“I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the phone and continues to stare at me, his scowl creasing with worry.
If I open my mouth, I’m going to burst into tears. So I drag my feet across the room and drop the envelope on his desk.
He glares at it like it’s going to bite him. Then his gaze returns to mine, questioning, sharpening. A muscle twitches in his cheek, his hand hesitant as he reaches for the envelope. After an agonizing moment, he lifts it and slides out the photos.
The pictures of Cole are on top. Trace examines each one, his scowl emotionless. But he lifts his eyes repeatedly, checking my reaction. When he flips to the images of the dead man, he stiffens, and his nostrils go wide.
His gaze snaps to mine, and he presses a finger to his lips, wordlessly telling me not to talk.
His entire demeanor changes in a blink. His breaths come hard and fast as he snatches his phone and types something on the screen.
Who is he texting?
Without speaking, he gathers the photos, stacking them and returning them to the envelope.
Is he worried about someone listening? The FBI? He committed a crime, and now I’m wondering if by coming here, it makes me an accomplice.
Or is a different threat putting him on alert? Whoever delivered those pictures is probably not working on the right side of the law.
My scalp tingles, and my muscles are so stiff I struggle to unlock my joints. He darts around the desk, grips my shaking fingers, and guides me toward the door.
He touches his lips again, reminding me to remain silent. Then he leads me out with a hand on my back.
Where are we going? Maybe I shouldn’t follow him. He’s a killer and a liar and hell knows what else? My trust in him is shattered. Except I know, without a shadow of a doubt, if I’m in danger, he’ll protect me.
He ushers me into the elevator and presses the button for his penthouse. Maybe it’s safe to talk there?
When we arrive on the 31st floor, he clasps my hand and pulls me into the open kitchen. Shoulders stiff and back straight with tension, he scans my body with narrowed hawk eyes.
I wrap my arms around myself. “What are—?”
His hand flies to my mouth, his fingers pressing hard as he shakes his head.
Still no talking? What the unholy fuck? I glance around at the kitchen and living room. Does he think his penthouse is bugged?
He reaches for my coat, and I watch in frozen horror as he slides his fingers along the seams, checking the pockets and freeing the buttons to examine the liner.
He thinks I’m bugged.
The gravity of that realization crushes the air from my lungs, and all that remains is the strangling death of a breath.
Layer by layer, Trace removes the clothes from my quivering body. I hold still, paralyzed, as he inspects every garment, searching for listening devices. I don’t know if he thinks I went to the police and had a wire put on me or if there’s another threat causing his hands to shake. One that endangers both of us.
Neither of us has spoken.
My clothes scatter the floor around my feet, and all that’s left to remove is my panties. After examining every seam and stitch from my bra to my boots, he hasn’t found anything suspicious.
Crouched before me, he rests his hands on my hips and hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of my bikini briefs. Then he gives me his eyes, the pale blue depths glowing with intention.
I hug my bare chest and widen my stance with a nod.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as he slides the lacy material down my legs. His fingers, warm and familiar, slowly skim my thighs. I shiver.
He cut a man’s throat with those hands, and I’m standing in his domain completely nude and vulnerable.
Closing my eyes, I focus on breathing.
Over the past six weeks, I’ve made assumptions about Cole’s job, including the likelihood that he’s killed people. I justify his actions by telling myself they were bad people, people who tried to hurt him. The same rationalization grips me now.
I have no doubt Trace killed that man to protect me. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he kept it from me. I don’t give a shit about the restrictions on sharing classified information. There was a fucking murder in my house, and I didn’t know about it.
He softly touches my thigh, and I snap my eyes open. My phone sits in his hand. He must’ve found it in my coat pocket. The cover has been removed, exposing the electronic insides.
“You’re not bugged.” He offers the phone to me.
I leave his hand hovering there in lieu of grabbing my underwear.
“Who’s the dead man in the photo?” I drag on my panties and reach for the bra.
He rises to his full height with his hands behind him, watching me from beneath dark brows. The intensity in his expression makes me nervous, but he seems more relaxed now that he knows I’m not bugged. He also hasn’t taken his eyes off my body.
“Stop staring and answer my question.” I reach behind me and clasp the bra hooks with trembling hands.
His jaw flexes as he glares at me for another irritating moment. Then he lifts the envelope from the floor and empties it on the kitchen island. “Come here.”
I step beside him, gripping the edge of the counter while he straightens the photos, side by side, grouping his and Cole’s separately.
The images of Cole with that woman stirs so much poisonous jealousy in my gut I can’t look at them.
“This man”—Trace points at the dead body—“broke into your house with a gun concealed in his waistband and a knife sheathed beneath the leg of his pants.”
“He meant to kill me?” My face turns cold, bloodless.
“Yes.”
“Because of Cole?”
A muscle twitches beneath his eye. “Correct.”
“Do you know why or who he is?”
He flattens his hands on the counter and gives me a look that says everything and nothing. He has the answers, and they’re not going to pass his lips.
“You checked my clothes for bugs.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Who did you think was listening?”
“Anyone Cole made enemies with. I don’t know who delivered the envelope or what their motivation is. All precautions are necessary.”
My throat swells shut, and I stab a finger at the snapshots of my sitting room. “When did this happen?”
“A week after Cole cut all communication with me.”
“That was nine months after he left.” I run a hand through my hair and stare at the photos. “If you knew this man was connected to Cole, you knew Cole was in trouble.”
“I knew something was wrong the moment Cole stopped returning my encrypted messages. I didn’t know if he was lying low or already dead.”
“Did you kill or harm anyone else on my behalf?” How many attempts have been made on my life?
“No.”
“Does Cole know about this?”
Trace’s phone vibrates, and he lifts it to his ear. “Send him up.”
“Send who up?” I glance down at my body, clad only in a bra and panties. “I’m not dressed.”
“Nothing he hasn’t seen before.” He tosses the phone on the counter and turns back to the photos.
“Cole?” My pulse races. “That’s who you sent a text to in your office?”