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Sam knew very little about George and Sally Reed. Only that they’d never changed their minds about having contact with their daughter. Or him. Perhaps that life lesson was why he’d never sought out the identity of his father. The guy had blown town. Didn’t want to have anything to do with Sam or Karina. In Sam’s opinion that meant they shouldn’t want to have anything to do with him. If being part of a family wasn’t what Wyatt Hill wanted, then it was best not to have the man pretending otherwise.
But Sam had already reconciled that situation in his head. What troubled him now was that he had a brother. Yet as he spared a glance at Michael, sitting in one of the single seats facing the sofa in the back of the plane where Sam and Scarlet were settled, Sam knew that Dylan might be his blood relative, but he wasn’t a true brother. The asshole had gone after Scarlet because she’d confronted Wyatt in prison.
Scarlet had broken it all down for Sam and Michael during the flight. She’d ID’d herself to Wyatt and had told him she was an insurance fraud investigator. All Wyatt had to do afte
r he walked out on her visit was place a call to Dylan to look her up, track her down, and run her off the road.
Again, it wasn’t the how? that chipped away at Sam. It was the why?
What were those two up to … and was his mother involved? Had she been in contact with Wyatt over the years? Dylan, too? Did she know that Wyatt would likely have an electronic Rolodex filled with the names of shady characters who would lend her money for her gambling debt? Is that how she’d found someone to bankroll her addiction?
Tension seized Sam. His shoulders were squared, every muscle pulled taut.
But it wasn’t just the speculation over what his father and brother might be up to that had Sam disconcerted. It was that Scarlet was involved.
He covered her hands with one of his as they lay in her lap and told her, “I’m the one who has to apologize now.”
“No,” she quickly said. “Not at all.”
“Scarlet, what happened to you is—”
“Not your fault by any stretch of the imagination.” She glanced at Michael. “Yours, either.” Returning her attention to Sam, she said, “No one invited me into this investigation. I willingly—and enthusiastically—took on the assignment. Therefore, I have to accept the potential hazards inherent to it. I don’t carry a weapon and practice Krav Maga for nothing. This actually can be a very dangerous business. That’s a reality I’m fully aware of and assent to. I’m responsible for my own actions, Sam. I chose to travel this path.”
Sam scowled, his frustration burning brighter because he couldn’t pace or otherwise work off some of his angst.
Michael said, “She does make a good point. I’m not saying I fully agree with it—I get where you’re coming from, Sam, why you’re so upset.”
“You’re upset, too,” Sam contended, wanting Michael to stop feeling as though he had to be the levelheaded voice of reason when it was so obvious that he was as tormented by what had happened to Scarlet—by how much worse that car accident could have been—as Sam. “You don’t have to play it cool with me. Or with her.”
Michael reached for his drink and sipped.
Scarlet said, “Let’s not stay mired in my accident. We need to move forward in order to figure out what the hell is really going on.”
Sam draped his arm around her and coaxed her closer so that she snuggled against him and put her head on his shoulder. “You should rest.”
“Not a bad idea,” she agreed. “My doctor said I could fly this soon after the concussion, but that it’d be best if I tried to sleep the whole way. And I am exhausted.” Her eyelids dipped.
Sam’s gaze flitted to Michael. They stared at each other a few moments, no more words necessary. They were both pissed about Scarlet’s rollover. Upset because she was injured and it had all started with missing artwork at their family’s estate.
Naturally, Sam was doubly disturbed, since it was his father and brother who’d done the most damage. And Sam was also deeply concerned about how his mother fit into all of this.
It was a grueling position for Sam to be in. His feelings for Scarlet had intensified from the first time they’d made love. When he’d been on the other end of the call as her vehicle had flipped, he’d realized that he was intricately entwined with this woman, feared for her life, would have been wrecked all over again if anything more serious had happened to her. And at the hands of his family?
His gut coiled. What a fucking disaster this was. All of his internal strife and his inability to do anything about it at the moment made the flight seem like an insanely long one, despite the fact that he derived a bit of comfort from Scarlet’s soft, steady breathing as she slept.
Sam’s restlessness increased during the helicopter ride to the estate. As did his tension. He was getting sucker punched around every corner and wondered what else was in store for him.
At the mansion, the trio found Karina in one of the living rooms. Hearing them approach, she glanced up from a magazine she was perusing and gasped.
“Miss Drake,” she said as she set aside the magazine and got to her feet. “Dear Lord, what happened to you?”
Sam bit back a growl, the constant reminder of Scarlet’s rollover eating away at his soul like a vicious piranha. She had a bandage on her forehead, a bruise on one cheek, and a long angry-red slash across her neck and collarbone from the seat belt digging into her skin when she’d been suspended in air. And she was deathly white, even though she’d obviously tried to add color to her face with makeup.
Basically, she was a fucking mess that made him want to strangle someone.
Michael spoke in a tight voice. “Hit-and-run. She could have been killed.”
“I’ll be fine,” Scarlet interjected, her tone steady and professional. “But we have more questions for you, Karina.”
