Page 82 of The Truths that Deceive

His daughter?

Sex?

Secrets?

Dammit, I don’t know. I don’t know much about him. What he likes, what his hobbies are. I know he’s deadly, has a hunting, primal kink, can draw out orgasms like he’s a magician, and he can make me melt with a touch.

The door opens, and I whirl around, jolted from my thoughts.

“You look…” Smith steps in before closing and locking the door.

“What?”

“Well, now you look fucking guilty. I was going to say delicious.” He comes up to me, his familiar scent swirling under my nostrils. Thank God that he doesn’t smell like pussy because I might be tempted to dismember him with my bare hands. He lifts the mask from my face, careful not to disturb the wig. “Maybe you’re even more delicious because of that guilt. Plotting?”

“Your demise.”

“Getting old, little girl. Especially when you keep giving up all the opportunities presented to you to run.”

I gaze up at him. We’re so close, and my entire being is pulsating heat through my veins. “You took the bullets away.”

“I didn’t particularly want to get shot again. It hurts. Makes a mess. Besides…” He kisses me, tongue entering my mouth for a slow, dreamy, and carnal kiss. “I took them out before we flew into Miami.”

“Next time, leave them in.”

“Fucking women. Crazy as bats on crack.”

I toss the rum in his face. Then I throw the glass at him.

He catches it, licks his lips, and backs me into the chaise so that I’m teetering to keep my balance. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

The anxiousness builds, threatens to bubble over because of his words. He thought I was going to run. Fuck, should I have? “What?—?”

“Calista,” he says, moving closer. “you didn’t run when you had the chance. Are you going to waste another opportunity to get out of here? Because if you don’t take it, I can’t promise what’ll happen next.”

Chapter 23

Smith

We don’t head back to the penthouse. I don’t have any more business in Miami, and I need to take her to DC to hand her over.

Need to. Should do.

But… won’t.

I’m not really a “do things on someone else’s schedule” kinda guy.

Not that there’s a schedule. Or at least one I’m privy to.

I think whoever wants her believes she won’t be a problem to find.

Instead of the penthouse, we head to a jazz bar, a low-key place in the depths of Little Havana. It’s dark and smoky with a different type of vibe than you’d find in New York.

“Why are we here?” she asks.

I slide my fingers around her hip, pulling her back against me where we sit in a shadowy corner. The cushions on the bench are worn and tattered along the seams, the tabletop splattered with sticky glass rings.

But from here, I can watch the door, stay mostly hidden, and try to figure out if we were followed.

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