Page 23 of Covert Temptation

She snapped the menu closed and grabbed her coat. Dante was on his feet before she got halfway to the door.

He blocked her path. “I’ll get the pizza and a few supplies, but you’re not coming.”

She paused. “I—” Her throat worked on a swallow. “I don’t want to be here alone.”

“You can’t be seen, Kennedy. This isn’t negotiable.”

Her eyes met his, wide and dark in the dim light. She’d thrown glares at him for weeks now. But this felt different.

More…vulnerable.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll be right back with the pizza.”

She shifted her gaze to the window. “But…it’s…dark.”

Alyssa warned him that Kennedy didn’t do well in the dark.

He sighed. “I don’t have to go for pizza. There’s probably some canned soup in the pantry.”

She gave him an are-you-kidding-me look. “Canned soup. It’s official. I’m definitely a prisoner.”

He grabbed a ball cap from his duffel and pulled it on to conceal his own appearance a little bit. “Pizza it is then. I’m not going far. Watch some TV. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Still, she lingered near him, not moving toward the couch or the TV or even away from the door.

“But Dante…” Her voice caught on his name.

He didn’t like the little kernel blooming in his chest, the one that told him to protect her at all costs.

“It’s going to be okay, Kennedy,” he said gently. “I’ll be back before you know it. Lock the door behind me and stuff the wedge under it.”

She nodded but didn’t utter another word.

She didn’t need to tell him she was afraid, and damn if that didn’t have him slipping, backsliding, searching for footing in this bizarre op he’d been handed that he was determined to excel in.

The woman who might hold the key to unraveling a web of lies was locked inside a house with him, pacing and restless, in her ankle boots and soft sweater.

And all Dante could think about was that glimmer of gloss on her bottom lip, the raspy way she said his name…and the sound of her laugh on the drive here.

It haunted him. Worse—it tempted him.

* * * * *

Even though Kennedy was old enough not to be worried about dark corners and shadows, her past had taught her otherwise.

She walked around the house, flipping on every light until the space was illuminated by a warm golden glow that chased away the darkness.

When she walked into her bedroom, she saw the open closet door and switched the light on there too. Just to be sure.

She knew it was irrational, but it all began with her parents fighting in the dark. Kennedy was always curled up in the dark, hiding in the dark, trembling in the dark, waiting for the worst to happen.

Then, years later, she worked late nights to put herself through college. She and her coworkers had a creed: don’t get caught in the dark, always park under a parking lamp, and have the bouncers walk them to their vehicles.

She added another precaution to her list—she paid a male friend who lived in her coed dorm ten bucks to watch for her return and meet her at her vehicle so they could walk in together.

She sank to the edge of the bed and dropped her gaze to her feet. She didn’t really need her shoes in the safe house, but until she felt like she wouldn’t need to run from danger any moment,she would keep them on.

She admired the supple Italian leather that gleamed softly under the light. Gold zipper hardware traced the inside seam, subtly embossed with the designer’s signature. Even the soles were a quiet indulgence—lacquered and pristine, the kind that whispered wealth with every step.

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