Page 19 of Surrender to Me
“You can trust me.”
His eyes are deep, honest, in a way that mine aren’t.
For a moment—a wild, wicked moment—I’m tempted. Since Dad died, I’ve had no one to lean on. Always looking over my shoulder, trying to watch my back.
What the hell was he even thinking when he stashed the stuff in my bag?
Yeah. I know. That he finally hit the big one.
He didn’t have the chance to tell me much, just that his score would net him a hundred million or more. We were going to move the Maldives, relax, sip something cool, enjoy the rest of our lives in luxury, without running, without a real fear of extradition.
After a lifetime of hiding, that sounded perfect to me.
But now…?
“I’m just frustrated.” I’m desperate to change the conversation, and I hope I’m giving him enough information to sound believable. “I hate being late on projects, and I have several clients with urgent requests. The holidays will be here before you know it, and they’re planning their Black Friday campaigns, and Christmas specials.” I offer a half shrug. “And there’s just not much I can do on my phone.”
“If you can access your files from the cloud,” he says, “I’ve got a backup notebook you can borrow.”
“Really? That would be amazing.” And give me something to do while I plan my getaway.
After we’ve worked together to clear the meal and load the dishwasher, he disappears briefly before returning with a laptop that he sets on the island that I’ve just wiped down.
Whoa. I’m more than a little impressed.
The sleek, matte-black machine is a Bonds, something I’ve always wanted because of its spectacular graphic capabilities. Stryker’s backup computer costs more than I can afford to spend on my primary one. “You’re going to spoil me. Maybe I shouldn’t because I’m not sure how I’ll ever work on anything else after this.”
He glances at me, hard. “Maybe I can trade you the machine for your secrets.”
“Not a chance.”
“Worth a try.” With that, he goes back to work.
Stryker finishes activating guest mode, then steps back from the counter and indicates that it’s all mine. “Feel free to work anywhere you want.”
“This…” Means a lot.
I’m not accustomed to anyone helping me in any way. If I’m honest, I have no idea how to respond.
He’s waiting for me to go on.
Suddenly I’m hyperaware of the heat radiating off his body, and the darkly masculine, spicy scent of him.
Overwhelmed, I settle for saying, “Thank you.”
“Allie…”
My breath catches when his fingers brush my hair back from my face.
His touch isn’t rushed, isn’t possessive. Just deliberate enough to unravel me.
His knuckles graze my cheekbone, lingering for a second too long, and I swear it sparks something low in my belly. A tremor of heat. Of longing. Of betrayal—because how dare my body react to him?
I meet his eyes and instantly regret it. His gaze is focused and unreadable. Intense.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart stumbles as if it’s suddenly forgotten how to beat.
He’s not touching me anymore, not really—but it feels like he is. The space between us evaporates, the air dense with everything unsaid.
