Page 57 of The Truths that Deceive

“You’re just a walking ego.”

“Sweet talk,” he says. “I like it.”

“I’m not…” I draw in a breath, gaze catching on his cut once more. “I really am sorry.”

He frowns, then touches it. “No, you’re not, and don’t be boring.”

“I…”

Words escape my grasp. And what the hell am I doing? Having some kind of moment with him? In a shower in Belize when he’s pretty much forcing me to go back to the States to face whatever music is coming my way? And that means no computers, no information, no finding my agent or Trenton.

People have been looking for me in Germany, threatening me. It’s why I went into hiding.

And then someone blew up a plane.

He went private over commercial, which means he’s planning to deliver me into the hands of the CIA or whoever ordered me to be picked up.

He also thinks there’s enough danger that we’re here hiding out in a tiny Central American country.

“I know you’re not telling me the truth.”

“You’re a job, nothing more. Pick you up, keep you alive. Deliver you for money. Nothing else to tell. The rest? Meaningless.”

The water from the shower patters down and cold needleshit me with the harshness of his last words. “I had threats, the vague kind. My field agent disappeared. I don’t know what’s going on. And anything with any sex traffickers is personal to me.”

With that, I jump out, grabbing the towel and drying off. I towel dry my hair, thankful that the heaviness is gone with the undercut, the ease of the style why I chose it. Wash and run and add a little product and I’ll be ready for an evening out.

Not that I do that. Haven’t in months.

The shower turns off and he swings a towel over the railing before stepping out. He pulls on a T-shirt and tucks it into another pair of cargo pants.

“Clothes for you are in the bag. Put them on and be ready.” Smith steals the towel I wrapped around my body.

“Great,” I bite out before lunging for the towel.

He holds it out of my way, eyes roaming over me, the blue burning into my skin. I hate how my nipples get instantly hard for him and my pussy throbs.

He flashes a knowing grin.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m cold.” But I don’t drop the towel I have in my hand for my hair, no matter how much I want to. “I’m not into you.”

“You are, Calista. The kink connection is real. You and I click. Just don’t even attempt to use it on me. I’m the wrong guy for that. I’m delivering you. End of story. Your pussy isn’t enough to make me forget the job I was hired to do. Get dressed.”

He walks out of the bathroom.

By the time I’m dressed in the black stretch pants and T-shirt, I can’t find him, not that I look hard. The mission is mostly draped in darkness; the only lights are the one in the bathroom and one near the entrance, along with a few outside that illuminate the yard.

I can see enough in the kitchen, though. Light peeks in through the window. The cupboards contain canned food and bottled water.

The fridge is empty from today—everything, including the bread—was eaten with dinner. But I’m not hungry. There’s something gnawing at me, making my insides twist and turn in on themselves.

Not wanting to steal any of the supplies, I decide to use the tap. Before I fill the glass, Smith comes inside and hands me a bottle of water from one of the cupboards.

“Seriously, put down the glass. You don’t want to drink the water without boiling it first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Music,” he says, “to my fucking ears.” He slides a clip into his Sig and puts his phone into the bag. “C’mon, Calista.”

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