Page 75 of The Truths that Deceive

I narrow my eyes. There’s a Smith-shaped bomb coming. “What?”

“We can talk.”

Talk? For a moment I’m dumbfounded. He wants to… talk?

I don’t understand his game.

“What do you mean, talk?” I ask carefully.

He waits a beat. “I mean, tell me what I need to know, everything, and I don’t give a fuck how classified.”

“Or?”

“Or we head to Washington, and I hand you over to whoever the fuck is paying me. Your call, Calista.”

Chapter 21

Smith

My place in Miami is luxurious and run by dedicated staff who keep it ready to go at a drop of the proverbial fucking hat.

There’s an office. One that’s got class and is locked down like Fort Knox since it’s the only place where my computers and guns are kept.

My fellow Knights also use my place on occasion if they need a Miami base. But right now, those Knights who have business here have hotels or are staying elsewhere. So it’s a perfect high-rise slice of luxury where once inside, Calista will have no way out. At all.

I pour a drink, offering her one. She shakes her head, perching on one of the stools in the gleaming open-plan kitchen.

I lean against the counter, glad the marble and stone island is between us.

Because what I really want is to hunt her down in the penthouse. Honestly, it wouldn’t be much of a hunt, but I’vealready caught her once tonight. Anything else would be a bonus.

I stare down at the amber liquid as she pulls off the wig and dumps it on the island.

She looks her age when she’s not wearing it. Her natural hair brings her down into her truth of experience level. Who she should be with. And that ain’t me.

With the wig, she gains a whiff of femme fatale, a woman with a load of experience, and if I don’t think too hard, one who could be between late twenties and early thirties.

It doesn’t add years to her.

Just the illusion of a lived-in life instead of a very smart girl handpicked by the CIA for her hacking skills.

Skills that tell me she spends most of her time behind a computer.

Looking her age makes my guilt rise.

What it doesn’t do is squash the need for her again. The desire to own, claim, fuck her every which way.

“I thought we weren’t finished.” She goes pink in the cheeks, but her chin rises defiantly. “You said we were going to finish and then talk.”

Oh yeah, I said that. I really am a sleazy fuck.

She gestures, crossing her legs, showing me a whole lot of sleek, slender thigh. Knowing she’s naked under the dress, all it would take is me walking over to her and pulling the tie to let it fall open.

She could take it off, too.

Fuck. I run a hand over my face. Because yeah, I really want to strip her down. Worse, I want her to do it for me.

“I changed my mind.”

---