Chapter Eleven
Sara
AKA
Helen
The rental sedan’s engine protested as I merged onto the highway, Enimton’s BMW was a silver glint in my rearview.
I’d insisted we drive separately from Willow Park, claiming convenience.
Bullshit. I needed space to shove Agent Sara Linde back in control before Helen Bart’s fluttery heart got us both killed.
My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel while Enimton’s face flashed in my mind.
I’ve never been the save-me type, but when his broad shoulders shielded me from that mugger’s knife something in me melted.
And his low, steady voice talking the kid down?
I finally understood why actors sometimes fell in love with their leading ladies.
No matter how many times I told myself none of this was real.
That wasn’t how it felt.
What would your family think? he’d asked the perp. In his tone had been a depth of understanding, like he knew the weight of family shame.
Then Sparkles, that old golden retriever, her head in his lap, looking up at him like he might save her too. And then, his gut-wrenching admission: I’m not allowed one.
Not allowed. By who? The Gravestones? The same people who’d bankrolled whatever Simmons did with the twins. So much of the puzzle was coming together. What I didn’t have was the details and how it all fit together. Enimton had given me some possible motivations for the why, but it wasn’t enough.
The burner phone sat silent in my purse even though a blocked caller had kept dinging it. It felt like someone’s way of telling me they knew what I was up to. Were the calls a warning or a taunt? Going rogue on this investigation meant I couldn’t pull in favors to have the calls traced.
If it was someone from the Bureau, my career might be over.
Worse, if the Gravestones caught wind . . . and Max didn’t die naturally . . . I wasn’t naive enough to think I’d be spared.
I cataloged what I knew, falling back on FBI training to steady the chaos: Enimton read Simmons’s journals.
He’s scared of his family. He’s protective, maybe guilty over Dylan’s coma.
What I needed: proof tying the Gravestones to Simmons.
Something linking them to Max’s death. The journals might hold the answers or they might solve an unrelated crime.
Even if they existed at all. Enimton might have made that up. If they were real, who would have them?
How much of what Enimton had told me was real? And if he’d fabricated any of it, what was his motive?
To distract me?
Lure me somewhere?
What was the probability that he was as nice as he seemed?
If he was . . . then what?
I could save him.
Free him.
That would require telling him who I was—that I was an FBI agent, that I knew about Simmons, that I suspected his family killed my stepfather.
He’d run.
Or worse, he’d tell his family, and I’d lose my shot at the truth.
We parked outside my building, its brick facade stark beneath the afternoon sun. Enimton was at my driver’s door in a heartbeat, opening it for me and offering me his hand. I could get used to this.
The world around us stilled. I didn’t want to be me and I sure as hell didn’t want him to be him. Why wasn’t life as simple as two people meeting, bonding, and going forward together?
People lie.
Some people lie exceptionally well.
But physical attraction, the kind that makes the air sizzle, nostrils flare and faces flush—that couldn’t be faked. Enimton was falling for me as well.
And I hated it just as much as a part of me loved it.
I closed the door with my free hand. “En—Ashen—” Shit, I almost said his real name. Pulling my hand free, I stepped back from him and started walking toward my apartment building. No words, just panic strides.
He fell into step beside me. “Are you nervous that I might think your invitation meant you were offering more than you’re ready for? If so, you can relax. I’m in no rush.”
Dammit, I don’t want to like him more than I already do.
I slowed my pace. I need to say something. Think. Sometimes a little truth made a cover more believable. “I don’t date much—like ever, really.”
He laced his hand with mine. “You don’t have to be someone you’re not with me. I already like you just the way you are.”
Nope, that is not making me feel better.
Still, his touch? I’d like to say I was strong enough to rebuff it a second time, but I wasn’t. We held hands as we walked into the building and for the entire ride up in the elevator.
Just outside my door, I began to regret inviting him to my place.
Although there wasn’t much out, there was a good possibility my badge was on the kitchen table.
