Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
He nods so fast his head might fall off.
But even as I threaten him, the cold reality settles in my chest like a stone. If Tommy fucking Vance can find her, so can the Crow. It’s only a matter of time before they put the pieces together, before they realize the girl they’ve been hunting is singing every night in a Greenwich Village jazz club.
She’s not safe here. Hell, she’s not safe anywhere, but especially not out in the open like this.
I leave him at the bar and push through the crowd toward the exit, but I can’t stop myself from looking back. She’s still singing, still lost in the music, and she has no idea that the man she let put his mouth on her last night is the same man who failed to save her father.
In the smoky light of the club, she’s achingly beautiful. Tonight she’s wearing a deep emerald dress that hugs her curves, different from the scarlet sequined number from last night but equally stunning. Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that’s all sharp cheekbones and soft lips. She’s smaller than I remembered, probably no more than five-foot-four in those heels, but she owns that stage like she’s ten feet tall. There’s something ethereal about the way she moves, graceful but with an edge that speaks to the darkness she’s been carrying.
Peter’s eyes, I realize with a jolt. She has Peter’s dark, intelligent eyes, but where his held warmth and humor, hers burn with barely contained fury. The same stubborn chin, the same way of tilting her head when she’s lost in thought. But everything else about her is uniquely Sara—the defiant set of her shoulders, the way she transforms pain into art with her voice.
She’s twenty-three years old and more beautiful than any woman has a right to be, especially one who’s been missing since she was barely eighteen.
Peter’s little girl, all grown up and hiding in plain sight. The guilt threatens to choke me.
She has no idea who I really am. The same man who’s been hunting her for five years.
The same man who now has to figure out how to keep her alive while fighting the urge to finish what we started in that dressing room.
If I can’t protect her this time, she’ll be my failure all over again.
Chapter Three
Saylor
The applause dies down as I step off the stage, the spotlights dimming behind me. Eddie, our piano player, is already loosening his tie when I walk over.
“Not bad for a Thursday night,” he says, flexing his fingers. “Though you kept scanning the crowd during that last song.”
“Was it that obvious?” I lean against the piano, catching my breath.
“Only to someone who’s been watching you perform for two years.” Eddie starts gathering his sheet music. “Your mysterious friend from last night show up again?”
I glance around the cabaret. The crowd is thinning but there are still plenty of people nursing drinks at their tables. “He was here. Then he wasn’t.”
“Ah. The old disappearing act.” Eddie pauses in his packing. “That why you look like someone stole your favorite toy?”
“I don’t look like anything.”
“Right. And I don’t have arthritis in my left hand.” He grins. “So what happened? Guy seemed pretty into you last night.”
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.” I run a hand through my hair. “He just . . . vanished. Right after my set.”
“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”
“Or maybe I’m reading too much into things.” I lower my voice as a couple walks past our corner. “Eddie, you ever get the feeling someone’s watching you? Like, really watching you?”
His expression shifts, becoming more serious. “All the time in this business. Why?”
“For the past week, I’ve felt like I’m being studied. Not the usual drunk patron bullshit—something different.”
“Then keep your eyes open. And maybe consider that hooking up with dark strangers in tailored suits isn’t the smartest move when you’re already feeling paranoid.”
“Oh, so now you’re my life coach?” I cross my arms. “What’s next, Eddie? Going to tell me to eat my vegetables and get eight hours of sleep?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Just saying, kid. Timing seems a little convenient, doesn’t it?”
“What, so I should swear off men because I’m feeling jumpy? That’s a fast track to becoming a crazy cat lady.”
Eddie laughs as he finishes packing up. “Fair point. Just . . . be careful, all right?”
“Always am.” I push off from the piano. “See you tomorrow night.”
But as I watch Eddie head for the exit, that crawling sensation between my shoulder blades gets stronger. Time to get out of here.
The ride to my apartment is silent except for the low hum of the engine and the city noise filtering through the windows. I lean forward in the backseat of the cab, watching the driver’s mirrors. There’s a black sedan three cars back that’s been behind us since we left the club. Could be nothing. Could be everything.