Page 26 of Exposed

“I’ve got to go,” I whisper. “I’ll call you before I leave.”

Rap, rap, rap!

“Wait!” she shrieks so loud, I’m afraid whoever is on the other side of the door can hear.

“Love you,” I hiss. “Call you soon.”

I hang up before she has the chance to scream at me again.

Bang, bang. “Marigold Carter? DEA. We need to speak to you.”

I freeze.

The DEA?

A different voice penetrates through the door. “We know you’re in there. We saw you moving things to your car.”

Moments pass.

My heart pounds in my chest and echoes in my ears.

I don’t move a muscle even though they know I’m here. What in the world does the DEA want with me?

As if to answer the questions swirling around my head, the first voice answers what I’m desperate to know and afraid of at the same time. “We need to speak to you about your connection to The Pink.”

There it is.

Of course.

I broke ties with The Pink for good only to be lured back through desperation by a prospective client who turned out to be no better than Dex. And it doesn’t matter if that client used a kiss to shield me from my brother.

I’m done.

Done with The Pink.

Done with my brother.

And done with Miami.

Living in the country with Mom might not allow me to plan elaborate weddings every week, but it sure doesn’t invite the DEA to bang on my door either.

“We don’t want to force a conversation, Ms. Carter, but we will if we have to.”

It’s not lost on me thatMs. Cartersounds like an old spinster preschool teacher, which is probably my fate when I move back to Virginia. That’s fine. I mean, kids aren’t horrible … for the most part, even if they are little germ spreaders.

I just like weddings more.

But when anyone speaks about Dex, the last name Carter is ominous and intimidating. I never hated my name until I moved here.

There’s one more rap—stronger and louder this time. I can’t hide in here forever. I flip the lock and turn the handle but leave the old-school chain in place.

I’m greeted by a tall, dark, muscular man in sunglasses. Hishair is perfectly trimmed, his jaw is square, and he makes his basic polo look couture the way it stretches and hugs his chest and arms.

The man could be an advertisement for all that is Miami.

“Special Agent Braxton Cruz with the DEA.” He flashes a badge and ID before motioning to the second voice I can’t see through the crack. “This is my lesser half, Micah Emmett. He’s less special than me, but still an agent.”

I hear a single huffed laugh.

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