“Sleep,” Dakota said softly. “I’ll watch over you.”
And maybe she dreamed it. Maybe it was the medication playing tricks. But as she drifted off, she could have sworn she felt lips brush against her forehead. Soft. Tender. The ghost of a kiss.
The last thing she thought, before the darkness took her, was that assassins didn’t do this.
Either Dakota Rivers was exactly who he claimed to be . . .
Or she was already doomed.
NINE
Jayden was asleep when he left—dark hair spread across white pillows, breathing slow and congested, knocked out cold by medication and exhaustion. Dakota stood in the doorway longer than he should have, watching her sleep, and the terrible crack in his chest just kept widening, all sorts of warmth spilling inside.
Yeah, he was in trouble.
The Hunter Valley at dusk was all soft light and deep green, autumn vines. The kind of place that existed in wine advertisements and honeymoon brochures.
The vineyard estate sprawled across rolling hills, the main building a beautiful stone farmhouse-style structure with peaked roofs and a wraparound verandah. Warm light spilled from windows. A pristine pool reflected the massive eucalyptus trees and the deepening colors of the evening sky. Somewhere in the distance, other guests were laughing, clinking glasses, enjoying wine country the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
Dakota was ordering soup for Jayden, to take back to the room.
The restaurant was sophisticated and warm—woven pendant lights casting geometric patterns overhead, a massive wine cellar visible behind glass, a fireplace crackling against the evening chill. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, and the woman at the counter smiled sympathetically when he explained that his wife wasn’t feeling well.
Wife. Felt weird, but he didn’t hate it. It meant commitment and tomorrow and . . .
Calm down, man. It was just a game.
“The chicken soup is excellent,” the woman said. “And I’ll add some ginger tea—good for congestion. Should we deliver it to your room?”
“I’ll take it. She’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake her.”
Another sympathetic smile. “Give us fifteen minutes. And I hope she feels better soon.”
Dakota thanked her and headed toward the luggage storage area. The tour’s bags had been delayed in Newcastle—some mix-up with the charter company—but Bonnie had assured everyone they’d arrive by evening. Time to see if that promise had been kept.
And if, finally, he might snag the missing gray bag before it got delivered to the rooms.
The storage room was tucked behind the main building, a practical space that didn’t match the estate’s polished aesthetic.
Dakota found his bag immediately—gray rolling case, tag still attached.
But Jayden’s bag—the one with the rifle components, the women’s clothes, the evidence that someone on this tour was planning something terrible—was nowhere to be seen.
He scanned the remaining luggage.
“Excuse me?—”
Dakota turned. Lily Winston was speaking to one of the resort staff.
“—my bag still hasn’t arrived. Gray rolling case? I’ve been waiting since Cairns. Someone said it might have been mixed up in Fiji, but no one can tell me where it actually is.”
Dakota’s attention sharpened.
Funny, she didn’t look like a killer. But . . .
He approached, keeping his expression friendly. “Having luggage trouble too?”
Lily turned. “Oh, hey, Dakota. Yeah, it’s been a nightmare. I packed my best clothes for the wine tastings, and now I’ve been wearing the same three outfits since we left Hawaii.” She sighed. “The tour company keeps saying it’ll turn up, but . . .”
