Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
She smiles, presses another lingering kiss—slow, claiming—and I taste hope. When she finally pulls back, eyes lazy with heat, I step away only far enough to scan windows. Clear.
“Come,” I murmur, lacing our fingers. “You sleep as I watch.”
“No watching tonight,” she counters, tugging me toward the villa. “Just us sharing space.”
We steal through moonlit corridors to her bedroom. I perform a rapid sweep—closet, bath, balcony. Secure.
She heads into the shower as I remove my paint-stained shirt. When she comes back in, she sucks in a breath. I suck in a deeper one.
Standing before me is a goddess. All soft curves and deliciously decadent in nothing but a tank and sleep shorts.
Fuck me.
She climbs onto the bed, and extends a hand. I kick off my boots, and remove my holster, then join her, sitting back against the headboard. She crawls into the V of my legs, head on my chest, heartbeat syncing to mine.
“Stay,” she breathes.
“Always.”
Her fingers trace lazy circles over my sternum. Minutes stretch—not silence but communion. Eventually her breaths lengthen, tension melts, and the weight of her sleep settles.
I watch shadows drift across the ceiling and mark every second I keep her safe. The taste of her still smolders on my lips, an ember I’ll guard like the last light on earth. Because yes, lines blurred tonight. But the vow underneath is sharper than ever:
No one reaches her.
And when the gala lights fade and the threat is gone, nothing will keep me from diving into every kaleidoscopic color she’s waited to share.
12
Camille
The afternoon sun drifts through the wisteria canopy like liquid apricot, gilding everything in warmth that feels fragile. It’s too fragile for the nerves twisting in my gut. Twenty-one hours until the gala. Twenty-one hours until two hundred champagne-slick donors and four hundred glitter-drunk influencers swarm this house like moths around a spotlight.
“To pre-panic or post-panic, that is the question.” I mutter it at the sky, then tip the last inch of chardonnay into Vanessa’s glass.
She lounges beside me on the teak daybed in a gauzy jade romper, legs stretched, toes painted merlot. “I vote pre,” she says, twirling the stem between her fingers. “Panic now so tomorrow you can glide like a swan.”
“Swan murder is a felony, Ness.”
“Only if they find the body.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Cheers to the most stressful soirée this city has ever seen.”
We sip. The wine is citrusy with a whisper of honeysuckle. It’s like summer in a stem. For a heartbeat I almost forget the weighted lock bolts, the hidden cameras, the operators pacing the tree line.
“So,” Vanessa begins, eyes glinting. “Tell me everything about Beard-Mountain.”
“Riggs?”
“Obviously. He’s silent and broody and looks like he can bench-press my ego.”
I laugh. “He’s Sawyer’s teammate, BRAVO Team’s second. Afghanistan vets, apparently. Loves bourbon and dogs. That’s all I’ve gathered.”
“Bourbon and dogs? Sold.” She sinks deeper into the cushion. “But my girl intuition says the true drama is between you and Captain Discipline.”
Heat climbs my cheeks before I can control it. “Sawyer’s strictly professional.”
“Professional doesn’t leave finger-paint hickeys on your neck.” Vanessa’s grin is wicked. “Relax. I’m kidding. So? Spill.”
I toy with the base of my glass. Images flash behind my eyelids. Sawyer’s hand cradling my nape, the crush of his mouth, paint smears on his throat. My pulse stumbles.
“Nothing unprofessional,” I say. Technically true … if we redefine nothing. “He’s focused on the gala.”
Vanessa snorts. “Focused on you more likely.” She nudges my knee. “Have you thought about what happens after? When the bad guys are in cuffs and gala confetti’s swept?”
“Every waking second.” The confession slips out, soft and shivery. “I’ve never felt so seen. Or so safe.”
“Or so turned on,” she sings.
“Vanessa!”
She cackles, then sobers. “You deserve safe and steamy. Don’t sabotage it.”
A wind gust rattles the wisteria leaves, scattering purple petals. I track one drifting onto my thigh. “What if tomorrow goes sideways? What if this person—or people—make their move?”
“Then Sawyer and Beard-Mountain will go full John Wick, and I’ll livestream from a tasteful angle.” She angles her glass. “Kidding. But honestly, the security here is Fort Knox on steroids.”
I glance toward the house. Beyond the French doors I can see one Orange operator—Rae—doing a final walk-through with a tablet. “And yet someone breached twice already.”
Vanessa follows my gaze, then lowers her voice. “There’s still no leads?”
“The flash-bang traced to a surplus show. Paper stock traced to a specialty boutique, but the sales list was hacked. Hartley’s team’s cross-referencing Kingsley ex-employees, but nothing concrete.”
She sighs. “Any other theories? A jealous ex? A rival artist?”
I think of every critic who’s hated my murals, every opportunist who’s courted my father’s approval only to be turned down. None fit the escalating precision of these attacks.
“Could be someone targeting Dad, using me as leverage,” I say. “IPO sharks can be vicious.”
Vanessa tilts her head. “Then they’ll strike when the media’s here—to humiliate him.”