Page 21 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

Samantha

While my infuriating excuse for a captor occupies the bathroom, I thumb through the brochure and mentally formulate a plan. I’m curled into an overstuffed armchair that’s seen better days but still manages to be the most comfortable thing I’ve sat in for weeks.

Thanks to the handy walking distances on every page, I know I can reach the closest mall in around thirty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I run.

All I have to do is wait for an opening, find a way to retrieve the keys from his pocket, then breeze out the front door with my money. It’s the how to retrieve the keys that I’m struggling to figure out.

Under ordinary circumstances, I’d flirt with him, ply him with drinks, and take what I wanted and go. For the briefest of moments last night, that seemed like a viable option.

Until… he did the one thing I didn’t expect him to.

Getting him to let his guard down is going to be a challenge.

Movement from the doorway draws my attention back to reality. Mick glances at me then leans down and reaches into his bag, obviously looking for something.

I keep my eyes on him, gauging his reaction.

“So, what do you think your faults are?”

He shakes his head, gives me a tight smile, then pulls out his phone charger and plugs it into the wall. Then, with a frown, he stalks into the kitchen.

“We’re back on that again? I thought you wanted a shower?”

I shrug and sip my coffee.

“I can wait.”

The ridge between his eyebrows grows more pronounced as he pulls out a pan and a carton of eggs.

“I need eggs. You want some?”

I screw my face up at his offer.

“No, thanks.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“You don’t like eggs? My dad makes great eggs.”

I chew my lip as the familiar cold dread starts to spread through me, just like it always does whenever normal people bring up family.

“Good for your dad. I don’t care if I never eat another egg again.”

“Why? You allergic?”

I hate talking about myself—my real self—but the more I talk, the more likely it is he’ll give me what I need.

“I lived with a family who kept chickens.”

He drops a chunk of butter into the pan, and it sizzles.

“You ate a lot of eggs?”

I toy with my coffee cup, staring into the black.

“I had to.”

He cracks an egg, and my throat starts to close over.

“What about pancakes? Did you ever get pancakes? Waffles?”

I toss my head.

“Just watery poached eggs. When he found out I didn’t like eggs, their son told me they were white slime that bled snot.”

Mick grimaces.

“Sounds like a nice kid.”

“Oh, yeah. He was great. He was twice my size, six years older, and liked to lock me in the hen house when I wouldn’t do his chores for him. I was trapped in there for three hours once. I missed dinner.”

I hadn’t screamed for long. Just long enough to realize it wouldn’t change anything.

No footsteps down the path. No one calling my name.

They knew I was missing.

They just didn’t care.

He stops stirring the mixture.

“Didn’t anyone come looking for you?”

I choke out a laugh.

“Who? The parents? They were hardly home. That’s why they fostered kids. They’d get the money, and the oldest kids in the house were supposed to look after their biological kids. After I tried to tell them about the hen house, they said I was a liar and had ‘behavioral issues.’ My word didn’t count. Because I don’t count.”

His gaze searches my face, sharp and unblinking.

“You don’t think you count?”

I backpedal fast, heart hammering.

“I meant I didn’t count. Back then.”

“But that’s not what you said. You said, ‘I don’t count.’ As in present tense.”

My hands clench into tight balls at my stupidity.

“I just meant in a big family you can fall through the cracks.”

His mouth presses into tight lines. He doesn’t look angry. Just caught off guard. Like I’ve said something he doesn’t know how to fix. His gaze holds mine, unflinching, but there’s something different in his eyes now. Something quieter. Sadder.

“I don’t know who told you that, but it’s baloney.”

I open my hands.

“Why do you care what I believe? It doesn’t change what I’ve done to you.”

He gawks at me. Stares down at the half-prepared eggs, grabs the bowl, and dumps them down the sink.

My eyes pop as surprise takes hold of me.

“I thought you wanted eggs?”

When he turns back, he’s wearing a wry smile that baffles me further.

“My cholesterol is probably getting too high anyway.”

Given his job and his physique, that seems unlikely.

“Don’t deny yourself on my account.”

He rubs his hand over his face.

“Was it like that with all the families you were with?”

A groan slips past my lips before I can stop it.

“Why don’t we talk about your family?”

I’m rewarded with a smile and warmth that lets me know his upbringing was exactly what mine wasn’t.

“What do you want to know?”

What do I want to know? Everything.

Did he have his own room? Birthday cakes and wrapped presents? A packed lunch waiting on the counter? Did anyone come to his school plays or clap just for him? Did he ever fall asleep knowing someone would still want him in the morning? Was there food in the fridge—his food—or a light left on just because he was afraid of the dark?

