2. Predators
2
PREDATORS
Cybil Hartford, a.k.a. “Mama H”
Adrian Hartford. Oldest son.
Lincoln Hartford. Middle son.
Theodore Hartford, a.k.a. “Theo.” Youngest son.
Tyler Bennett. Cousin.
Jade Bennett. Cousin.
My gaze locks on the last full-sized branch of the family tree, the one I’ve been avoiding.
Julia Hartford. Daughter.
Deep blue eyes stare back at me from my laptop screen as I chew my toast at the desk in my room. She’s not smiling in this photo. In fact, she looks pensive and introspective, like someone caught her in a candid moment, lost in her head. By the perfect placement of everything else, however, this is clearly a staged social media image. Why choose pensive for your public persona?
I add that question to my notes on Julia Hartford.
The few bites of breakfast I’ve managed to get down rot in my stomach as I study the other information about the woman I’m supposed to seduce. All under the guise of gaining an in with The Hartford Family.
“Julia is smart and driven, the only one to leave Undertow and experience the rest of the world. She’s being groomed to take over for Mama H one day. By all accounts, she’ll be attracted to deep and complex over fun and charming. No playing around with this one, got it?”
I could laugh at McArthur’s warning last night in the briefing. He doesn’t know his “brilliant” plan is for me to be myself for once. None of them know who I really am. It’s why I’m still alive.
A knock interrupts my studying, and I snap the laptop closed. After shoving the folder beneath it, I approach the door with caution, swallowing a curse when I peek through the door viewer.
Scarlett McArthur. What could she possibly want? A thanks for thinking I’d be the perfect bait for Julia Hartford?
Forcing a smile, I pull open the door.
“Morning, Ms. McArthur,” I say evenly.
“Ms. McArthur? Really, Shaw?” Her flirty tone is undermined by the direct challenge in her gaze.
I don’t react, refusing to engage.
She rolls her eyes and pushes past me into the room. I’ve never felt as sick before a job as I do now, and this visit certainly won’t help. While she inspects my room, I glance into the hallway for signs of her father, or that guy, Patrick.
“They’re all out golfing,” she says, waving off my concern. I don’t like that she read me so easily. I need to lock this shit down if I have any chance of surviving this assignment.
“Nice day for it,” I say. My tone is bored, without even a hint of the anxiety simmering in my stomach.
Her attention settles back on me as I sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been looking for you since the meeting last night, but they said you’ve been holed up in your room.”
“Lots to review and not much time.”
Just an hourglass of lies. A piece of sand that ties you to another crime.
Which crime? I don’t even know yet.
She nods and lowers herself beside me. I force myself to remain still. “I just wanted to say, not everything my father said is true. I mean, it is, but it’s not. Shaw, I…”
She stops, and I clench my jaw.
“I didn’t know what they were planning, I swear. They asked me what I thought about you, that’s it. I thought they were going to promote you or something. I didn’t know it was for this.”
Her hazel eyes plead with me in the ensuing silence, but I don’t know why. She didn’t betray me. We don’t have a relationship to betray. She did her job, played her role. Just like we all do.
I pull my gaze away and focus on the wall. “You did what you had to do.”
“Look, I know things have been weird since?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, turning my hardened stare on her. I have enough shit on my plate. I can’t go there right now. Ever. Why is it so fucking difficult for her to accept?
But making an enemy of the boss’ daughter doesn’t help me either. When her eyes narrow, I pull in a calming breath.
You knew it wasn’t over. It will never be over. It can only end one way.
“Sorry,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. “It’s been… a lot to absorb in twelve hours.”
She softens, and I have to suppress a flinch when her cold fingers land on my wrist. A shiver runs through me as her thumb grazes my skin in slow arcs. Everything in me wants to pull away. Somehow I manage not to.
“You’re probably scared, huh?” she says, tracing the tattoo covering the back of my hand.
It’s an eye nestled in a gash in the skin that exposes the bone and tissue beneath it. Gramps hated this one when I first got it. After I explained it, he hugged me and cried.
“I’d be so scared right now,” she continues when I don’t respond.
Scared. Such an incompetent word. Fleeting and simple in the face of complex monstrosities.
I’ve been ordered to infiltrate a criminal enterprise that won’t hesitate to put a bullet in my head if they find out I’m a spy. Neither would the monsters I work for, if it suits their agenda. Every breath I take will be the difference between life and death, every move a calculated risk that could have me on my knees in front of one executioner or another. Or both.
I’m the master of words and I have none for how I feel right now.
I shrug. “A little. I’ll figure it out.” I try to pull my hand from hers, but she clamps down and threads our fingers together.
“What you’re doing, it’s really brave,” she says.
Brave? Doing something without a choice isn’t bravery.
“Yeah. Look, I really need to get back to work.”
My warning doesn’t faze her, and she flips our hands to draw slow streaks up my arm with her fingertips. Familiar, like we do this a lot. Like she has a right to me. Neither is true, and I tug again, but she holds on tighter. This is a power struggle as much as anything else, and she knows I’m at a disadvantage.
“I guess we probably won’t see you much once you cross into Undertow.” Her voice is low and intimate. “What time are you leaving?”
I look up sharply, tensing at the clear suggestion in her eyes. “Soon. And, no. Unless it’s on Hartford terms, once I cross over, I won’t be able to return to Palmetto Acres.”
I leave it at that. The fewer people who know the details of my plan, the better. Especially someone who wouldn’t hesitate to exploit any leverage they have over me.
She nods, her teeth sinking into her shiny red lip as she scans me with an intensity that takes me back to a weekend I’m desperate to forget. “I wish… I wish things were different. I meant what I said in New Orleans. You remember that, right?”
My stomach rolls, and I yank my hand away.
“Not really,” I lie. Maybe it’s not a lie. There’s a lot I don’t remember about that night. Shit gets hazy when you’re drugged.
She looks hurt, and I have no idea why.
“You’re the kind of a guy who could wreck a person. Would you? Would you wreck a person just because you could, Roman Shaw?”
I didn’t answer her then and I have no intention of responding now.
She shifts closer. “I can’t stop thinking about you, that whole night really. I tried to find you a few times since then, but I didn’t know where you were after they reassigned you.”
I shake my head, refusing to look at her and give more away. Why is she still here? What could this pointless jaunt down memory hell possibly accomplish?
“Your father owns me. You know that.” I meet her gaze, my meaning clear. Your father, not you. Back off, for both our sakes.
“Maybe.” She searches my eyes, inching closer. “But like I said, they’ll be gone for a while. The spa here is first class. You should take advantage of it while you can. One last luxury before going off to The Pit?”
“The Pit?”
“What we call Undertow.”
The Pit. I add that to my mental dossier.
“Thanks, but I still have a lot of work to do.”
“Shaw.”
I recoil when she grabs my arm, and her hurt look quickly melts into indignation.
“So New Orleans meant nothing to you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” she hisses.
We clearly have very different memories of that night.
“It was just another job.”
Again with the lies.
She clenches her fist, her gaze turning cold. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sure Patrick would love to enjoy the first-class spa with you,” I say, pushing to my feet. Clearly, she’s missing the messages. Or ignoring them. I’m not sure which is worse.
Her stance relaxes slightly. “Is that what this is about? I don’t love Patrick. My father chose him, not me. You know what I want.”
“I need to get back to work,” I say, moving to the desk.
“Shaw, wait. I’m sorry, just?—”
“You should go, Ms. McArthur.”
I settle in the chair, dismissing her by firing up my laptop.
It takes a full ten seconds for her to accept reality.
I flinch at the slam of the door.