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Four.
“Fiona Turner?” a voice barked.
She froze. I saw it—the split second where she considered running.
Five.
The tallest agent stepped forward, hand hovering near his holster. “FBI. You’re under arrest….”
Fiona turned to me, her eyes wide. She was a smart woman; she knew what happened even before I patted my chest, pulling out the microphone of the wire so she knew who had fucked her over.
“Well,” she spat, “you’re way dumber than you look if you think this will take.”
The FBI agent continued, speaking over her, “…for attempted murder, attempted arson, wire fraud, conspiracy to commit fraud, and obstruction of justice.”
Wire fraud? I raised an eyebrow at the agent I’d been working with, who stood behind the one cuffing Fiona. He only shrugged.
Well, they did say they’d throw the book at her—looks like they found a whole damn library.
The cuffs clicked shut.
Six.
Game over!
CHAPTER 44
elena
Icame to Dallas after I talked to Duke.
He said he had to stay a few more days, tying up loose ends, but something in his voice didn’t sit right with me. Too flat, too hollow, like he was standing on the edge of something dark. So, I told Hunt to take care of the ranch, booked myself a flight, and showed up.
He was staying at The Crescent, an upscale hotel in Uptown Dallas. With its polished marble floors that gleamed under the warm lighting, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like they belonged in a European palace, and the scent of fresh-cut flowers hung in the air—this wasn’t my kinda joint.Butthis was Duke’s. This washisworld, I noted.
I didn’t fit in with the women here. Their hands were soft, untouched by calluses, their nails perfectly manicured. They sure as hell weren’t wearing fifteen-dollar Levi’s they snagged off Amazon. The difference betweenthem and me was stark, obvious the moment I sat at the lobby bar, my duffle bag resting at my booted feet.
I ordered a whiskey and tried not to gawk at the price.
Thirty bucks for a damn shot? Who the hell paid that kind of money for something that burned going down the same way, no matter the price tag?
I texted Duke, wondering if he’d compare me to all the women here and wonder what the hell he was doing with me.
Me:Ah, I’m at your hotel in the lobby bar.
I sipped the whiskey and looked around. The men were in suits, the women were in suits or dresses—fuck me, Fiona Turner would blend in here. I felt like a bull at a ballet.
I looked at my phone: five minutes, no response.
I was about to try again when hands grasped my shoulders. I turned and saw Duke. He was in his slacks, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, like he’d started to strip out of this life and then lost the energy to finish. His face was unreadable at first—then it shifted—surprise, relief, something softer.
He pulled me off the stool, and in front of whoever the hell was around, he crushed my mouth with his, muttering, “Thank God you’re here. Thank fucking God!”
Okay, so I did the right thing, I thought as I let him in my mouth, heart, and soul.
He hugged me, and his lips brushed my ear. “Let’s go, baby, I need inside you.”
It was like when we were kids, when he was desperate for me, and my ardor matched his.