Page 32 of Finding Denver

I’m face to face with Colt Harland.

It really is him. The man who stood at a bar and flirted with me. Who offered me chocolates and grinned confidently when Ranger made it clear who I belonged to. The only difference now is he’s soaked, his shirt clinging to him, the vague outlines of tattoos showing through the material. Water drips from his dark hair, rivets of it down his face, clinging to his lashes and his bottom lip.

“We need to leave.”

I try to pull my arm free. “I’m not going with you.”

“I didn’t ask,” he says, glancing once in Finn’s direction before pulling me into the kitchen. The chefs and other staff stare in wonder as Colt half drags me through the space.

He ducks just in time to avoid being clocked across the head with the blunt end of an axe. He slides back, pushing me behind him, but it isn’t a Capelli. It’s Sandy.

“Let her go, motherfucker.”

My God, this woman is a fucking superhero.

Colt straightens to his full height. “Get out of my way.”

“It’s fine, Sandy,” I say quickly. She narrows her eyes at Colt, slowly lowering the axe. It’s then that I spot the smoking pan. “Did you start a fire?”

“I don’t know where the fire alarms are!” she says, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for nearly burningthe building down. Colt drags me past her and to the back door. “Don’t take him back if he stuck his dick anywhere other than in you!” she calls after me, and despite myself, I laugh.

That is, until Colt and I burst outside into the side alley. I release a tight breath, instantly shivering. A town car waits, and Colt opens the back door. “In.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He seizes my wrist and tugs me close before I can walk away. His shirt highlights the outline of every muscle, and he must be as cold as I am, but he isn’t trembling and doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the drop in temperature against our sodden clothes. “We have no idea who did?—”

“The Capellis. Mystery solved. Now, let me go.”

He swears under his breath. “Do you have any idea what you did in there?”

“Saved your life?”

“You killed a Capelli. You chose a side,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “You cannot leave here unguarded, and I don’t see Lewis Gozia. Is he hiding somewhere? Under the dessert cart?” My jaw tenses. Lewis being my protection isn’t a secret, but I still hate that Colt knows anything about me when I know so little about him. “That’s what I thought. I’m not going to make a phone call to Ranger Luxe telling him his wife is dead. Get in the car, Denver. Now.”

Chapter 9

Colt

Denver Luxe is in my car. She’s in my car, and it’s fucking strange, but what’s stranger iswhyshe’s in my car.

She saved my life. Or Finn’s life, depending on who they were trying to kill, but given that it was a Capelli, I’m assuming I was the target. Vince clearly hasn’t let the bone-breaking incident go.

Denver is soaked, her gray hoody darkened by the sprinkler water, pieces of her hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks. I’m not much better, but luckily, I’ve just been shopping with Holly, and I’d dropped my clothes off in the car before taking her for ice cream with Helena McEwan. Holly was exhausted and fell asleep, so Helena took her home, and I’ve never been so fucking relieved that she did.

If she’d been in that restaurant … I don’t know what I’d have done. She could have been hurt. She would definitely have been traumatized.

I brush the feeling aside to focus on the disaster happening in real time. Denver.Still in my car. The town car is similar to a limo, with two rows of seats facing each otherand a glass partition separating us from the driver. It’s lowered right now. Taf is driving, and his gaze keeps flicking from the road to the rearview.

I grab the shopping bag from the seat across from us, and unbutton my shirt. I pull it off, and I can almost hear Denver recoiling.

“What are you doing?”

“My shirt is wet.” I toss the soaked item onto another seat, keeping my back to her as I tear open the packaging to another. I pull it on and button it up. “Do you want one?”

“One what?”

“A shirt. Your clothes are wet, too.”