“Why are you asking?” I probe, my curiosity piqued.
Theresa’s thin lips curve as she saunters toward me. The back of my neck beads with sweat when I look down at a photo Theresa removed from her black leather handbag. The photo shows Col Petretti’s right-hand man lying in a hospital bed, his body severely injured. One of his legs is hoisted in a sling, and his face is covered in a range of bruises in different colors and shapes.
My disbelieving eyes flick up to Theresa for several seconds before turning to glance at the male agent who is aimlessly wandering around my apartment. When he notices my curious glance, his gaze lifts from the moving boxes to me. His dark brown eyes are twinkling, but they also seem disapproving.
Believing I can trust his answer more than Theresa’s, I query, “When was this photo taken?” My throat is hoarse and dry, making my voice croaky.
Theresa steps in front of me, effectively blocking the male agent from my view. “The weekend you and Isaac stayed at the McGregor residence,” she informs me, her voice doused with arrogance.
Bile rises from my queasy stomach to settle in my throat. Isaac did threaten Col Petretti’s unnamed right-hand man that weekend after he displayed he was carrying a weapon during Isaac’s confrontation with Col. Isaac was a brilliant fighter years ago, but I didn’t realize he was capable of inflicting so much damage to another person with his bare hands.
“How did he sustain those injuries?” I ask after swallowing a lump in my throat.
Theresa’s snooty eyes flick between mine as her shoulders lift into a conceited shrug. “I was hoping you would elaborate on that for me, considering you were there when it happened.”
I shake my head, denying Theresa’s accusation.
She stops to stand next to me. Her rich-scented perfume makes my stomach swirl more. “How many weeks did you spend sleeping with a man you hardly knew?”
This bitch is trying to bait me.Not only is she goading me into admitting I was in a relationship with Isaac, she’s also attempting to incriminate Isaac.
I square my shoulders, then stare into her blue eyes. “I plead the fifth,” I snarl through gritted teeth.
Theresa’s face morphs into her regular bitter appearance she usually wears. Her evil smirk makes blood pump furiously through my body. I’m not usually a catty bitch—Jealous, yes. Bitchy, no—but Theresa makes me want to bring out my claws and scratch them right down her obnoxious face.
Theresa’s head snaps back to the male agent who is watching our exchange with caution. “Let’s go, this tap has run dry,” she says wryly.
Theresa pivots around to face me. Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and for the first time ever, her smile appears genuine. “Ms. Brahn isn’t a viable asset. She is just ascluelessas the rest of us when it comes to Mr. Holt.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of prying a reaction out of me. Instead, I cross my arms in front of my chest and return her evil glare with one of my own.
Theresa saunters to my front door with an extra swing to her hips. The male agent shadows her, nodding farewell on the way by. Just as she is about to exit, Theresa’s shoddy gaze turns to me. Blood courses through my body so fast, my cheeks heat.
“Enjoy your weekend, Isabelle,” Theresa says, her tone pleasant, even though her spiteful face is anything but. “It may be your last opportunity to sleep in a room that isn’t a four by four cell.”
Isaac
Gravel crunching under tires rumbles through my ears. Lifting my gaze, I spot a dark black sedan pulling in next to my Bugatti Veyron that is parked outside the warehouse I own. My jaw clenches when Theresa climbs out of the car and saunters toward me.
“Isaac Holt all alone on a Saturday morning, what are the odds?”
Theresa’s obnoxious smirk falters the instant my gray eyes glare at her. Stopping halfway between her car and mine, she crosses her arms in front of her chest, hoisting her fake breasts up high in her white blouse. Although she is dressed more casual than I’d seen earlier this week, she is still on the job, as her pistol is holstered on her hip.
“What do you want?” My tone is short and clipped.
I’m generally a tolerant person. I take the punches life inflicts as well as anyone else, but my back gets up when someone persecutes an innocent who should have never been dragged into the saga to begin with. Theresa despised Isabelle on sight, and she is only targeting her because of me.
Theresa moves in close, so her resolute glare can study my body, which is leaning against the hood of my car. I’ve just finished an angst-ridden workout on a boxing bag in the derelict warehouse. I’m wearing a pair of black Nike gym shorts and cross trainer shoes. I’ve removed my sweat-drenched shirt and have it hanging over my right shoulder.
Once Theresa’s heavy-lidded gaze returns to my face, I advise her, “Not going to happen.”
I turn my eyes back to my phone screen to see if I missed any calls from Hunter or Regan while I was working out. Seeing I haven’t missed any calls, I jog around my vehicle to dump my gym bag into the trunk. After slipping a dark blue t-shirt over my torso, I stride toward the driver’s side door.
“You think you're clever, but you will slip up eventually,” Theresa predicts, her tone doused with arrogance.
“I don’t think I’m clever; I know I am. You’ll never find anything on me, or anyone on my team, as I always ensure my hands are thoroughly clean.”
Theresa remains quiet as I stride to stand in front of her. Her ocean blue eyes are covered by Ray-Ban sunglasses, but I can feel them drifting over my face, absorbing every detail that makes the girls go weak at the knees.
