful. It consumes me. He consumes me, and I lose track of time and place. I can’t think of anything but how he tastes and how his hand feels when it slides up my waist and covers my breast. I moan with the intimate touch, the tease of his fingers over my thin blouse that pebble my nipple, my hand covering his, my mind reaching for sanity. “Shane,” I pant out, trying to pull myself back in check. “Shane, I—”