Page 19 of Forbidden Vengeance

The irony isn’t lost on me. I let Anthony take me against any surface he wants while memorizing shipping schedules visible on his desk. Now I’m carrying his child while hunting for evidence of human trafficking through his ports.

Mario would appreciate the symmetry, if nothing else.

My phone buzzes again—a message from him this time, as if my thoughts summoned him:Watch your step, little planner. The Irish are moving pieces we don’t see yet.

I ignore the way my heart races at his name, the phantom sensation of his lips against mine in that parking garage. That’s a complication I can’t afford right now, not with Anthony’s child growing beneath my heart and a human trafficking operation to expose.

Instead, I focus on my reflection as I fasten diamond earrings—Anthony’s gift after our first month together. The woman inthe mirror looks calm, collected, perfect. No one would guess at the calculations running behind her eyes, the secrets building beneath her heart.

Let them see the obvious story—the society climber, the mistress reaching above her station. The familiar tale of a beautiful woman using a baby to trap a wealthy man.

The truth is so much more dangerous.

A car horn sounds outside—Anthony’s driver, right on schedule.

It’s showtime.

Three hours later,I let Anthony press me against his bedroom wall, his hands possessive on my waist. The silk of my dress slides against the expensive wallpaper as he pins me there. His touch is demanding but gentle—always so careful with his toys—and I force myself not to flinch, to arch into his hands like I want it, like I’m not carrying his child while hunting for evidence that could destroy him.

His cologne is too strong this close, mixing with the lingering taste of the wine I pretended to drink at dinner. But his kisses taste like victory and Macallan 25 as I play my part—the ambitious mistress, the woman who might give him an heir.

He thinks the slight trembling in my limbs is from desire, not the constant nausea I’m fighting down.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my neck, his skilled fingers tracing patterns on my hip. I let my head fall back, giving him better access while my eyes scan the room behind his shoulder.

Every detail matters now—the papers scattered across his mahogany desk, the phone he left carelessly on the nightstand, the laptop glowing dimly in the corner.

New papers catch my attention—shipping manifests from Vietnam and Thailand, port authority documents that shouldn’t be accessible to a “legitimate businessman.” Anthony’s hands slide lower, and I use the movement to angle us, letting him think he’s directing our dance while I get a better view.

A phone conversation drifts in from the other room—his assistant working late, voice muffled but clear enough: “…merchandise arriving Thursday. The containers need to clear customs by…”

Everything clicks into place: the missing piece of the investigation into the trafficking operation. The gaps in the schedules, the mysterious shipments, the untraceable payments—it all connects.

“You’re distracted tonight,” Anthony murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point. His hands tighten possessively on my hips, and I realize I’ve let my mask slip, let the hunter show through the illusion of prey.

I cover it with a practiced moan, sliding my hands into his perfectly styled hair. “Just thinking about how much I want you,” I breathe, directing his attention lower while my eyes stay fixed on the papers.

The manifests show routes that don’t match any official records—gaps where people could disappear without a trace. Ships that dock but don’t exist in any database, cargo that vanishes between ports.

His hands find my zipper, drawing it down with agonizing slowness. The whisper of metal seems loud in the dim room. “Thinking about me?” he asks, and there’s something dangerous in his tone that makes me focus fully on him for a moment. “Or about my business papers?”

My heart stutters, but years of practice keep my voice steady, sultry. “About that thing you did in the car,” I purr, sliding my leg between his. “I’ve been wet for you all through dinner.”

The lie tastes like ash, but it works. His eyes darken with masculine pride, and he captures my mouth in a bruising kiss. His hands are everywhere now, and I match his passion with carefully crafted desire. Every gasp, every moan, every arch of my body is calculated to make him forget that momentary suspicion.

The expensive silk of my dress pools at my feet as he undresses me with practiced precision. His mouth traces a path down my neck, across my collarbone, marking me as his property. I let my head fall back, playing into his possessiveness while my eyes remain fixed on the documents across the room. His fingers trace patterns on my skin that should feel like fire but instead leave ice in their wake.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs again against my throat, and I force myself not to think of different hands, a different voice in a hospital parking garage. Anthony’s touch is all technique and no passion—like everything else about him, it’s a performance meant to demonstrate his power.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, letting him think he’s conquered me completely. His kisses grow more demanding as he backs me toward the bed, and I respond with all the skill of a woman who’s made deception into an art form. My fingers work at his shirt buttons, each touch a lie I tell with my body.

The mattress hits the back of my knees, and I let myself fall, pulling him with me. The weight of him should feel like desire, like victory, but all I can think about is the child growing inside me.

A child not conceived from love but from deception.

But I’m good at this part—making men see what they want to see. Anthony likes to think he’s irresistible, that I can’t help but melt for him. So I arch beneath him, matching his rhythm with calculated precision, letting him believe every gasp and shiver is real.

His mouth claims mine again, tasting of expensive whiskey and darker things.

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