9. Secrets in the Dark #2
"I'm not your client right now." The admission tastes like giving up. Like admitting something I desperately want but can't afford. "I'm not your responsibility. I'm a person making a choice. My choice. And you don't get to override it just because you don't like it."
"It's a bad choice."
"It's my choice."
We're standing too close now. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body through his suit. Close enough to see his pulse jumping in his throat. The way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for me.
He's terrified.
The realization hits me sideways. Knocks the breath from my lungs.
Connor Grey, the man who faces down senators and corporate raiders and Russian money launderers without flinching, is scared. For me.
"Fine." He steps back. Gives me space I don't want. Space that feels like punishment. "But I'm staying."
"Connor, you don't have to…"
"You don't get to do this alone. Not anymore." His voice drops to something raw. Something honest and unguarded and so unlike him it makes my chest ache. "You want answers? We'll get them. Together. Or not at all."
My phone buzzes before I can find words.
The screen lights up with a new message from the unknown number: Change of plans. Back terrace. Both of you. Now.
Beneath it, a photo that makes my blood turn to ice.
Of us. Right now. Standing at this bar. Connor's body angled toward mine. My face tilted up to his. The space between us charged with everything we're not saying.
Time-stamped forty-seven seconds ago.
Someone is watching us. Right now. In this club. Close enough to photograph us in real time. Close enough to touch.
The fear hits like ice water flooding my veins. I scan the crowd with jerky, desperate movements. Bodies everywhere. Faces in shadow. Too many people pressed too close together to identify a single threat.
My breath comes faster than I can control it.
Connor's hand finds mine. Warm and steady and solid in a world that's tilting sideways. "Together?" His voice is quiet. Certain.
I squeeze his fingers. Hold on like he's the only thing keeping me anchored. "Together."
We move through the crowd toward the back terrace. Connor's body stays between me and the room, his hand at the small of my back, protective and possessive and completely inappropriate given that we're supposed to be professional.
I should hate being protected like this. Should bristle at the implication that I can't handle myself.
All I feel is grateful. Grateful and terrified and desperately, stupidly glad he's here.
Because whoever sent that photo is in this club. Watching us. Close enough to touch if they wanted to.
And I'm so far out of my depth I can't even see the surface anymore.
The back terrace is empty.
Just wrought-iron tables and champagne flutes catching moonlight and the distant sound of traffic on the Seine. Paris spreads out below us, beautiful and cold and utterly indifferent to our terror.
"It's a trap," I whisper.
"I know." Connor scans the shadows with predatory focus, his body coiled tight with tension.
"Stay behind me."
We wait. One minute stretches into two. The silence presses against my eardrums.
Nothing.
My phone buzzes again. The sound makes me jump.
Good. You can follow instructions. Now let's see if you're smart enough to figure out who's giving them.
Another photo. Different angle. Taken from above. Someone on the roof or a balcony, looking down at us right this second.
Connor pulls me against the brick wall hard enough that I gasp. His body shields mine completely. "Show yourself," he calls into the darkness.
Silence answers.
Then, from somewhere above us, the unmistakable sound of footsteps retreating. Fast. Deliberate. Gone.
"Stay here." Connor starts toward the fire escape.
"Like hell." I grab his arm before he can leave me alone in the dark. "We do this together, remember?"
He looks at me for one long second. Something moves through his expression. Something that looks like pride mixed with exasperation mixed with fear.
Then he nods.
We climb the fire escape to the roof. My hands shake on the cold metal rungs. Connor stays below me, one hand hovering near my back in case I slip.
The roof is empty. Just Paris spreading out in all directions, a million lights pretending everything is fine. Pretending people aren't being stalked and threatened and destroyed for the crime of being successful.
My phone buzzes.
Not tonight. But soon. Enjoy the photos—they'll look great in tomorrow's papers. You two make such a convincing couple.
I stare at the message. At the timestamp. At the casual cruelty of someone who just proved they can get to us anywhere, anytime, and we're completely powerless to stop them.
Connor reads over my shoulder. His hand tightens on the railing until his knuckles go white.
"We need to go." His voice is controlled. Professional. But I can hear the fury underneath like lava under stone. "Now."
We don't speak in the taxi back to the hotel.
Connor sits too close, his thigh pressed against mine, his hand still wrapped around my wrist like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can feel my own heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
The lobby is empty at this hour. Just us and the night concierge who doesn't look up from his computer. The elevator climbs in silence that feels heavier than words.
When the doors open on our floor, Connor keeps his hand on my back. Keeps his body angled to shield mine. And I don't argue. Don't push back. Don't do any of the things I normally do when someone tries to protect me.
Because I'm tired. Terrified. And so far past my breaking point I can't even see it in the rearview mirror.
We reach my suite. I fumble with the key card. My hands are shaking too hard to line it up properly.
Connor takes it from me. Swipes us in. Checks the suite before letting me enter.
All clear. Of course it's clear. Because whoever's doing this doesn't need to break in anymore. They can just text me photos and watch me unravel in real time.
I turn to thank him. To say goodnight. To do whatever you're supposed to do when someone saves you from your own reckless stupidity.
Connor is standing in the hallway, one hand braced against the doorframe, his face drawn with exhaustion and something that looks like pain.
"I was terrified," he says quietly. Each word sounds like it costs him something.
"When I saw you get into that taxi. When I realized you'd gone alone.
I've faced down arms dealers and corporate criminals and people who would kill me without blinking.
I've been shot at. Threatened. Nearly killed twice.
And I've never been as scared as I was tonight. "
The confession hits me square in the chest. Steals the breath from my lungs.
This is what I was looking for earlier. The crack in the armor. The vulnerability. The man underneath all that control and strategy and careful distance.
"Connor…"