Page 72 of Untamed Sinner

I take a shower while he’s gone, wishing I had worn underwear to toss on the bathroom floor. He deserves a treat. “I wonder what happened to the other pair,” I say to the poof. “Ten bucks says Hendricks has them stashed somewhere.”

The poof maintains a suspicious silence.

“Exactly.” I nod. “That’s what I thought.”

Hendricks gets back in record time, two boxes of donuts in hand. I meet him in the kitchen, my hair wet, wearing one of his dress shirts—a white one with sleeves I’ve rolled up my forearms.

The sight of him takes my breath away for a second. It feels amazingly intimate, me in his shirt and him in the T-shirt and obscene sweatpants, making us both coffee. I have to swallow back the feels and dredge up my usual snark.

“Think you got enough?” I ask as I saunter to the counter and open the first box. My heart does a stupid little squeeze. He bought damn near everything in the case.

I pick one with chocolate frosting and sprinkles and take a bite. It’s better than the ones I bought—fresher. From now on, I’m sending him in his slutty sweats to get them for me.

Hendricks watches me—I can feel his gaze—so I moan long and loud with my next bite.

His phone chimes, and the moment disappears. He’s looking at the screen as I turn around.

“Marcus?” I ask.

He nods.

I set the donut down on the counter. “Encrypted files?”

Another nod.

I move beside him as he opens the messages, my arm on his shoulder, leaning closer to him so I can see.

There are six attachments.

The first one is financial records. Not the polished corporate kind—Turner’s kind. Dates, amounts, account numbers, shell companies. Money moving through so many layers it looks deliberately incomprehensible, especially to my eyes.

Hendricks scrolls and then stops.

I glance up to see the faintest furrow on his brow. “What?”

He enlarges one section. A company name is highlighted beside a transfer: ASHFORD CAPITAL HOLDINGS.

“Well.” I stand up straight. “That seems to answer a lot of questions.”

Hendricks shakes his head, scrolling through the rest of the information. “It could be legitimate.”

I snort. “You don’t believe that.”

“No.” He opens the next file.

There are more transactions—different companies, different accounts. All with the same destination buried underneath them: Ashford.

The third file is worse: emails.

Turner and Ashford never use full names. Initials. References to shipments. Payments. Problems that need to be handled. Women reduced to numbers and dates.

I know the language. I’ve spent years hunting men who use it.

“Son of a bitch.” I realize my fingernails are digging into my palms, and I force myself to ease up.

Hendricks keeps reading. “Marcus has added notes beside several entries, tracing shell corporations back to Ashford-controlled entities.”

“This isn’t a business relationship,” I say.