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But even five minutes couldn’t save Waylon. Even now, she could feel the dead man’s eyes on her back. Watching her as his flesh cooled.
Daniel stepped closer. Her mouth went dry at the dull metallic glint in his hand, hazy pink in the stage lights—the gun aimed straight at her chest. But guns had never been his weapon of choice, and they both knew it.
Fifteen minutes, Juliette. Probably less. Let him think he’s won.
Juliette let her shoulders sag. “I don’t want to run anymore,” she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
“You don’t have a choice. You’re a fugitive.” He stepped out of the shadows.
The bloodlust in his eyes was exactly as she remembered it, his smile cold, smug, as if he’d just murdered her pet and couldn’t wait to tell her how they’d screamed.
How had she once thought him handsome? How had she ever loved him?
But she had. She had.
She raised her hands, palms up at her sides—supplication. “You can clear me of any charges. I mean, you’re the one who set me up. Just fix it to prove that I didn’t do those things, and I’ll come home with you. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Nice try.” He slunk nearer, gun still trained on her, and then it was pressing into her chest, against her scar, his sick heat raising clammy gooseflesh along her spine.
Every muscle in her body tightened with the urge to run.
“Don’t move,” he hissed against her neck.
He smelled sour, bitter, sharp—like pure hatred. His fingertips slid over her waist, around her ribs, the barrel of the weapon pressed hard enough to bruise. Her skin crawled everywhere his hand came into contact with her flesh.
“There’s no wire if that’s what you’re looking for. I know you’re too smart for that, Daniel.”
“I have to make sure. You’ve tried it before.”
He wasn’t wrong. She’d tried to trap him on three other occasions—cameras, bugs, her phone set to record. She’d failed. Sanchez had, too. And he’d paid with his life.
Daniel ran his palm over the front of her stomach, beneath her breasts. “You remember this, Juliette? It wasn’t always so bad, was it?” His thumbs brushed her nipples on their way past, his pinky finger lingering on her scar—itching, stinging.
“No. It wasn’t all bad,” she lied, her voice shaking. She couldn’t help it—her entire body was trembling, her heart beating much too quickly as he frisked her. “I remembered that, too, being so far away all these years. We did have good times; I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. And if you clear me, we can have more good times. I can come home, be with my mother. And… you.” The words burned like acid on her tongue.
“You know what I’ve realized?” he hissed into her ear.
Her mouth was stuffed with cotton, but she forced out, “What?”
“I like you better like this.” His fingers traced her hip, the belt line of her jeans, dipping behind the button. “I like you running. Scared. Degrading yourself, working in shit-hole clubs where they refuse to let you dance because even they see how disgusting you are.”
Shame twisted in her chest, her eyes burning, but then she saw Ronan’s eyes in her mind, the lust in his gaze, heard her name—her real name—on his tongue. The shameful heat fizzled out. She blinked her tears away.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go, Daniel. Just that awful motel.”
He stepped back suddenly but kept the gun trained on her chest. “You weren’t at the motel last night,” he said, dark eyes boring into hers. “Were you fucking that detective?”
Her ribs tightened. Did he know where Ronan’s second home was? But then he finished, “Tell me where you went, baby.”
Relief edged through her belly—thank god. “I thought that if I walked around, you might see me. Pick me up so we could talk.” She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, inhaling deeply as if she could draw courage from the air.
Five minutes now. Probably less. But…
What if Ronan didn’t show? What if he was still working in his office? What if he hadn’t yet realized she was gone?
It’s okay—Daniel won’t kill you. That would ruin his game.
But there was something in his eyes that unsettled her more than his smugness. A dull kind of listlessness. Was he… tired of this? That’d be bad—very bad.