Page 71 of Ruthless Love

“Alan would’ve been turning eighteen. The year his grades went down, and his scholarship to Yale teetered in the balance. I could never figure out why one day, my brother is wild and carefree, and the next he’s distant. Unreachable. Growing more dependent on drugs by the minute, for no reason at all. But there was a reason. And now I’m getting the big fat fucking picture.”

“Must you be so crass?” Garrett says with a patriarchal tone that’s purely out of habit.

“You two went out one night. That male bonding you threw in my face. But Alan came back different. Unable to remember anything. Well, except what you probably told him.”

“Now, Evelyn—”

“My turn,” I say, stringing together the chain of events so effortlessly, I can’t believe I never saw it before. “Alan was with you when this happened. In his car, his Beamer that mysteriously became a Mercedes. And he had no idea what happened, did he? Maybe because of a head injury, or maybe from the trauma of watching it all unfold. Or maybe both. But I know this. Alan wasn’t the driver.”

Garrett’s lip twitches, unable to hold the facade of a dismissive smile. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because if you were with him, and we both know you were, you’d never let him drive. You always called him incompetent. Worthless.”

His face sours in response. “Look at you, Evelyn. The man who raised you is giving you the opportunity of a lifetime, and all you care about, once again, is saving Alan.”

“Maybe it’s because I’ve always known he has a soul worth saving. And you’re framing him for embezzlement too, aren’t you?”

“Well, if you want to save him again, Evelyn, I suggest you wipe that smug look off your face and take a good look at your new life. Despite a bloodline that probably traces to an underpass, those expensive little degrees of yours tell me that you’re smart. Stop using your few working brain cells digging up conspiracies where none exist, and focus on not pissing off the wealthy billionaire about to marry you. No good can come of it, Evelyn. Not for you. And not for your boy toy or his daughter.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Garrett pushes himself to his feet, dropping his handkerchief to my lap before straightening his suit. “I know exactly who I am. I’m the man who will be walking your trashy ass down the aisle.”

Chapter Forty-Two

EVIE

When that arrogant son of a bitch is finally far enough from me I can breathe, I pry open my hand. The little black nub that Austin forced into my hand seems to be an earpiece of some sort, with a small silver tail hanging from it.

Slipping the soft foam to my ear, I speak. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“I’m here, Evie,” a woman says in a sultry voice I don’t recognize. “You can call me Mav. I see you’re still near the main house, but at least you’re outside. Do me a favor. There’s a lake on the south side of the property. I want you to head that way, straight toward the large tree.”

As instructed, I take a cautious stroll to the far end of the vast yard.

“Good,” she says. “You’re on the move. Now, Evie, I want you to listen very carefully to me, because you and I don’t have a lot of time. But I believe women should always have choices. I have no doubt you do too. In another minute, you’ll be at a crossroads. Either we’re going to whisk away our little damsel in distress, or ...”

Having no idea who this person is, I keep my sarcasm in check, swallow my irritation, and finally bleat out, “Or?”

“Or I can give you your one and only shot at what you really want.”

Chapter Forty-Three

EVIE

When I finally reach the delicate draping limbs of the giant weeping willow at the edge of the lake, I do as Mav instructs. To get through the thick curtain, I sweep a cluster of branches aside and step through as their heavy weight crashes behind me.

A soft green glow swallows me as the bright Dallas sun bleeds through the leaves. If my heart weren’t pounding to break free of my chest, the moment would almost be magical.

When a man steps out from behind the wide trunk of the old tree, I freeze. His black button-down shirt and dark sunglasses are the typical one-look-fits-all for Dimitri’s henchmen.

His short, dark hair is combed tight against his head, a severe look that amplifies his scowl. Between that and the gun gripped in a hand covered in tattoos, I’m trembling because I know this man is deadly.

Desperate, I turn to run, stopped by one word.

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