Page 56 of Undertow

Merrick said he wants me to run, but he knows as well as I do that’s not a possibility. He was just relieving whatever speck of conscience he has left in that jaded soul—or trying to get me killed. Whatever the motive, my onlyrealescape is to destroy the monster before it destroys me.

I’ve been plotting to take down the McArthurs since the day they dragged me in. I just needed to put the pieces in place and wait for the right opportunity. From the moment they sent meto Undertow, I sensed this feud with the Hartfords could be the opening I’ve been waiting for. Now it’s confirmed. I don’t have a choice anymore. I will take down the Hartfords as directed—and the McArthurs along with them.

The question is how.

“Hey, Shaw,” Scarlett says with a smile that tells me this evening is more than a meal to her. Her revealing dress could easily pass for lingerie, and she seems disappointed I’m still wearing the Palmetto Grande uniform. I’m not sure what else she expected. I’m still just another employee, whether she wants to accept that or not.“Come in.”

I force a quick smile and enter, trying not to react to the sound of the lock clicking behind me.

She can’t hurt you.

But she can.

She has.

“I ordered all your favorites. Wait until you taste the salmon.” She motions toward a table set with the precision of a five-star restaurant. All that’s missing is the smartly dressed waitstaff—akawitnesses.

“I even had them get one of those bottles of the Vici cabernet sauvignon you like. Vintage nineteen seventy-two, right?”

I set my jaw and force a nod.

Showering me with proof of her obsessive stalking is not winning her points. I take the seat she offers anyway, gritting my teeth against my true reaction to this charade. A deal’s a deal. And knowing what I know puts me in an even more precarious position than when I made it.

“Wait. I’ll do it,” I say when she reaches for the bottle of wine. It’s still sealed, which is the only reason I will consider consuming any of it. The food on the table is a joke.

Her expression darkens when I pull the bottle and corkscrew toward me.

“You don’t trust me,” she says.

“Should I?” I reply coolly.

“You’re overreacting.”

“You drugged me.”

“No. Not really. They made me do it.”

Semantics, and I have no interest in a pointless debate. Instead, I remove the cork and pour two glasses. After a cursory shove of one in her direction, I take the other and lean back in the chair, assuming a bored pose.

Anger flares in her eyes. Good. She wants to marry me? Welcome to our fairytale.

“So you’re not even going to touch the food I spent all afternoon arranging for you?” she snaps.

“No.”

“Shaw, come on. Are you seriously going to hold a grudge over that stupid New Orleans incident?”

Incident? Interesting word for waking up with two strangers, a stab wound, and a damning video documenting your murky nightmare.

“Why am I here?” I ask, ignoring her ridiculous question.

“You know why,” she says with a hard look, and I shake my head in irritation.

“Manipulate and extort all you want, but I will never have feelings for you, Scarlett. I will never want this.”

She lands an icy stare on me from across the table. “Yeah? Whatdoyou want, Shaw? You’re so good at pretending, no one seems to know.”

Because it’s irrelevant.

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