“I hacked into your phone,” he replies dryly and I feel a flush of indignation, “Plus, that car you stole has GPS tracking. Nice job sneaking out, though. I’m impressed.”
I feel like a kid that was caught stealing a cookie from a jar. It’s embarrassing.
“Where’s Chase?” I question, suddenly worried for him.
“The man you made plans to meet with here?” Matteo asks. “He’s gone. Took off as soon as we showed up.” There’s irritation in his expression. “I had questions for him.”
“About what?”
“About who he works for. About who’s been feeding him intel and sending it your way.” He watches me steadily. “Your contact isn’t a rogue informant, Lindsay. Someone positioned him. Someone who knew you’d use whatever he gave you and knew exactly where that information would land.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Chase is a thread I haven’t finished pulling yet. When I find the end of it, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Why would you tell me that?”
“Because,” he says, “whatever’s on the other end of that thread is probably pointed at both of us.”
Why are you meeting men in shady places like this, Lindsay?”
I swallow. Knowing I’m on thin ice, I decide to answer honestly.
“He said he had information on who shot my father. I just wanted to know.”
“I see,” he says, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“That’s it?” I question, confused. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else would you like to hear?”
“I don’t know. Where’s the speech about me putting myself in danger and how this was reckless and stupid?”
“It seems like you’re well aware of what you did.”
He’s too calm. It’s really starting to creep me out.
My eyebrows rise. “You’re seriously not mad?”
“I’m done getting angry at you, Lindsay.”
Something in my chest sinks at that. “Don’t.”
“What?” Matteo says.
“I don’t want you to be done being mad at me.”
What I really want to say is that I don’t want him to be done with me at all.
His expression softens. One beat passes, then another. Without talking his eyes off me, he signals for the bartender.
“I’ll have a bottle of Peroni and for the lady, a glass of tequila,” he orders. “I’m calling a truce. How about we recreate the night we met?”
I scoff. “What, including the amazing sex that ended with regrets?”
“No, not that,” he murmurs. “Let’s talk, Lindsay Beaumont. A real conversation. Tell me anything.”
“How about you tell me something?” I retort, settling into my seat comfortably.
“Like what?”
