Saint pulls away from the horse, dusts his palms on his jeans, then reaches for mine, "Shall we?"
Tink leads the way inside, past a small living room, to another room that's furnished like an office. A bank of computer screens fills most of one wall. There are more screens sitting on the desk, each showing different images, two of them have maps with dots blinking on them. Whoa, someone loves their technology.
She slips into the chair, pulls up surveillance footage.
The screen shows a group of girls in a room which looks like a dormitory. Some of them are lying down, some sitting. One of them paces back and forth. She pauses, glances round the room, looks straight at the camera. Her desperate eyes seem to fill the screen, as she begins to weep.
The other women in the room sit up. One of them gets out of her bed to approach her... One of the others gestures to her. She hesitates, then falls back.
Tink shuts it off. "Sorry," she apologies, "it's hard to watch."
Saint wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. I rub my cheek against his sleeve.
He kisses the top of my head, "Shouldn't have allowed you to see that... But I wanted you to meet Tink and find out about the work we do together."
I look up at him, "So, you and she..."
"She runs an initiative that helps rescue those kidnapped or those who go missing." His lips stiffen. "No one should go through what I went through; nor the kind of mental trauma..." he peruses my features, "inflicted on Nina, and then on you."
What I'd been through couldn’t begin to compare with his experience; but we'd both survived the challenges thrown at us.
Is that why we’re attracted to each other, because we are survivors? No, it’s more than that. We could have met anywhere, in other circumstances, and yet, the connection between us would have been there.
"This is why you respond so quickly every time she calls?"
He nods, "It normally means she's tracked down the whereabouts of a victim or victims," he nods toward the screen "and needs my help."
"Saint finances the efforts." Tink glances between us, "I'm sorry if I've called him at inopportune times. Sometimes I’ve needed backup, and since the operations are kept secret, I can’t risk calling in anyone else."
I tighten my grip around Saint's waist. "So this is what you were doing?" My cheeks heat.
"You didn't think..." Tink glances up at Saint, then makes a face.
"Ugh, I wouldn't date him. He's waay too up his own arse.” She laughs, “Besides, he's more like a brother to me."
Saint tugs on her hair, in a decidedly sibling-like gesture.
"When did you two decide to start this?" I ask.
Saint shuffles his feet, "I've already told you that I took my mother's death hard." He rubs the back of his neck, "Let's just say, I was out of control for a while."
"That's putting things mildly," Tink snorts. "He opened fire in his house when his father was away."
"O-k-a-y." I peer up at Saint, "Did you hurt anyone?"
He shakes his head, "But I destroyed the place. My father packed me off to go work with his friend."
"That's my father," Tink clarifies.
"He was an urban Cowboy, you could say." Saint rolls his shoulders, "He and his friends ran the adjacent farms. They trained and sold horses, and ran a riding school specializing in equine therapy."
"In the middle of London?"
"Zone 4; it's on the outskirts," he reminds me. "But yeah, they are technically in London."
"Wow," I glance around the space, "This place is something..."
Tink nods, "After my father died, Saint became my defacto guardian."
"The stint with Tink and her father saved me. Her father was more a parent to me than my own. If it were not for Tink's dad... I would have ended up shooting myself."
I glance down at the faded Cowboy boots.
"Those are—"
"My father's," Tink completes the sentence.
"I borrowed them from him," Saint says, "when I lived here on the ranch. It's where I was reborn a second time, in a way. Since then—"
"You wear them because they help you remember to stay sane?"
He nods.
Tears prick my eyes. I turn my face into Saint's arm. "I'm sorry that I doubted you," I whisper.
Saint wraps his arm even closer around me, "You couldn't have known, and I should have told you about this earlier."
I shake my head. "It would have been too dangerous."
Tink smiles, "She's a keeper, Killian."
He drums his fingers on his chest, "I have good taste, huh?"
I swipe at his shoulder, "So that's why you had the riding crop on your desk?"
"Want me to use it again on you?" he smirks.
"Ugh," Tink grimaces, "TMI, you guys."
"Sorry," he snickers, "couldn't resist."
His phone pings. He slides it out of his pocket and his lips curl.
"What are you up to?" I huff.
"Weston's on his way to the cabin in the countryside to get some alone time over Christmas." He pockets his phone.
There’s silence for a minute.
"Holdonasecond." I scowl, "Isn't Amelie headed there as well?"
"Is she?" His lips twitch.
"Saint Jordan Killian Harry Caldwell," I grumble.
"Uh-oh," he drawls, "am I in trouble?
"You set this up?"
"Me?" His gaze widens.
I stare, "You gave them each a key to the cabin and sent them there?"
"Oops." He smirks.
TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT READ WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY IN THE BILLIONAIRE'S CHRISTMAS BRIDE HERE
"★★★★★ COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN!" READ THE AMAZON TOP 100 BESTSELLER THE BILLIONAIRE'S FAKE WIFE – SINCLAIR AND SUMMER'S STORY HERE
READ JACE AND SIENNA'S STORY HERE
READ KARMA AND MICHAEL BYRON'S STORY HERE
READ AN EXCERPT FROM WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY...
I stalk toward the door at the far end, take a breath.
The sounds of water splashing, then a male voice breaks into a rendition of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica. Huh? The singing’s not bad, actually. My thief, apparently, has a thing for classic rock, and can carry a tune. I hum the lyrics in sync with him… The hell? I pause, draw
