Page 20 of Perfect Vengeance

Gates rose, reminding her of a huge jungle cat. He strode toward her and gripped her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his good hand. His grip was firm but not painful. In fact, it was ridiculously gentle. She couldn’t help but breathe in his minty breath, or take notice of how unexpectedly thick his eyelashes were. A supermodel would kill for those lashes.

She gave a mental snicker. He probably hated hearing that.

“Cooperation goes a long way in this business.” The taut set of his mouth created tiny fan lines at the corners of his lips. “Tell me what you did with all the money you’ve stolen. It might lessen the amount of time you’ll spend wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

Oh, no. I guess inmates really wear those.

She swallowed and tried wresting her chin away. When he didn’t let go, she grabbed his wrist above his jacket sleeve. His skin was warm, with a light coating of springy hairs. “I—I can’t tell you that,” she whispered.

“You can.” He moved in closer, his warm breath washing over her face. “And you will.”

“No, I—” She began shaking her head. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why, did you spend it all on manicures? Wire it to a Swiss bank account?”

“No,” she snapped.

“What then, jetting to the French Riviera? Caviar and champagne?” He narrowed his eyes. “Answer me.”

Fear clawed at her insides. At this rate, she might as well surrender. Gates had her dead to rights, and he knew it. Case closed. No jury. No trial. Do not pass go, go directly to jail.

“This may be a game for you,” he said, releasing her chin, “but believe me. It’s no game, and people’s lives are at stake.”

“I know.” Marilyn’s and three small children.

“You don’t know anything. You and your friends are obstructing a federal investigation. Your little scheme just set my op back for months.”

“What do you mean?” How could their stealing have done anything negative except piss of the Falzones, which was exactly what she intended?

“Every time you steal from them to go buy yourself something pretty, it takes me three months to clean up the damage you leave behind.”

“What are you talking about?” She took a step back. “And I told you before, we don’t steal for personal gain.”

“No? Then why?” He clasped her upper arms. As before, there was no pain in his grip, quite the opposite. Every one of his fingers branded her skin straight through her suit with a warmth that made her shiver. “You have no idea what can happen to a pretty little thing like you in prison. Now for the last time⁠—”

“I gave the money away,” she blurted out.

He angled his head. “To whom?”

She glanced at the ceiling. He was giving her no choice.

“You’ve got three seconds.”

Forgive me.

Unable to look him in the eye, she stared at the corded muscles in his neck. “I gave the money to a women’s shelter.”

His hands dropped away, and his eyes went wide as he took a step back. For a full five seconds, which for this guy was probably a record, she detected emotion. Real, live, raw emotion.

Steely gray eyes pinned her again, but for the first time since he’d busted into her place, she detected no anger. Dark brows furrowed, and renewed fear tingled along her backbone.

He doesn’t believe me.

“I’m telling you the truth.” She held out her hand in a pleading gesture. “These women have no one to turn to. Their husbands will kill them and their children. They need cash to escape, to get new identities, to⁠—”