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His lashes lower, torment crossing his handsome features.
“Eric, talk to me.”
“I need you to stay where I tell you to stay. Do you understand?”
I’d normally bristle at such a possessive demand, but I can all but feel the emotion vibrating off of him. “Is he dead?”
He pulls back to look at me, searching my gaze, his stare probing to the point that I swear he can see straight to my soul, and I hope, I pray, that he finds himself there. Because he is. He’s a part of me, all of me, in ways I didn’t know were possible.
The powerful muscles of his neck bob and he cuts his gaze before he releases me and moves away. I rotate to find him halting at the window, his hands pressed to the glass.
I was right. His father’s dead.
My fist balls over my thundering heart. This can’t be happening. I don’t want him to go to jail. The very thought has me stepping tohis side.
He pulls me in front of him, presses me against the glass. “What do you want to say to me?”
“Why are you so angry with me?”
“I thought you were running,” he surprises me by admitting.
Relief washes over me. His father must not be dead. “Why would I leave you?” I ask wrapping my arms around him. “Iloveyou. I can show you on my phone. I googled the address to Walker Security. I was going there. The only place I’m running—is toyou, Eric.”
“God, woman,” he murmurs, and he dives his fingers in my hair, inhaling as he does. “I love you, too.”
“Then why would you think I’d do such a thing?”
“You thought I went to kill my father.”
“Did you?”
“No, but we need to talk.” He captures my hand and guides me to the couch and sets me on the cushion, while he claims the table directly in front of me.
My throat is tight, nerves dancing in my belly. “What happened?”
There’s a nervous energy about him. He sighs heavily as if working up to the words that follow. “He wasn’t dead when I left him. He’s in the hospital and we have to go there.”
My eyes go wide. “What happened?” I repeat.
“I took him coffee. Playing nice when I knew he wouldn’t expect that from me. We were in the living area of his suite, he took a sip, and that was it. He started choking.”
“Did he have a heart attack?”
“If he did, it was drug-induced. I know what poison looks like and it was definitely poison. And no, it was not in the coffee I gave him.”
“I didn’t think it was, but who and how?”
“A hitman.”
“What?” I blink and air lodges in my throat. “What—I—what does that even mean?”
“There was video footage of a man at my father’s hotel door, delivering him a tray and no one in the hotel knows who he is. Walker saw him here, too, on the camera footage outside the building.”
My mind races with the possibilities this creates. “Does this mean, that at the warehouse—”
“Yes. I think so. There were several of them that night, which means this is not one man, but an operation. I just happened to be there at the right time and place.”
“You wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t left you those voicemails. Isaac made sure he got rid of you. He made you hate me. He has to be behind this. He didn’t think he could kill you, so he was going to blame you.”
