17. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and I hate that she's right. I hate that she can read me when no one else can. I hate that standing here, looking at her in my kitchen like she belongs, makes something dark and hungry coil in my belly.
“Why else would you take a contract to hunt me?” she continues, watching me with that sharp amused glint.
Because the thought of someone else putting his hands on her makes violence seem less like a profession and more like an imperative. "It's a job."
"Bullshit." She stands, and suddenly the space between us feels too small and too big all at once.
"If it was just a job, you would've called your client the second you saw my name and turned it down. Hunting me is counter to your best interests. Lily’s boyfriend and his friends would turn on you.
But you didn't. You sat there in your secure room, staring at my file, thinking about what it meant. "
It’s like she has a direct cam into my life, and I don’t like it. I force my hands to relax. "You don't know what I was thinking."
"Don't I?" She moves closer. “I think you want to chase me.”
I should step back. I should put distance between us. I should do anything except stand here and let her invade my space the way she's invaded my head for the past month. Chase her? No—I want to know what happens after I catch her. "Why are you here, Mandy?"
"Because I need help and Gabriel thinks you’re the best choice I have," she finally says. The shift in her tone catches me off guard—less combative, more honest. "I’ve been spinning my wheels trying to figure this out on my own. I need help."
I can tell what it cost her to admit that. I wonder if she’s playing me. I wouldn’t put it past her. “What do you need help with?”
She hesitates, like she’s debating how much to tell me.
I turn and take out a glass from the cabinet to get myself a glass of water. If my hands are busy, I won’t be tempted to put them on her. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.”
"During the raid on Turner’s house, I found a notebook.”
Facing her, I sip the water, watching her silently.
She crosses her arms, her gaze defiant. “It has page after page of pictures of women and physical information on them, along with dates and a stamp saying they’re sold.”
It takes all my self-control to keep my expression neutral.
I’ve seen enough traffickers to know they all believe they’re businessmen instead of predators.
Hence the ledgers and records. Turner was the epitome—was because after the raid, Gabriel Reyes took him away.
I don’t need three guesses to know what happened to him.
The Reyes family doesn’t allow for people who cross them to go scot-free.
“On the last page, there’s a photo of a girl, the same as every other page,” Mandy continues. “Only the date hasn’t passed, and there’s no sold stamp.”
I already know where this is going, but I ask. “When is the date?”
“In eight days.” She gazes at me steadily.
“You think she’s going to be taken then.”
She nods. “And I’m going to stop it.”
“Turner is out of commission,” I point out. “By rights, his network should have collapsed.”
“I’m not willing to take the chance.” She narrows her eyes. “I don’t think you are either.”
I’m not, but I’m not going to admit that yet. I need bargaining room. "What are you proposing?"
“Help me find out who she is. I figure you’ve got some fancy computer equipment with facial recognition, right?”
I make a noncommittal sound.
“Don’t cancel the commission. Instead, help me understand Ashford's connection to all this,” she says, studying me. “I’ve suspected him for years, but I haven’t found clear evidence of his involvement. I must be getting close. It’s not a coincidence that he hired you to find me now.”
“And then?”
“And then deliver me to him."
Not many people surprise me, but she’s managed to twice in one night. “Excuse me?”
“Deliver me to Ashford.” Her eyes are bright with zeal. “I’ve spent years trying to get close to Thomas Ashford. You’re holding an invitation.”
I shake my head. “I’m canceling the commission.”
“Don’t cancel it.”
“You want me to hand you over to him?” I ask incredulously.
“I want him to think you will. It gives me the perfect opportunity to get to him. It’s win-win. You get paid, I get Ashford.” Mandy steps closer. “Give me five days.”
She's close enough now that I can reach out and touch her if I want to. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the sickle-shaped scar on her cheekbone, the line of golden hair where it’s grown out since she last dyed it.
I can smell her—bleach and citrus, a combination that confuses me as much as it makes me want to investigate deeper.
“Come on, Hendricks.” She bats her eyelashes at me in a parody of flirting. “Give me five days to find out why Ashford wants me.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I can ask him.”
“I’m sure a man like Thomas Ashford will be delighted to tell you the truth,” she retorts.
Point taken.
“Hendricks, I’ve been trying to get close to him for years,” she continues. “Now he’s finally opened the door and I’m not letting you slam it shut because you’ve developed a conscience.”
I frown. “That isn’t what this is.”
“Of course not.” Her mouth twitches. “Five days. We figure out why he hired you, if Ashford is connected to Turner, and who the girl in the notebook is. Then you deliver me exactly where he wants me.”
Absolutely fucking not. “Five days, but you stay with me.”
Her eyes narrow. "What? Why? You don't trust me?"
I know better than to admit I don’t want to see her hurt. "Not any more than you trust me."
A slow smile curves her lips.
It does something to me—it makes my blood run hot and my control slip another notch. My cock stirs, and I know if she looks down, she’ll see its outline under my slacks.
Part of me wants her to see it. The other part remembers who she is. Three years inside a trafficking network changes the way a person reads touch and desire. I know better than to mistake attraction for consent. The last thing I want is to become is another man who takes her choice away.
I force myself to hold my ground instead of closing the distance between us. “Ashford hired me to find you. That means there’s a reasonable probability he hired someone else before me or will hire someone else after me. Until I know otherwise, you’re a target.”
She bristles visibly. “I can take care of myself.”
I know that, but it’s not enough. “You stay at my house. You don’t disappear. You don’t make a move without telling me, and if we’re going to investigate Ashford together, I control operational security.”
“Control.” She rolls the word around like she’s tasting it. “There’s a surprise.”
“Those are my terms.”
We stare at each other, and the air between us crackles with something raw and unspoken.
Something that's been building since before the Turner raid, since the first time we sat across the table from each other and verbally sparred, when we realized we were too alike, too damaged, too drawn to each other to ever be safe.
I’m not ready to tear it down.
“You sure this isn’t just an elaborate way to get me into your bed?”
No—getting her into my bed would be considerably simpler. “Do we have a deal?
“Yes, we do.”
The agreement comes too easily. Every negotiation has a point where someone starts lying. I have a feeling we just reached ours. "You try to run, the deal's off."
She nods. "I won't run."
"You try to kill me in my sleep—"
"I won't kill you in your sleep, Hendricks." She steps even closer. There's barely six inches between us, and when her hip brushes my cock, I ruthlessly hold back a groan. I can feel the heat radiating off her body, can see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.
She smirks. "If I decide to kill you, you'll see it coming."
My fingers twitch with the absurd urge to tuck that loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Comforting."
"I think so." She flashed that knowing smirk. “So you going to tell me your first name?”
“Why?” I raise my brow. “You planning on screaming it?”
The air changes.
We're standing too close—close enough that if I leaned forward, I could kiss her. Close enough that I can see the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches just slightly when my gaze drops to her mouth.
This is a mistake. I know it's a mistake. But I've spent five weeks trying to forget her, and she's standing in my kitchen offering me exactly what I want—a reason to keep her close, a reason to justify the obsession I can't shake.
"Five days," I repeat softly.
"Five days," she agrees.
Neither of us moves. The electricity between us hums, live and dangerous, and I know with absolute certainty that this isn't about the notebook or Ashford or the job.
This is about us. About the collision we've been hurtling toward since the moment we met.
Every instinct I have says to step back.
None of them are winning.