Page 88 of Lady and the Hitman

Just for me.

I grabbed my clutch, checked the time, and took onelast breath before stepping into the thick Charleston twilight.

Ronan would be waiting.

And this time, I wasn’t going to lie to myself about what I wanted.

17

Ididn’t knock.

I didn’t have to. The front door was already cracked when I pulled up—just enough to say he was expecting me. Just enough to make my pulse stutter as I climbed the wide porch steps.

There was something about a man who didn’t need to announce his control. He just lived in it. Moved in it. Breathed in it like oxygen.

The house loomed behind me, Southern bones dressed in modern lines—warm light spilling through the windows, the scent of cedar and salt thick in the humid air.

I stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind me.

“Zara.”

His voice came from somewhere deeper in the house. Low. Rough. A velvet drag over gravel.

I followed it without answering. My heels clicked against the hardwood, each step a countdown. Through the foyer. Down a short hall. Toward the back of thehouse where glass doors opened onto the wide balcony I’d only glimpsed before.

He stood there waiting. Ronan Hale. Backlit by the golden wash of the sinking sun. A silhouette in black slacks and a dark, open-collar shirt that made him look like sin carved from shadow. His sleeves were rolled, forearms bare, veins taut beneath skin that looked like it could snap.

But it was his eyes that undid me.

That greedy, hungry,minelook I was beginning to crave more than oxygen.

He said nothing as I stepped out onto the balcony, just watched me like he could already see the dress hitting the floor. Like he could already feel me unraveling for him.

I swallowed hard.

“Nice view.”

His gaze flicked behind me, then returned. “I wasn’t talking about the water.”

My breath caught.

He stepped forward slowly, closing the space between us like a panther stalking prey. When he reached me, he didn’t touch. Not yet. Just hovered close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the warning in his breath.

“You wore this for me?”

I nodded, lips parting.

His hand lifted—one slow, reverent motion—and traced the thin strap on my shoulder.

“You know I’ve been thinking about you,” he murmured. “All day. Every fucking hour. Wondering if you were going to show.”

“I told you I would.”

His eyes darkened. “You say that like I’ve earned your trust.”

I tipped my chin up. “Haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer.