Page 28 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"I can help with that."

"Can you?" She shifts closer, her breast brushing my arm. "What do you know about moving things through racing circuits?"

Racing. The word hits something deep, something I keep buried.

"I know people who know things." The vague answer tastes like ash. "Import racing scene isn't exactly transparent about cargo."

"Lynch runs races." Not a question.

"Among other things."

"And these other things might include moving cargo Petrov needs moved?"

The conversation's veering into dangerous territory. The team's investigation, Lynch's connections, things I can't tell her without compromising operations.

But with her hand in mine, the heat of her thigh against mine, the way she's looking at me like I might be useful—it's scrambling my priorities.

"Lynch doesn't ask questions about cargo weight discrepancies." My thumb traces her knuckles without conscious thought. "Or about who's paying for the extra security."

"Petrov pays for extra security?"

"Someone with Russian connections does. Draw your own conclusions."

She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her filling in every word I didn't say. Banking it for later.

"These people of yours. They could get information about specific shipments?"

"Depends what you're looking for."

"Routes. Schedules. Security protocols." She leans closer, and her perfume—dark and expensive—clouds my judgment. "Everything needed to intercept cargo."

Intercept. Not observe. Not document. Intercept.

"That's dangerous territory."

"I specialize in dangerous." Her free hand slides onto my thigh under the table, and my brain shorts out completely. "Question is whether you do too."

Her fingers trace patterns through my jeans, moving higher with each pass. My leg bounces under the table, nervous energy demanding release.

You. Right now, you drive everything.

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches across with her free hand and plucks my phone from beside my scotch glass. Her thumb finds the home button.

"Passcode?"

"Eight two seven four." The numbers tumble out before I can think about whether giving a trained killer access to my phone is smart.

She types one-handed, still tracing patterns on my thigh with the other. "There. Now you can reach me."

She slides the phone back, and I see she's saved herself as just "M" with a black heart emoji.

When did my hands start shaking?

"I need another drink."

"You haven't finished that one."

"That one's not strong enough for this conversation."