Page 100 of One Secret

I love this woman…

Yet, I have to remind myself over and again that the Darcy sitting in front of me is a stranger.

That cold, hard truth tears at something I didn't know I had built deep inside.

'Who do you work for?' I'm ashamed to hear my voice crack at the accusation.

Darcy doesn't seem to notice.

'A money-grubbing middle-aged codger called Patrice Bartolini. He runs The Blue Star bar.'

'You know what I mean, Darcy.'

'Yes, I know what you mean, Cyrus,' she spits. 'But that doesn't make you right. I'm not a spy and I'm not a threat.'

Baby, you've been threatening my clarity of mind since the day we met.

'What were you paid to do here?' I ask.

'Nothing,' she repeats reliably. 'No one hired me.'

'Then why did you target me five months ago?'

'Target you?' Darcy barks a sharp burst of laughter. 'You've got to be joking. It was you who picked me up.'

My lip curls and I plant my hands over her wrists and I lean close, looming.

'Was that your intention?' I ask, sick to my stomach that this whole thing was a long-con. That every touch was a lie. 'Was that your plan?'

'Now, you're giving me way too much credit,' Darcy flops back against the hard back of the chair. Her head lolls over and she stares up at me sardonically. 'Despite what you may believe, Cyrus, I'm not some temptress with a siren's call. I'm just me, okay? Just me.' Her frustration bubbling over, Darcy keeps talking and I let her, hoping she'll reveal something of use. I watch the pulse at the base of her neck, waiting for a flicker; a hint at a lie.

'You were at the bar,' she illustrates, recalling our first encounter nearly half a year ago. 'You looked strung out. I offered you a drink on the house. You offered me a whole lot more in return. We had sex. It was fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that we're still doing it. Or were, about twelve hours ago. Now you hear one thing,'—she lifts one finger against the white bindings, brushing at my arm—'one moment of secrecy, and you're ready to see me hung, drawn, and quartered.' She pauses to breathe. 'Did you ever think that you might be overreacting? That your distrust dial is set just a little too high?'

Perhaps.

'Not for my line of work,' I insist.

'Then blame your employer,' she snipes. 'Not me.'

'I'm freelance.'

'Then blame yourself, asshole!'

I click my jaw in thought. We're getting nowhere. Darcy is determined to volunteer diddly-squat and I'm not convinced I have the stomach to force her. We're at an impasse and I'm on a timeline.

"I can give you five. But you better hurry. Caruso doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Standing back up, I take out my gun.

Color leeches from Darcy's face.

'What are you doing?'

Bluffing.

'Finding a way to make you talk.'

'By shooting me?' she cries.

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