Page 102 of The Truths that Deceive

Getting the phone from her beaded evening bag was easy enough, especially since she was too busy fawning over the fat, sixty-plus-year-old man she was with.

The girl looked twenty-one at most.

I’d feel for her, but I saw the desire to be part of the wealthy elite burning bright. She likes how he treats her and the money he no doubt showers on her.

The two of them disappear, which makes me having hercontraband phone easier. Smith isn’t here, he palmed me off. And the man he handed me off to is scary. Big and handsome, with a scar on his face, and the kind of angled jaw women swoon over. Yet his eyes, dark and almost black, are hard and emotionless.

The eyes of a killer.

What’s his story? His angle? I study him and those eyes bore into me.

“Don’t even think of trying your baby girl version of seduction on me,” he says, basically manhandling me into a seat.

I roll my eyes, touch the phone once more before making myself put my hands on the table. “Also, Smith might kill you. I’m not sure he’s into sharing.”

The guy grins. “You’d be surprised.”

Heat burns in my veins. And I meet that cold stare dead-on. “I don’t think he wants to share me. And you aren’t all that. Now, I’ll have a scotch.”

He pulls out a leather chair and sits, curling his hand around my wrist and pulling me to him. “You’re not what I expected. But don’t fucking play me. He might like you. I don’t give a fuck.”

A cold bolt of fear snakes through me. This isn’t spinning wheels. This isn’t trust. This is… I don’t know what it is… I stop, narrow my eyes, and take a breath. Then I relax into his hold. “Scotch. Please.”

He’s about to say something when the other ginormous man, one of the men who came to our rescue in Cuba, drops next to me. “Play fucking nice, Reaper.”

Then Reaper, that’s what the killer holding me is called, looks at him and smiles slowly as he takes in the honey-blonde woman standing near the other big man.

“That’s Smith’s kid,” Reaper says, hooking a thumb through the air at the blonde. “This is her fiancé,Orion. Fuck, I wish I could hang for the fireworks of the wedding, Orion, but…” He shrugs. “Got things to do.”

The honey-blonde pretends not to be interested. Orion just looks hard, bored, annoyed. Reaper’s got nasty delight all over his face.

“This is Smith’s piece, girls and boys. Hendrix.”

And then the asshole saunters off to the bar.

“Calista,” I manage to push out. “My name’s Calista.”

Orion gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes after Reaper as he motions to the blonde to sit.

For a moment it disgusts me, the dynamic. Like, Smith’s daughter is his to boss around, even without words, because she just nods sweetly and looks down, doing as ordered.

But I catch the proprietary gleam in his eye, and something blinding hot that’s passion and love and adoration. It’s so apparent for a sliver of a moment that I hurt inside because…

Because it’s special.

And Smith’s daughter… Dakota… her little smile is excitement and love, the gleam in her is just as bright.

It dawns on me right then that they play their own sex game. Some kind of D/s. And while they’re both into it, she… she loves it.

Then her gaze hits me hard and it all shuts down. “So your Smith’s latest? Normally I don’t meet them. Is he that desperate? God, he’s pathetic.”

I squeeze a hand tight. “Desperate?”

“Not you, just bringing you here. Are you my age?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“He’s not a good guy,” Dakota says, anger burning the edges of her words.

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