Page 103 of Untamed Sinner

I lean against the arm of the couch, deliberately casual. “Disappointed?”

“Intrigued.”

“That’s sweet.” I smile. “Wait till you get to know me.”

His mouth twitches. A smile or in distaste? Tough call. “You caused quite a bit of trouble for Cole Turner.”

Not an accusation—a fishing expedition. Huh. I tilt my head. “Have I?”

“You were inside his operation.”

I start to move, pretending to look at the random shit he has around the room. “So were a lot of people.”

“Most of them didn’t systematically dismantle it afterward.”

Fair. “I’ve always been an overachiever.”

His stare burns a hole in the side of my head. “I want to know what you learned.”

Interesting. Not what did you take? Not where is it? He doesn’t know about the notebook, or he doesn’t care. Does he know the memory card sitting in Hendricks's vault exists? Are we actually up on him?

Two points for the home team. Except what does he think I have that belongs to him?

Cautious, I study him. “You paid Hendricks a shit ton of money because you’re curious?”

He shakes his head. “I paid Hendricks because you became a liability.”

“That hurts.” I put a hand to my chest. “I was hoping it was my personality.”

“You got too close to Turner.”

“And?”

“And people who get that close tend to see things they shouldn’t.” He’s watching me too carefully, looking for the flinch, the recognition. Anything that tells him he’s hit something.

So I give him nothing. I hop up on the desk, five feet from him, swinging my legs. “Sounds like you should be having this conversation with Turner.”

His expression hardens. “Turner disappeared, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

I shrug. “Maybe he needed some alone time.”

Ashford steps closer. “Did you take him out?”

That’s right. Come to Mommy. I let my smile grow slowly. “If I took him out, I’d wear his pinky around my neck as a trophy for everyone to see.”

He stops in his tracks, staring at me like he’s trying to figure out if I mean it. “Did he talk to you?”

“Cole didn’t have much tolerance for pain,” I reply vaguely. Let him think I tortured every last confession out of Turner. “He liked to talk, didn’t he?”

He edges closer. “About me?”

Another three feet and I’ll have him. I bat my eyelashes like I’m an airhead. Men like him always believe women are stupid. “Should he have?”

Ashford’s expression goes still. “What did he tell you?”

Here's the thing about fishing expeditions—you can throw the hook right back. I tilt my head, all innocent curiosity. “You mean, like, about Clara Whitlock?”

I don't have anything. I'm holding an empty hand and betting he can't tell I’m bluffing.