Page 104 of Remy

“Yeah. Okay.” I nod and follow after him into an underground parking lot. SUVs and sedans sit amongst thick cement columns to my right. The closest spaces remain empty. There’s no black Bentley in sight.

To the left is a chain-link-fenced enclosure. A storage area stacked with kegs three high and shelves with liquor bottles and cardboard boxes.

But it’s still so quiet. Too quiet.

“Are you sure Remy’s down here?” My voice betrays my skepticism as I slow my pace, gaining a few feet of space between me and the bouncer.

“That’s what I said.” He continues along the chain-link, jerking his head toward the storage area. “He’s got an office in there behind all those boxes. There’s a gate just around the corner.”

I peer between the propped kegs, finding a path down the center of the enclosed area, either side banked with crates and liquor boxes.

Could there be an office behind all that liquid courage? Sure.

Would Remy—a stylish, rich, underworld murderer—choose to spend his time in there?

I guess it’s away from the noise. Maybe there’s some security reason too… but it still doesn’t seem right.

“Remy?” I call out.

The bouncer shoots me a scowl over his shoulder. “Don’t trust me?”

“Don’t trust people in general,” I hedge. Of course I don’t trust him.

He chuckles and pauses. “Then why don’t you go ahead and check it out for yourself. I’ll wait here.” He turns to me, his tall, bulking frame taking up the majority of the space between the chain-link and a silver hatchback to the right of the makeshift path.

The discomfort at the back of my neck skitters down my spine, raising every hair in its wake.

“Remy?” I call again, my voice echoing around the cement cave.

“He won’t hear you.” The bouncer jerks his chin in the direction we were heading. “Go on. The entrance is just up there.”

Alcohol, sleep deprivation, and an unhealthy cortisol imbalance aren’t enough to get me to maneuver around him. This was a mistake.

“I’ll speak to him some other time.” I backtrack with a smile, well aware I need the bouncer’s security fob to be able to use the elevator. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“You didn’t, sweet cheeks.” He smirks and lunges to grab my wrist. “We’re just getting started.”

20

OLIVIA

I fight to keep calm. To stay in control. But being edged by anxiety all week makes it almost impossible.

“Please don’t touch me.” I twist my wrist to break his hold, only to have him grip tighter. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, but?—”

“Cut the crap.” He closes in, and I’m forced to backtrack toward the fence to maintain the distance between us. “We both know you didn’t follow me down here for my boss.”

I twist my wrist harder. Tug my arm toward my chest. “I assure you I did.”

“Because you’re pregnant?” He scoffs and continues to prowl toward me. “Even if you are carrying his kid, he’s not going to want to see you. The only good news is that I know you put out.”

“He’ll want to see me.”

“Then you can go back to trying to find him after I’m done.”

Panic siphons the alcohol from my system. I’m entirely sober, coherent, and terrified in the space of a few hammered heartbeats.

He releases my wrist, grabs my hips, and shoves me against the fence.

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