No putting up personal photos was something I learned from Max.
It was the same reason I was virtually invisible online.
Personal connections could be used against agents.
“Ashen, I’m a neat freak and I don’t remember the condition I left my kitchen in. Could you give me a moment to clean?”
His smile was genuine and so damn adorable. “I don’t care about a mess.”
Time to use what little wiles I had. Batting my lashes at him, I purred, “I know, but I do. So, give me a few minutes to clean and then let’s pretend I never needed to ask you to. Could you do that for me?”
The way he traced my collarbone just before his thumb gently caressed my neck nearly had me forgetting why I couldn’t haul him straight to my bed. Nearly.
“Keep looking at me like that and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” he growled softly before brushing his lips over mine and straightening.
Wow.
Nope. I’m not this weak.
Okay, maybe just for a minute.
My arms were up and around his neck, while I pressed myself against him with a fevered enthusiasm well beyond my norm with men. Could I explain it? No. Could I deny him? Also no.
Our kiss deepened and the only thing that held me back from throwing all caution to the wind was the certainty that if I let his hands start roaming, he would definitely discover the gun strapped to my thigh. I yanked myself free and, in a rush, said, “So, don’t go anywhere.”
A boyish grin spread across his face. “After that kiss? I’ll be lucky if I can still walk.”
My gaze dropped to the front of his pants, and I blushed when I realized he knew that I knew he was fully aroused. There was no embarrassment in his eyes, though, when I raised mine to meet his gaze again. “I’ll be two minutes.”
“I promise to never be that quick,” he joked, then winked.
“Thank God,” I said with humor.
And we both laughed.
What am I doing? Get in, ditch the gun, hide whatever incriminating things I left out, remind myself that he and I can never have sex, and figure out what to do next.
Moments later I waved Enimton into my apartment. The door clicked shut, the sound was sharp in the sterile quiet. “It’s a mess,” I lied, waving vaguely at the bare hardwood, the gray couch with one sad throw pillow, the coffee table holding only the word processor he’d given me.
My place looked like exactly what it was—the home of someone who spent very little time in it. My life revolved around my work and my obsession with what happened to Max. It had been a long time since anything else had mattered to me.
No knick-knacks, no souvenirs . . . just an empty bookshelf and a lone mug drying in the sink. A safe house, not a home.
I didn’t need a home.
I needed answers.
I’d stashed my badge, gun, and case files in a hidden safe behind a mirror just above the couch. There was nothing left to give my cover away. Breathe.
Enimton’s eyes swept the room, lingering on the empty walls, the lack of writerly chaos. “Not what I pictured for a romance author,” he said, his voice low, teasing, that damn dimple flashing.
“I’ll decorate as I can afford to.”
His eyes flew to mine with concern, and I regretted my choice of excuse. “Do you have a job? Outside of writing?”
It was impossible to look him in the eye and lie so I looked away and skirted the truth. “I took some time off to work on . . . well, what I’m doing is important to me.”
“Hey, you’re incredible. Many people stay in situations they’re not happy in. But not you. You’re following your dreams.”
Something in his voice brought my gaze back up to meet his. “Do you feel like you can’t do the same?”
He straightened and seemed to look past me for a moment as he squared his shoulders. “Better the devil you know . . . isn’t that what they say?”
I stepped closer. “I prefer a non-devil life.”
He swallowed visibly. “Yeah, that’s the goal.”
Speaking softer, I asked, “What’s holding you back?”
He moved to stand by the couch, too tall, too broad for my small space, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “Only me, I suppose.”
Unable to stop myself, I went to his side and touched his arm lightly. “I’ve seen you stand up to someone wielding a knife. I can’t imagine you’re afraid of anything.”
He tensed beneath my touch. “Then you’d be disappointed by the truth. The potential of what some people are capable of keeps me up at night.”
“What people?” I whispered.
He blinked a few times then looked me in the eyes. “I would love a glass of water.”
