Page 74 of Lady and the Hitman

I winced. “Don’t joke about that.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “Then come. Let me see your life. Let me show you mine.”

“You mean your mansion with secret rooms and bloodstained pasts?”

“I mean all of it.”

“And what if I say no?”

He sat back again, his expression unreadable. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what it would’ve felt like to have me inside you.”

Damn.

That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

Somehow, it turned me on even more.

I looked away, out toward the ocean, where waves lapped gently against the shore like they hadn’t just witnessed something unholy in the sand.

He touched my knee.

“Think about it,” he said, standing and adjusting his trunks like he wasn’t still hard and throbbing under there. “But I’m not begging. You either want this—whatever the hell this is—or you don’t.”

I sat up slowly, folding my arms over my chest, still too bare, still too raw.

But I didn’t say no.

I didn’t say yes, either.

Not yet.

Because some part of me—some loud, wild, wicked part—already knew I’d see him there. Not because he demanded it.

But because I needed to.

Because Charleston was the only place I’d get the answer to the question I hadn’t dared ask since the moment this began:

What happens when the hunted chooses to stay?

14

We didn’t stay another night in Miami.

After breakfast, after the beach, after Ronan had ruined me with his mouth and then told me to be patient—he didn’t say it, but I felt it—we boarded his private jet bound for Charleston.

I didn’t ask how he got clearance so fast. I didn’t ask how he had a plane on standby, or yet another black SUV waiting at the edge of the sand like we were just stepping out of some luxury photo shoot. He was the kind of man who made things happen without effort, who kept backup plans for his backup plans. I should’ve been used to it by now.

But every time he did something like this—quietly, confidently—it made my pulse skip.

I had work I should’ve been doing. Emails I hadn’t answered. Deadlines waiting for a version of me that hadn’t just let a stranger turn her inside out on a towel beneath the palms. And my mom—she was probably already texting. If I didn’t check in soon,she’d start calling, worrying. Asking questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.

But I couldn’t make myself care. Not yet.

We didn’t speak much in the car. The air conditioning blew soft and cold against my skin, drying the last traces of salt water from my thighs. I’d redressed in the white cover-up and tied the damp green bikini into a neat knot inside my tote. My body was still humming from what he’d done to me. My mouth still ached to say things I wasn’t ready to say.

The jet was waiting at Opa-locka, sleek and gleaming with tinted windows and polished steel steps. He helped me inside without fanfare, settling me into a wide leather seat before he ducked into the cabin with a murmured phone call. A few minutes later, a crew member appeared with a tray of food—takeout boxes still warm.

“From Café Solana,” Ronan said when he rejoined me, his voice low. “Another one of my favorites. They boxed it up just in time.”