“I know. Sleep now.”
With a goofy grin, she rolled over and sprawled across the bed. I stroked a hand down her back.
She was okay. She was going to be okay.
But as I watched her, the anger twisted and grew.
I needed to do something.
Pushing to my feet, I headed for my closet. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my work gear—black cargo pants, black shirt, utility belt. I opened a door, then pressed my palm to the high-tech reader on the large safe behind it. The door clicked open. The safe was filled with my weapons—mostly knives and handguns.
I pulled out my Springfield Hellcat handgun and two combat knives, and slotted them into the sheaths and holster on my belt.
Then, with one last look at the woman sleeping in my bed, I stalked out.
Georgie, Bastian, Lark, and Landon were all in my living room. I assumed Nash and Rafe were still with Goodyear’s goon.
When the men saw me, they stiffened. They all knew exactly what I intended to do.
Lark knew too. She just smiled.
“Georgie, will you stay with Lili? Get her anything she needs.”
“Of course, Cole.”
I looked at my friends. “Watch over her.”
Bastian lifted his chin. “No one’s getting to her.”
“Cole, you can’t go off half-cocked,” Landon said.
I pinned him with a look. “You ever know me to go off half-cocked?”
“No. But you’ve never had a woman you care about before.”
I looked away, trying to get a grip on my control. “I won’t rush in, but I’m sending that fucker a message.”
“He isn’t at home,” Bastian said. “He has some fancy dinner event tonight.”
“What are you going to do?” Landon asked.
“Told you. Send a message.”
I strode out. I climbed into my black Ram and started the engine.
The drive to Goodyear’s place didn’t take long. He lived in an exclusive area of Summerlin called The Summit Club. Hell, it even sounded pretentious. It had an expansive golf course, tennis courts, country club and was packed with huge, sprawling mansions, with swanky swimming pools and lush gardens that wasted a lot of water.
I stewed the entire drive out there. I drove onto the main road into the community and stopped at the gatehouse. It was manned by half-decent security guards, but this wasn’t the first time I’d been here. I lowered my window and held out my fake ID. I was Roland Crichton, refrigeration specialist.
The guy checked my ID, then their list of approved contractors. Then he handed the ID back with a nod. “Head on up.”
“Thanks.”
I followed the curving road past the golf course and tennis courts. I didn’t pull into the huge clubhouse building with its large pool. I followed the road around and then turned off into another. I parked on the street behind an SUV, in an area I knew there were no security cameras, and cut the engine. Goodyear’s mansion was around the corner, and I could just see the front of it.
He wasn’t home, and yet, every light was on in the huge house. I knew he had a couple of security guards. My lip curled. And a fancy security system that I enjoyed setting off.
This time, I was leaving a more personal message.
