Chapter Eleven #2
It was instinct, impulse, emotion. The rush of everything they had just survived crashing through her. As soon as her lips touched his, she knew it was a mistake.
She tried to pull back, but Eli kept his arms around her. Not gripping, not trapping. Just holding.
Their gazes locked.
And just like that, the heat flared again.
Delaney didn’t think. She kissed him a second time. Slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid up his chest, curling into the fabric at his shoulders.
Eli responded with a low, almost broken sound, and he angled his head, careful, always careful, not to jostle her injured arm. His hand cradled her waist, then her back, drawing her closer.
Their bodies pressed together, the warmth of him seeping through her skin, through every guarded piece of her. His lips moved against hers with maddening patience, gentle at first, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the way she tasted.
But the kiss deepened. Her pulse kicked, her breath caught, and still she didn’t stop. Didn’t want to.
The kiss raged on, slow and consuming, and Delaney found herself holding on tighter. Eli’s hand slid up her back, his touch grounding and electric all at once.
Then the microwave beeped.
The sharp sound jolted them. They eased apart, breathless, gazes still locked.
“I’m not sorry that happened,” he said, his voice low and still filled with massive amounts of heat.
Delaney’s heart was still pounding. “Neither am I,” she admitted. “But I want to be. We’re partners,” she added, trying to find the steady ground again.
“Only for this assignment,” he said. “Teams are formed based on the mission.”
She smiled despite herself. “Then for this mission, we’re partners.”
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed.
Eli pulled it out, saw the screen, and muttered, “It’s Noah.” He answered and put it on speaker.
“The guy who tried to kill you is still refusing to speak, but we have an ID on him,” Noah immediately let them know.
Delaney pulled back her shoulders, the heat between her and Eli shoved aside in an instant.
“No name we’ve seen before,” Noah said. “Wade Kessler. Twenty-four. No military training. Small-time record. Assault, vandalism, and a string of petty thefts. Nothing that points to a professional hitman.”
Delaney looked at Eli. The name didn’t spark anything for her, either.
“Any known connections?” Eli asked.
“Not that we’ve found,” Noah said. “No ties to Hale, Lawrence Melborne or Grant. But that doesn’t mean one of them didn’t hire him through a third party.”
Eli crossed to the counter, bracing his hand against it. “If Hale sent him, doing it right outside his institute was a stupid move.”
“Unless it wasn’t,” Delaney volunteered. “Maybe it was meant to look stupid.”
Eli glanced back at her, brow lifting.
“Reverse psychology,” she continued. “Make it so obvious that it couldn’t possibly be him. That’s something a therapist might use.”
Noah made a sound to indicate he was giving that some thought. “That’s a possibility. I’ll run Wade’s recent communications. Phone logs, emails, everything. We might turn up something.”
Delaney and Eli thanked him, knowing full well they’d also be looking into this man. Noah ended the call, and the room fell quiet before the microwave beeped again, a reminder about their lasagna.
Eli opened the microwave and took out the steaming container of lasagna. The smell of tomato sauce and cheese filled the cabin. Delaney grabbed two plates from the cabinet and set them on the table, then filled two glasses with water from the pitcher in the fridge.
“After you eat,” Eli said without looking at her, “you should put your feet up, let your body catch up with your brain.”
She shook her head and handed him a fork. “I can’t. I’m too wired. I need to do something, Eli. I need to look for that link between Wade and any of our suspects.”
Eli gave her a long look as he set the lasagna between them. “Yeah. Same here.”
Delaney eased into the chair, dished up some, and took a bite. Her appetite still hadn’t fully returned, but she knew better than to let herself crash from not eating.
They were still only partway through the lasagna when Eli’s phone rang again. He swiped it up, checked the screen, and put it on speaker.
“It’s Isla,” he said.
“Hey,” Isla greeted. “I just got a heads-up. Lawrence’s petition went through. The court has declared Vivian incompetent to manage her finances.”
Delaney nearly dropped her fork. “You’re kidding. That was fast.”
“Too fast,” Eli muttered. “This is a serious power grab.”
“Agreed,” Isla said. “The judge was swayed by a psychiatric report submitted with the petition. It painted Vivian as emotionally unstable, claimed she was too easily manipulated, and mentioned her history of anxiety and depressive episodes.”
Delaney’s stomach turned. “That sounds like a spin job.”
“It was,” Isla confirmed. “The report wasn’t fabricated, but the truth was stretched. The evaluator had only met with Vivian once, and that was years ago. I’m already digging into who commissioned the report and how it got pushed through so quickly.”
Eli’s jaw tightened. “Find something we can use to blow that petition apart.”
“I will,” she assured them. Isla then paused. “Hold on a second. I’m getting a message from Noah. He wants me to relay something to you.”
Delaney glanced at Eli, tension flaring in her chest again. He set down his fork and wiped his hands with a napkin, the shift in his posture immediate. Waiting.
A few seconds passed before Isla came back on the line. “The shooter, Wade Kessler, had apparently changed his mind about remaining silent,” she said. “He wants to talk. But only to you two.”
Delaney’s pulse kicked up. “Did he say why?”
“No. Just asked for you two. Noah’s making arrangements if you’re all right with talking to him.”
Delaney looked across the table at Eli. His nod was fast. So was her agreement. “Then let’s hear what Wade has to say.”
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