Did anyone ever make him feel like he didn’t have to earn their love just to stay?

Was there ever a moment—just one—when he didn’t feel like he had to prove he was worth keeping?

I don’t ask any of that. Instead, I go for the safest option I can find.

“Are your parents still together?”

He grins.

“Oh yeah. Still crazy about each other after thirty-five years.”

I tilt my head, half-sneering.

“I seriously doubt that.”

He laughs and abandons his coffee to grab his phone.

“I’ll show you.”

Before I can say I’m not interested in family photo albums, he punches in his passcode and shoves the screen in front of me.

“Last year. Their anniversary dinner.”

I squint at the photo. An older couple beams back at me—not the fake kind of smile people paste on for pictures, but the real deal. Eyes crinkled, joy radiating off them like warmth from a fire.

His dad looks like a broader, slightly older version of him—same green eyes, same confident posture, full head of salt-and-pepper hair. His mom is soft-featured, pretty in a way she probably doesn’t think about anymore, with shoulder-length hair she’s left to grey and a loose pastel blouse chosen for comfort, not vanity.

They look happy. Not perfect, not posed. Just… content.

The photo is so unbelievably real, and Mick is so proud, that my jealousy bone snaps.

“I hate to tell you, but your dad has probably cheated on your mom multiple times.”

Mick pulls the phone away from me. The corner of his mouth drags down, and a spark of anger flashes in his eyes.

“You say that because your entire view of the world and everyone in it is skewed by the people who’ve let you down.”

Heat ignites inside me, and I get to my feet.

“And you’ve got your head in the clouds if you think anyone can be faithful for that long.”

He grits his teeth and rams his connector into the phone.

“They can if they love each other.”

A bitter laugh escapes me.

“What happens when they don’t love each other anymore?”

His chest puffs out a little.

“Then there’s the commitment they’ve made. The contracts they signed.”

I wave my hands in the air, my breathing rate starting to increase as emotion makes my voice crack.

“Contracts can be broken. People do it all the time. They promise to do something then walk away.”

He jerks away from me, a horrified expression replacing the anger.

“Is that what happened to you? Someone promised to love you?”

My breath catches. Just like that, he’s stripped me bare. I blink hard, but it’s no use—he’s already seen too much.

“What?”

I manage, though it barely makes it past my throat.

His gaze sharpens, narrowing like he’s zeroing in on the truth.

“When you were a kid. Someone promised to love you… then changed their mind, didn’t they?”

Something twists deep in my chest—something old, bruised, and not quite healed.

I shift my gaze to the floor, jaw tight, willing the sting behind my eyes to fade.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

I take a step, but he skirts around me. To avoid his gaze, I focus on his socks covering my feet.

“Look at me,”

he says softly.

When I don’t, his fingers tug my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze. His face is pinched as though in pain.

“You do count,” he says.

My stupid eyes let me down again, so I push his chest hard enough to warn him.

“Says who?”

I shove him, but he barely moves. His feet are planted firmly on the ground, almost as if he expected resistance.

“God.”

My hands stay on his chest. He’s breathing as rapidly as I am, and just like last night, the close proximity is making my stomach back flip.

“Spare me. You’re the one who nearly got me killed. You want me dead, you just can’t admit it.”

He flinches, his eyes never moving from me, as if I’m the only thing that matters to him.

“That was before…”

He swallows hard, and I do the same, my mouth running dry as my hands slowly move down the swell of his chest muscle. His heart is racing. His pupils are dilating. All the telltale signs of attraction.

How is that possible? I look ridiculous, and I’ve done nothing but insult him since he saved my life.

My lips part, and his eyes slowly move to them as if drawn.

I slide my hands up his chest again, rest my sweaty palms on his broad shoulders.

“Before what?”

I whisper.

His nostrils flare.

“Before I understood that this is all an act for you.”

If this were any other time, any other situation, I would have laughed in his face, but when his fingers lace into mine and he draws me in closer, laughing is the furthest thing from my mind.

His hand releases one of mine, and he slides it down to the small of my back, almost as if he’s leading me on the dance floor. I place my hand around his neck and shiver when he slow blinks as if enjoying the contact. As if we’re thinking the same thing, he starts to sway, and my body responds without conscious thought.

After all I did to him, after his brazen plea to find me on the news, this makes as much sense as his dumping the eggs in the sink and then pretending he hadn’t done it for me.

Slowly, as if he’s got all the time in the world, he leans in, closer, so close it’s impossible to misread his intentions. I lean in to meet him, lift my chin so my lips are an open invitation, and let him bridge the final gap between us.