I bend, pet him. He licks my fingers and warmth travels up my arm.
He turns, runs to his bed, and settles there with his chew toy.
He's so cute, just a baby. A heaviness grips my chest. If only I had someone to call my own. A pet? A child? The emptiness inside of me stutters, rolls into itself, grows larger, broader, swells inside, taking on a physical shape. The visceral need to procreate is a tangible thing that claws at me, shoves out at me, pushes me to draw in a sharp breath. Oh my god, what's happening to me?
Why is the sight of a dog affecting me so much? Is it because the meeting with Nina's kidnapper has shown me how quickly everything can shift? He'd told me that the plan had changed to accommodate Adam's death. No longer is it about reporting back on the activities of the Seven. My stomach ties itself in knots; I now have to win the trust of one of them.
Specifically, I have to retrieve a crucial piece of evidence that is in Saint's grasp, and get it back to them.
And I have to do this on my own. The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle.
Can I do that? Can I use the chemistry between us to win his confidence, only to betray him? My guts clench; my core melts. Why does the thought of staying close to him turn me on? Why does the fact that I would have to turn against him feel so wrong?
There is no other route to saving Nina. I have no choice but to go through with this.
My throat closes. Specks of black dot my vision.
"Victoria?" Worry threads Summer's voice. She steps forward, but the other man in the room, who I recognize as her husband, places a hand on her shoulder.
I glance between them. Guess they've worked out whatever issues they may have had? That's good. I am pleased for Summer. She deserves every happiness she can get after what she's been through. And me? What about me? I draw in a sharp breath. One step at a time. Don't panic. This is no time to have a breakdown. I straighten my spine. "Everything will be fine now." As I hear my words, a strange calm grips me.
I turn to Saint, "I’ve been looking for you."
He smirks, "About time."
Funny he should say that. I've spent the time since I last saw him researching him. Not that it had taken much effort to unearth his business success, or his weakness for beautiful women. A little more digging had unearthed his inclination for the darker kind of pleasures. The hair on my forearms rises. He doesn't believe in hiding his tastes; more likely he doesn’t care who knows about it. Good. I can use the knowledge to my advantage.
I run my clammy palm down my dress; then take a step forward.
He watches me approach. That strength of his presence beckons. Tension vibrates off of him. The potency of his personality slams into my chest. I gasp and my guts twist. My belly seems to fold in on itself; I sway.
The ground comes up to meet me, but he's already there.
"Hey." He grips my shoulders, straightens me, "You okay?"
"Help me," I gasp.
His lips move. Is he speaking to me?
I frown, raise my hand. He catches my wrist. Those dark brows knit. A vein bulges at his temple. Is he angry? Why is he angry?
The world tilts; heat surrounds me, envelops me. The hard barrier of his chest digs into my cheek. That's when I realize that he's scooped me up in his arms. What the—? Had I almost fainted? Like the heroine of a Victorian novel. Finally conforming to my blasted name. I snicker.
"What's so funny?" he asks.
I glance up at the stubble on his chin. It's only noon. Did he not shaved today? Or is he one of those men who prefers that fashionably unshaven look?
"You sure you want to know?" I mutter.
"I want to find out everything about you."
I blink. Did he say that? What does he mean?
He moves toward the door of the room.
"I can walk," I protest.
"Clearly not." His voice is hard. Anger ebbs and flows around him, encompassing me in a thick fog of awareness that grates across my nerves; it swipes over my breasts, down my belly, headed for the obvious end goal that is my quivering center. I squeeze my thighs together.
His nostrils flare.
Hell, he can't smell my arousal, can he?
A chuckle rumbles up his chest.
Bastard. All of this is amusing to him.
He reaches the door, then pauses. "I am taking my business across to my space." He turns to survey the other two, "You guys cool with that?"
"Saint," Summer's voice is resolute, "don't hurt her."
Saint's muscles tense, then he tilts his head, "I won't do anything that Victoria doesn't want me to do."
He glances down at me, "We understand each other, don't we?"
The hell does he mean by that?
I open my mouth to ask, but he's already striding out and down the corridor.
"I am not your business," I protest.
He laughs, "So why are you here?"
Well, hell. He has me there. I am the one who stumbled in and collapsed at his feet. Which had not been part of the script, by the way. What the hell happened to me? I swear I am not a damsel in distress...though that's the part I've been told to assume. Lucky for me then, that my actions corroborate my persona, huh?
He walks past two offices, then shoulders open the door to the last one. He steps into one similar in size to the one we left behind. A bookcase lines one wall; on the opposite wall is a massive painting of a question mark.
A question mark? The outline is filled in with shades of blue—jeweled, hypnotic. The more I stare at it, the more I am pulled into it.