And just like that, whatever wall had been lowering rose up again. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”
In my kitchenette, I pulled two glasses from the cabinet, filled them with water from the tap, and used the time to gather my thoughts.
He wants to tell someone what he knows.
And he’s beginning to trust me.
I should be elated.
So, why do I feel like I might be sick?
After I returned to the living room, I handed him one of the glasses and a jolt spread through me, hot and electric, when our fingers brushed against each other.
“Thank you,” he said in a rough voice, before downing half the glass then sinking onto the couch.
I carefully chose a spot a few feet away from him and sat as well. “You’re welcome.” After a pause, I added, “Should I apologize for dragging you to the dog shelter? I thought it would be fun. I should have considered how difficult it would be to not get attached to a dog you know needs a home.”
He took another sip of water before answering.
“I regret many things, but not the shelter and not meeting Sparkles. There are some things I need to sort out before I can take her, but making that promise to her that I’d go back .
. . it might have looked like it made me sad, but actually it felt really good. ”
“Because you know you’re moving somewhere you can have her?”
“Exactly. I’ve considered leaving my current situation a million times, but this is the first time I know I will and that I’m right to.”
It felt wrong to press him for more, but I did. “Did something happen recently that changed your living situation?”
He placed his glass down on a coaster. “If you’re worried that I lied about being single, I didn’t. I’m not leaving a wife. Lame as this may sound, I’m essentially still living with my parents and it’s time to move out.”
I gulped down a guilty sip before saying, “There’s nothing unusual about living with your parents after college. At least, not anymore. The economy is rough for everyone.”
He flexed his hands. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I have an MBA, but no work experience.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Full disclosure, I’ll likely be flat broke until I find my footing.” Then his eyes lit with hope. “But if you stick around, I promise that stage will be brief.”
Shrugging, I allowed myself to be real for a moment. “Money doesn’t impress me. Character is far more important.”
He leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “It’s odd to feel so close to you without knowing your real name.”
“Sara,” I said softly.
“Sara,” he repeated. “It suits you.”
I smiled and waited.
“Enimton,” he said in a tight voice.
Not quite sure what to say, I forced cheer into my tone. “What a unique name.”
“Yes.” Neither of us moved or spoke for a moment. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew what the reversal of his name spelled out. “My brother’s name is Roland. I guess my parents decided to be more creative when it came to naming their second child.”
His parents.
He doesn’t know he’s not theirs.
My heart broke a little for him just then.
“What’s your brother like?” I asked.
He coughed on a laugh. “A real dick sometimes. Less so now that he’s older. We’re not close, but he doesn’t come for me anymore . . . not like he used to. I was shocked when he attended my graduation. My parents didn’t go, but he did, and we had dinner together afterwards. It was . . . odd.”
“Did you just graduate?”
“No, it’s been years.”
“Why does it sound like that’s the last time you’ve seen him?”
“Like I said—we’re not close. He took a job in New York, so no one sees him much.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged then smiled. “No, I’m sorry. I’d rather hear about your family than talk anymore about mine. Do you have siblings?”
“No, it’s just me and my mom.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “What is she like?”
I gave his question a moment before answering. “She can be a lot, but she’s also loyal and can read people in a way I aspire to be able to.”
“Sounds like someone you can’t keep a secret from.”
I chuckled at that. “Exactly. It’s so frustrating. She sees right through whatever I say to how I really feel about something, and then she lays on the advice.”
“What was her most recent advice?”
I blinked a few times before answering. “To be careful.”
He nodded. “Solid mom advice. Can’t go wrong with that.”
“Correct.” I smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“Always,” he answered without hesitation.
“Would you like to order something and watch a movie?”
The side glance he gave me seared through me. “I’m game for whatever you’d like to do.”
“Thai?”
“Love it.”
“Pizza?”
“Pepperoni.”
“Chinese?”
“Pretty much anything on the menu.”
I chuckled. “Is there anything you don’t like?”
He scanned my face. “Not tonight.”