Page 27 of Fierce Lies
As soon as the door closed behind him, I called Trent. It rang several times before he answered.
"I told you not to contact me again," he said, his voice tense.
"What happened? What did you find?"
"Nothing. And that's how it's going to stay." His breathing was shallow. "Leave it alone, Elena. These people... they're not who you want to mess with."
"But my father?—"
"Is dead. Let him stay that way." He paused. "I'm sorry about your mother, but this isn't the way."
"Trent, please?—"
"Goodbye, Elena. Don't call again."
The line went dead. I tried calling back immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. A text message failed to deliver—he'd blocked my number.
With shaking hands, I texted Ivy.
Trent just texted. Says situation too risky. What the hell is going on? He won't answer and my texts aren't going through now.
I set the phone down and paced the small apartment, my mind racing. I'd thought the Donatis were just wealthy business owners. What could have scared Trent like this?
Jackson's words echoed in my head: "They inspire loyalty." "They're honorable people."
But what kind of "honorable people" would make a private investigator cut ties and run?
I sat at the dining table and opened my laptop, determined to get some work done for Aaron Accounting despite my messy thoughts. But as I stared at the spreadsheets, all I could think about was Jackson's furrowed brow when he saw my address, the way his eyes had lingered on mine, and the terrifying possibility that Ivy had been right all along.
Maybe there was something darker behind the Donati family's wealth and power. Something dangerous enough to make Trent Simpson turn tail.
And I was right in the middle of it.
9
JACKSON
Itossed the Christmas sweater onto my bed, staring at the ridiculous reindeer with it's cartoonish smirk and the words 'Merry kiss-my-ass' embroidered over the top. What the hell was I doing? Accepting gifts, although I'd argue it wasn't, from a woman I was supposed to be investigating was unprofessional at best, a liability at worst. But the damn sweater smelled like her—fresh and something floral—and I couldn't bring myself to throw it in the hamper.
It was stupid, really, but I'd wanted to stay longer with her, talk to her more, just be around her.
The rain beat against my apartment windows as I stripped off my clothes. My shoulder ached from an old injury, a souvenir from a mission gone wrong, from when my world was flipped on its head. I rolled it, trying to work out the tension that had settled there during the drive with Elena.
Elena Peters. I couldn't get her out of my head.
I'd told myself that driving her home was reconnaissance. Getting a look at where she lived, how she lived. Professional curiosity. But that was bullshit, and I knew it. I'd seen herstanding there in the rain, looking small and vulnerable, and something in me had responded before my brain could catch up.
She made me act without thinking things through, which was far too out of character and dangerous.
Her apartment was exactly what her financials suggested—cheap, cramped, in a neighborhood that made my skin crawl. The kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbors fighting, where the locks were decorative at best. But she'd made it a home anyway. A few books stacked on a small bookcase with photos of who I assumed was her mother with her, and some with another woman who was likely the roommate. A potted plant on the counter with a little fairy house perched in the soil with two small clay pieces, a butterfly and a frog. Little touches that added life and energy despite limited means. I'd wondered if the two clay pieces had symbolized something.
It didn't fit with someone trying to infiltrate the Donati organization. People with ulterior motives typically didn't spend their money on hospital bills and secondhand furniture or decorate their shitty apartment.
The shower hissed as I turned it on, cranking the heat until steam filled the bathroom. I stepped under the spray, letting it pound against my tense muscles, but it did nothing to wash away thoughts of Elena. The way her wet clothes had clung to her curves. How her eyes had widened when she'd seen me step out of my car and join her in the bus stop. The slight tremble in her fingers as she'd handed me that ridiculous sweater with her cheeks flushed.
"Fuck," I muttered, bracing one hand against the tile wall as my cock hardened painfully.
I shouldn't want her. She was a job. A potential threat. But my body didn't care about operational security as I wrapped my hand around my length, stroking slowly at first, then faster as Ipictured her. Those blue eyes looking up at me. That dining table in her apartment—I'd bend her over it, hear it creak beneath us as I took her from behind. The sounds she'd make as I filled her up, the moans and cries, how she'd arch under me. I'd wrap her dark hair around my fist, pull her head back to expose her throat...
