Chapter 20 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
The oaks in Savannah’s historic district are enormous and dripping with Spanish moss.
Thick limbs arch over the road, blocking a lot of the summer midday sun.
Brady parks at the curb about halfway down a narrow, cobble-stone street, lined with homes that look like they are from the set of a period drama.
The plaster and brick homes are painted a variety of colors, many decorated with black wrought-iron railings and tiny balconies with window boxes full of flowers.
A tourist group drifts past the SUV, holding plastic carrier bags and sipping cups of iced drinks.
Every few feet, they stop and point their phones to take pictures of a distinctive door or house.
Brady waits until they pass before he exits the car.
He scans the street, his hand brushing briefly over the small of my back.
Then he does something that makes my heart turnover.
He holds out his hand.
I stare at it. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to look like a couple,” he says casually. “This street is crawling with camera-happy tourists. Might as well blend in.”
My mental knee-jerk reaction is to object, even though the butterflies in my stomach are flitting happily around. I slide my hand into his. His palm is warm and rough, and he threads his fingers between mine as if we’ve done it a thousand times.
“I’m surprised Keith kept a place here,” I say, to cover the happy thrill in my chest. I scan the row of houses with their pristine shutters and perfect little gardens. “This doesn’t scream booty-call.”
“Not exactly subtle,” Brady agrees.
“Subtle Keith was not. I think that’s why I was so surprised when I caught him cheating. I didn’t think he was capable of hiding it.”
A low growl emanates from Brady’s chest.
“I’m fin… It doesn’t bother me.” It’s true, the betrayal doesn’t hurt anymore.
“We didn’t have a marriage anymore. It was more about business and having a date for functions, but…
I hate thinking about the years I wasted.
Years I might have found a man who made me feel…
and now people are after me…” My nerves are making me babble.
My eyes drift to Brady’s strong profile, and as if he feels my perusal, he squeezes my hand.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“I know,” I say immediately.
We walk half a block before Brady slows near a tall iron gate covered in ivy.
Beyond the low attached fence is a grand Greek Revival mansion with soaring white columns and a sweeping staircase, fronted by manicured gardens; a brick path curves behind the house toward a smaller building that was likely once the carriage house.
“Keith’s apartment is on the second floor of that building,” Brady says. I follow his gaze to the smaller structure.
We walk several houses past, and stop again. Brady pretends to take a picture of me with the house in the background. Then he leads me back to the front.
He leans down, his mouth near my ear. “Our luck is holding. It doesn’t look like anyone is home at the main house. No cars, and there are Joro spiderwebs over the doors, so no one in or out for a few days.”
His deep voice slides down my spine, and then, to my complete shock, his mouth covers mine. His lips are soft as they move delicately over mine, making no move to deepen the kiss. My hands clutch at the front of his shirt, holding him close, fighting the urge to arch into him.
He pulls back, just enough for me to see the edge of a smirk.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
“Keeping up our cover, Firefly.”
He pushes the gate open and guides me in close against his side.
“It’s a lot nicer than I thought it’d be,” I mutter, as we step onto the brick path. Bitter resentment burns in my chest. Keith hadn’t offered a dime in restitution for our clients.
Inside, the apartment smells faintly of dust and mildew.
A quick search of the main room and tiny kitchen reveals nothing more exciting than a drawer full of plastic-wrapped utensils and menus from local restaurants.
No laptop. No mail. Nothing to give the smallest hint that Keith spent much time here.
We move through the bedroom. I pick up a stack of glossy magazines from the dresser and grimace. “Keith didn’t read magazines. Especially not these.”
Brady leans over my shoulder. “Forbes, Vanity Fair, GQ? That’s out of character?”
“Definitely,” I respond. “I never saw him read anything that wasn’t in digital form.
“Bring them,” he says, moving to the bedside table.
I make a face when I see the only items in the drawer are a box of condoms and a half-bottle of lube. “Gross.”
Brady doesn’t answer, continuing to search the room methodically.
He moves the bedside table away from the wall and pulls the drawers out, running his hands along the undersides before repeating the same action with the dresser.
He even flips the mattress off its base and inspects it, looking for any sign of anomaly.
After he’s put all the furniture back in their original positions, he returns to the center of the main room.
Disappointment sits like a rock in my stomach. I’d been so sure the answer would be here.
“If nothing is here—”
Brady holds up a hand. He turns in a painfully slow circle, his eyes touching every inch of the room, before striding to the window.
Shoving his hand into the fake moss at the base of the artificial Ficus standing there, he pulls out a burner phone.
My mouth drops open. “How did you know?”
“There is no other decoration in the entire place. Why would he have a decorative plant?”
“That’s impressive,” I admit, my lips ticking up.
“I know,” he says with a wink. Patting the moss back in place, he scans the room one more time and drops the black phone into his bag. “Let’s go.”
A low, uneasy hum settles in my mind as we head for the narrow staircase, and I send up a silent wish that this phone will hold the answers we need.
Brady checks the backyard through the small window next to the door, before leading me back into the small brick courtyard toward the front of the house. He stops at the corner of the house before stepping into the open, and that’s when everything changes.
I feel the moment his body coils tight, everything in him on alert. Brady doesn’t speak, only lifts two fingers in a small, sharp gesture that freezes me where I am.
I follow his line of sight and see two men on the opposite sidewalk, lazily strolling toward us.
My heart rate picks up. They are wearing T-shirts with unbuttoned short-sleeve overshirts and jeans.
Not that different from what Brady is wearing, and when one of the men lifts his hand to swat at a bug, I see the holster strapped to his side.
The air in my lungs goes thin. Shit. They haven’t spotted us yet, but… We’re trapped. My pulse gallops.
Brady steps close, tucking his arm around my shoulders, the weight of it grounding me.
Steering me down the narrow walk away from the men, he moves us farther from the SUV.
Brady angles his body to block me from view as he leans in, his voice low against my hair, the barest scrape of his breath along my temple.
“Don’t look, and do exactly what I say.”
Fear zings through me, sharp and hot. My spine locks tight, but I move my head in the approximation of a nod.
The moment we reach the next house, Brady pivots and pulls me flush against him, then backs me toward the brick wall of the corner house.
His hand slides up to cradle the back of my head, and the other settles carefully at my waist, just above the stitches.
The world narrows to his heat, his scent, and the thud of his heart against my chest. Then, his mouth is on mine again.
The kiss hits like a shockwave, and like before, everything else falls away.
All I feel is Brady. His lips are sure and warm, and the adrenaline thrumming in my veins only seems to heighten the sensation.
His fingers slide through my hair, tilting my chin so he can deepen the kiss, and I let him.
My hands splay across his chest on instinct, then curl into his shirt, holding on as if he’s the most solid thing left in my world.
Because he is.
Part of my brain registers there is still danger nearby, and it’s brought home when the hand on my side slips to his own, and I feel the movement when he unclips the strap on his holster and wraps his hand around the gun’s grip.
Holy shit.
I open my eyes and find that Brady never closed his at all. His gaze is locked on the street behind us.
Finally, his muscles ease a little, and he pulls back. My lips are tingling, and my fingers are still curled tight in his shirt. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “Sorry. Had to make it look real.”
“You’re an asshole,” I whisper back, annoyed that he isn’t as affected as I am.
His chest moves against mine in the barest hint of a laugh, and his hand returns to my side. His thumb drifts in a light circle at my waist. “Ready to go, Firefly?”
“Sure.” I interlace my fingers with his as he leads us quickly down a side road. “By the way, the kiss was great, but for next time… I’m not sure I’m into gunplay.”
I smirk to myself when Brady chokes on a laugh.