Page 39 of Wicked Fortune

I draw a breath, telling myself I’m confident in his innocence. Because how the hell could I so desperately want the kind of man who could kill a sweetheart like Jenny?

A shiver runs up my spine.

Bree’s brow furrows. “You okay?”

“What? Yes. Of course. I’m just sitting here stewing in jealousy,” I add, in a not-too-subtle attempt to change the subject. “You’re going to Monte Carlo with the man you love. You’re living the dream, my friend.”

“I guess I am.” She squeezes my hand. “I want that for you, too.”

“Someday.” I say the word casually, as if it’s no big deal. But the truth is that there’s an image in my mind. A man standing with his hand extended, waiting for me to start a life with him. Matthew Holt.

No.

Matthew isn’t the kind of guy who’ll settle down. He owns a sex club. He’s married to his business.

He’s ruthless.

And he’s the kind of man who would kill to protect whatever or whoever he loves.

The thought comes unbidden and I shiver, because as much as Matthew might push all my good buttons, I know it’s true.

A wave of cold horror crashes over me as I realize what that means. If he has it in him to kill, then as much as the idea disgusts and terrifies me, maybe he did kill Jenny. And if so, who or what was he trying to protect?

Minutes later, the thought still lingers as I stand on the porch, leaning against one of the posts as I wave Bree off and tell myself that I’m not jealous. Not jealous at all.

And I’m not. I’m beyond happy for her. No one deserves romance and bliss more than that girl, who’s been through so damn much, and is still standing. I don’t begrudge her a single moment of happiness. Truly.

And yet …

I sigh, hating my own thoughts. Hating this envy that runs through my core. It’s buried deep enough that I can hide it, but it’s part of me, and though I try to deny it, the truth is that I want what she has—love and laughter and a life with a man who adores her.

I tell myself it’s just a matter of time. That one day, Prince Charming will ride in and rescue me. But there are only so many princes in the world and fairy tales are fiction.

My best friend may have won the lottery—but that just means the odds really aren’t in my favor.

“Fuck it,” I whisper as I turn to head back into the house and, finally, get some sleep. As I do, the headlights from a passing car illuminate the porch. That’s when I see it. A small purple bag tucked in behind a large pot that—maybe someday—will actually have a plant inside it. The purple blends with the shadows cast by the dim porch light, and I suppose that’s why neither Bree nor I noticed it earlier.

Matthew Holt.

I scoop up the bag, certain it’s from him, then hurry inside. I hesitate only a moment before I dump out the contents—then feel a distinctive tug between my legs and a tightening in my breasts as I look down at the small, tissue-wrapped bundle. There’s no card, just a handwritten note taped to the package—for tomorrow.

I should be annoyed, but I’m not. On the contrary, every one of my cells is firing. And the Siren’s call of my bed? Yeah, I’m not sleepy at all anymore.

I tell myself I should be angry. He’s playing games with me, and damned inappropriate ones.

Plus, it’s not like he’s Prince Charming. No matter how much I might be attracted to him, I know I should back away. He’s controlling. Manipulative. Quite possibly dangerous.

So what if he makes my heart race or inspires a variety of bedtime fantasies? So what if the thing I want more than anything is to know for certain that he isn’t tied in with Jenny’s death?

I close my eyes and fist my hands. So what if he makes me a horny, needy mess?

I take a breath and square my shoulders, soldiering myself for action. I’ll call him up. Tell him he’s an idiot if he thinks I’m going to just put this on and head to work in the morning, because⁠—

I stop, my body having gone stiff from the force of the plan that now dominates my thoughts. I’m not wearing these tomorrow.

Hell, no.

I’m wearing them tonight.