Page 91 of Crossfire

I needed to slaughter the butterflies in my stomach and focus. Answer his questions and wait for the right opportunity to make a run for it. Again.

“Three months ago,” I started. “He sent me a DM on Instagram, saying he heard what happened to my dad and he was sorry for my loss.”

“How long ago did your dad die?”

“Just over a year,” I said. Long enough to accumulate a massive amount of assisted living facility bills for Grandma.

“He apologized for taking so long to send his condolences, but he said he had been traveling and had just gotten back.”

“And then what happened?”

I shrugged. “We started chatting through direct messages for a while. He was telling me stories about what he and my dad used to do together.”

“And you kept talking to him?”

“It was nice to hear stories about my dad again,” I admitted with a pang in my chest. “It brought my dad back to life in a way. Mom and Grams were still in too much pain to reminisce, andI missed my father so much, I started looking forward to Bob’s stories. He and my dad went way back, according to him.”

Grayson dabbed ointment on my wrists.

“And this guy knew about your father’s financial situation?”

Grayson’s hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, and his eyes met mine with an intensity that resuscitated the gullible butterflies.

“My grandma’s medical bills were piling up at the time, so it didn’t surprise me he’d confided in friends about it.”

“And he told you where you could find the money?”

I explained the entire thing to Grayson. About how my dad had given Bob a box to hold and he’d later found the safety-deposit key. How he’d been paranoid he’d get in trouble for having it, thus insisted on meeting off the gridafterconvincing me he’d known my father for years and was trying to do right by him.

When I was done, Grayson announced, “I’d like to get a closer look at those messages. I know someone who might be able to get to the bottom of who sent them. But first, it seems you and I need to negotiate something.”

40

IVY

“Listen,” Grayson said. “You need to stay in my presence. I need to keep an eye on you to ensure your heart continues beating until we can sort this out.”

At this point, I had to pause. Kidnapping, attempted murder, and now a hostage situation with a hit man/captor who looked like an action movie star. Honestly, if someone had told me last week that I’d be here in a high-end bathroom, debating survival strategies with my potential killer, I’d have laughed.

And yet here we were.

“As I said, there are two ways this can play out,” he continued. “Option A: You run, I chase you, I find you, and I drag you back here anyway. That is, of course, if someone doesn’t get to you first. In case you haven’t been keeping count, two separate individuals seem to want you dead. Well, one of them is an entity, I suppose. The one that sent me to end you. That entity may or may not send someone else while I’m spending all this time requiring proof you’re a criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal!” I snarled.

“But I digress. Point is, if you run, most likely, you will wind up dead. Which leaves us with option B. You stay in my presence where I can keep an eye on you until we can sort this out.”

“You honestly think I will willingly be your captive?” I challenged.

“I suppose it depends on how much you value your heart beating.”

I glowered at him and muttered under my breath, “Asshole.”

To any sane person, being kidnapped, nearly murdered, and held against your will should effectively ice over any flicker of attraction. But apparently, my hormones decided to glaze over those “minor details” and opted to throw a party in his honor instead.

This entire situation would be massively easier if the guy wasn’t such a walking, talking, kidnapping Adonis.

He needed to wear a mask, something to conceal that defining jaw and lips. Oh, and glasses, too, to shield me from those ridiculously sexy eyes. It was hard to maintain an appropriate tone with a guy that looked like a model strolling off his latest cover shoot.

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