Page 25 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

I clutch the knife in my hand, breathing hard, and wonder if showering really is the best idea right now. It’ll leave me vulnerable, and that’s not a chance I’m willing to take.

At the quiet murmur from the next room, I peep through a crack in the door. What I see leaves me even more convinced Mick is crazy. He’s actually gotten down on his knees and is quietly praying earnestly. I have to strain to listen, but when I do, heat blazes across my body. Not only is he repenting for his sin of being angry with me, he’s praying for my salvation!

Either the man is nuts or he really does believe in this stuff. And considering I’m trapped here with him, I’m not sure which option is the better one.

I twist, my feet turning toward the bathroom, when his voice rises ever so slightly, as if by doing so he thinks God will hear him better.

“Please grant me personal integrity. Please, Lord, help me not to compromise.”

Integrity?

What a joke. The man is a joke. Where was his integrity when he kissed me?

This entire situation is getting more absurd the longer I’m forced to stay here, and after this abrupt about-face into pious religiosity, I’m done with it.

I grab my pack, yank my money out from behind the bed, and carry it into the bathroom. I have one weapon I know he’ll be powerless to refuse, and it’s time to pull it out.

I strip down, hide the butter knife as best as I can, shower, and use the blow dryer so my hair frames my face and flows down my back. I slip into my underwear, wriggle into my dress, and leave my feet bare. The dress is still a little damp, but that will work to my advantage too.

After making sure everything is where I need it to be, I pinch my cheeks, heft up my bosom, and sashay across the bedroom. I tentatively enter the living room, lowering my voice so it comes out husky.

“Have you finished?”

Apparently, he hasn’t. He’s still on his knees, eyes closed and mid-prayer, when I interrupt him.

As his eyes focus, he sucks in a breath then averts his gaze.

“Where are the clothes they gave you?”

I cross the distance to him and keep my voice light and teasing.

“Why? Don’t you like this?”

He rises to his feet, still unable to look at me as he turns away.

“Put the other clothes back on. You’re showing… way too much skin.”

I huff a breath.

“I want to go sit outside. I can’t wear sweatpants outside in the heat.”

His voice is so strained I know he’s wavering.

“This isn’t going to work, .”

At his insistence, I lift my chin.

“Whatever do you mean?”

He whirls around, anger flashing on his face, before he yanks his phone off the charger and dials a number. With his eyes on his phone, and not on me, he almost barks into the microphone.

“Send whoever you want over. Preferably a woman.”

He nods then shakes his head at me, so I push my chest out in a final bid to get him to see reason.

“You’re afraid to be alone with me now?”

He ignores me, glances at his phone, and grimaces.

“Great. My CO is trying to get ahold of me.”

I’m so annoyed he’s not responding that I don’t filter my speech.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have gone on TV.”

His brow furrows.

“Get changed. I need to make a phone call before I lose my job.”

I chew my lip, switching tactics.

“And if I don’t?”

Without blinking, he reaches into his pack and pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

“Then I quit being nice and handcuff you to a chair.”

I extend my hands, pouting in a last-ditch bid.

“I’d prefer to be handcuffed to you.”

His cheeks flush, then he swallows. “Quit it.”

“Don’t want to.”

He growls and snaps the handcuffs open.

“Don’t test me.”

I inch closer, hands still extended.

“Are you going to tell your real boss you’re keeping me prisoner against my will?”

His eyes drill into me, his irritation rolling off him in waves.

“Didn’t think so. Imagine if it gets out… It would ruin you,” I say.

His jaw tightens, then he whips out his hand and slaps the cuff on my wrist. Cold steel bites into my skin, and he grabs my other hand, ready to snap the lock into place.

“Quit. It. Now,”

he growls.

Now just as annoyed as he is, I lean into him, crushing my chest against his, invading his space.

“I don’t know why I thought you might be different. Homeland Security is just as corrupt as any other department.”

He grabs my wrist, his mouth pressed down and his eyes narrowed as he tries to process the validity of what I’m saying.

“Is that your opinion, or do you know something?”

I tug my wrist, and he releases me, focused on my face. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“I know people.”

Specifically one person. One person who loves money more than he loves his country, apparently.

“You have any proof?”

I slam my mouth closed. I have never met a man who infuriated me as much as he does. My breathing is rapid, my hands are shaking, and I’m so angry I want to punch him.

“If I show it to you, do I get to walk away?”

I don’t know what I’m saying—it’s almost like some force has taken control of my mouth.

He tilts his head to one side, doubt growing on his face.

“Where is it?”

Without thinking, I answer him truthfully.

“In my bra.”

He flinches, bares his teeth slightly, then grabs my wrist again.

“Enough with the games.”

Before I can explain I’m serious, he grabs my arm and drags me to the table. The metal chair scrapes across the floor as he yanks it out and pushes me down. Cold steel bites into my wrist as he locks the cuffs, chaining me to the frame like I’m nothing more than a threat to manage.

I gape up at him, breath caught in my throat.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just walks away—calm, detached—like he’s done arguing. Like I’m not worth another word. The cuffs rattle as I tug against them, more out of disbelief than anything else.

“You don’t believe me?”

I ask, voice sharper than I mean it to be.

He stops halfway across the room. Doesn’t turn around. Just lets out a long, tired sigh.

“If you hadn’t tried to seduce me again, maybe I would have.”

The words bite more than the cuffs.

He turns his back to me, and just like that, I’m alone again—even with him in the room.

I sink lower in the chair, curling into myself like I can fold the edges in and disappear. My throat tightens. My chest aches in a way I don’t have language for.

I’ve felt a lot of things in my life—anger, fear, hunger, hatred.

But this? This is different.

This is shame.

And I can’t remember the last time I felt it.