Any lingering annoyance an hour entangled with Isabelle on the floor of her living room didn’t wipe away, Ryan does when he mutters down the line, “Nikolai wasn’t lying. Their records are flawless. I’ve already matched up over half the children. Some have only been missing for days. The longest was six weeks.”
“That’s good,” I mutter while crossing the floor of my nightclub. “That means there is less chance of long-term psychological damage,” Ryan murmurs in agreement. “When does the first batch land?”
Shuffling papers sound down the line before Ryan confirms, “Around the sixteenth.”
“Of the month?” With Callie’s auction occurring this weekend and my plans to win, I won’t have time to help Ryan process the transfer. The children I purchased have loving families to return to. Callie only has me.
I stop dead in my tracks partway to my office when Ryan mutters with a chuckle, “The sixteenth hour.”
“Today?” I blabber out, shocked.
He whistles like his high school flame just walked into the room in nothing but a skimpy towel. “It’s amazing how fast things occur when you have money to burn.”
He can laugh. He didn’t endorse a $3 million check this morning. To the IRS, it looks like I’m hiring the Popov construction company to gut my nightclub in Vegas. Only Ryan, Nikolai, and I know where the funds are really going.
I won’t lie. I am skeptical about Nikolai’s claims that he won’t benefit from this sale, but I can’t grill him further since Regan confirmed he boarded a flight to Europe within an hour of landing in Vegas. His visit to Ravenshoe served him well. I just have a feeling not all his newfound spirit is compliments to our exchange of favors.
My focus shifts back to Ryan when he advises, “Jae is on standby for DNA swabs. It will streamline the process and guarantee that each child is returned to the right parent.”
“If you have any issues with government-run companies, Ravenshoe Private can process DNA samples.”
“We should be okay,” Ryan replies. “But if I run into any issues, I’ll be in contact.”
“Good.”
Before I can pull my phone down from my ear, Ryan calls my name. “Isaac.”
“Yes.” My tone is clipped, but I’m not angry. I am torn between offering to help Ryan with the shipment today and suggesting Isabelle should leave work early.
Yesterday was a long day, but it was even more tiring because the nine hours my hands usually itch to caress and explore her beautifully seductive body was stretched to eighteen.
Only months ago, I would have relished the gap in time. More times than not, the chase grew weary after only one taste, and I’m not a man who grasps at straws. If the spark is diminished, I’m out the door.
I don’t see that ever being the case with Isabelle. Each minute I spend with her has me craving an hour more. I’ve never been like this, and although I hate that my obsession could expose that my reputation isn’t as fierce as perceived, my competitors shouldn’t believe the same. They should fear me more because I understand the pain of loss, and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure I never face it again.
Isabelle is mine, and I will protect her from anything thrown my way—even myself when my past has me forgetting that I am allowed to be happy. Ophelia’s death was an accident. I’ve just not yet fully wrapped my head around that, but I will get there. Eventually.
I realize not everyone believes I’m the monster my past portrays when Ryan murmurs, “You did good, Isaac.”
I’m about to correct him, to acknowledge that he deserves as much credit as me, but before I can, a commotion sounds at my side. Wood splintering under unwarranted force booms into my empty nightclub since the doors don’t open for another hour before men cloaked in black body armor storm through the buckled front entrance door.
“I’ll call you back,” I mutter down the line, aware Ryan’s pull doesn’t extend as far as the words emblazoned on the bulletproof vests of the men racing my way. The FBI has arrived for a visit, and the leader of the pack’s smug grin is highly recognizable.
“We are armed federal agents. I repeat. We are armed federal agents.” The blonde gent with an abhorrent smirk directs his gun at my heart, exposing he isn’t playing before he barks out, “Are you carrying any weapons?”
I almost laugh at the quiver of his words, but before I can inform him I don’t need a weapon, a much more dire situation than the Bureau’s belief on whom I can dine with smacks into me. The hairs on my forearm are standing to attention. That only ever happens with one person.
I would have never suggested for Isabelle to visit my office on her lunch break today so we could test the sturdiness of my desk if I knew her eagerness would place her in danger. Agents are trained, but when they’re gung-ho on revenge, they’re more dangerous than a perp robbing a gas station to feed his younger siblings.
“Get on the ground!” the lead agent screams as I fling my head to the other side of the now overcrowded space, seeking Isabelle.
When I find her, I’m left reeling. She’s wearing the same outfit she left her apartment in this morning, but her relaxed loved-up expression is nowhere to be found, and a worried crinkle has popped between her brows.
I’m about to tell her it’s okay, that neither of us are in any danger—I’d kill the man across from me before I’d ever let him point his gun at her—but my words trap in my throat when my eyes drop to her erratically thrusting chest. The three bold white letters rising and falling in rhythm with her panted breaths match the ones of the men surrounding me from all sides.
F. B. I.
What the fuck?
