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Her eyes dropped to the bare fingers of his left hand, and she nodded but didn’t smile again. “We’re open until midnight tonight. I’ll go put your stew in.”
He silently kicked himself as she walked away. This is why it was better to remain a neutral third party. When you got attached to the people you were hunting, you were bound to make mistakes, and he’d made a big one coming in here and asking too many questions from a girl too good at reading strangers.
While he debated whether to leave without the stew, his phone signaled an incoming text. His client wanted an update. He ignored it, and another one came right on its heels. Jesus, the guy was relentless.
“Believe me,” he mumbled to himself. “We’re both impatient to have her.”
It didn’t take long for his food to arrive, piping hot and served with a basket of what looked like homemade Irish soda bread. He ate it quickly, burning his tongue, while he tried to ignore the fact that Clara stood at the corner of the bar talking in hushed tones and shooting him furtive glances.
The last damn thing he needed was someone spooking Delaney enough to disappear. According to the records search he’d run, she’d been working here long enough to save up enough money for her to lay low for a good long while. If he lost her now, it could take him months to pick her back up again.
He decided to get out of there as quickly as possible and stop stalling. He needed to shake this weird pull she had over him, call his client, and get paid. Getting paid was all that mattered in the end. He’d hire someone when he got home, maybe someone who looked like her, and satisfy all his fantasies that way. Second best would have to do.
Without waiting for the bill, he dropped two twenties on the table and pushed to his feet. Shoving out into the dreary day, he hunched into his jacket. So far Philadelphia had proved to be warmer than Michigan, but it was still too fucking cold for his thick blood. Maybe that’s what it was. The cold had scrambled his brain.
He climbed into his truck and drove back to his hotel, securely locking the door behind him before turning on his laptop and bringing up the photos he’d taken. He composed an email to his client with a couple of photos attached and pressed send.
Before he could even dig his phone all the way out of his pocket, it was ringing.
“Mr. Devereaux. I seem to have located your wife.” He kicked back in his chair and couldn’t help the self-satisfied grin that spread over his face. “She’s been in Philadelphia for a little while now, working as a waitress at a bar and restaurant in the city.”
“Do you have more pictures? I want to know everything,” Devereaux demanded.
“I’ll have all the details for you when you have my final payment. What are your next steps?”
Devereaux was quiet for so long he pulled the phone away from his ear to make sure the call was still connected. “I’m coming up there. We can meet in person for a rundown of the details, and then you’ll get your final payment. In cash.”
“Cash is great. How soon can you get here?”
“I’ll be there tonight. I’ll send you the details of where I’m staying, and you can pick me up in the morning. Early.”
Devereaux disconnected the call, and he rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a goddamn taxi service. The sooner he could hand this bitch over to her husband and get the fuck back to New Orleans with his money, the better. The whole damn job was getting to him.
It didn’t matter, though. By this time tomorrow, he’d have the last of what he was owed and be home in his own bed by nightfall. Then he could wash his hands of all of it and take a well-deserved vacation.
ChapterThirty-One
James let himself through the gate of Glenmore House and pulled around the circular drive, parking behind Brogan’s Jag. Despite having moved into one of their renovated properties with his wife, Libby, Brogan still did syndicate work from his third-floor lair. That was the family nickname for the syndicate’s base of operations for all things tech.
If it could be hacked, downloaded, or erased from existence, Brogan could do it from that windowless room. Which was exactly why James needed his help. Sitting quietly through Delaney’s story made James want to hold her as tightly as he could and never let go. But letting go was inevitable. The least he could do was give her true freedom from that asshole of a husband of hers first.
Keying in his code for the garage and entering through the side door, James took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. He wasn’t all that keen on informing Brogan of the whole situation with Delaney, but he knew he didn’t have another choice. Besides, he was doing all this so he could end things. He deserved some kind of credit for that.
He heard the hum of the computers and the click of keys before he stepped into the doorway. Brogan’s broad back was facing the door. His cousin’s hulking, muscular frame would look more at home as a bouncer at a club than behind a computer. James rapped his knuckles against the wood.
“Hey.” Brogan tilted his head. “I didn’t know you were coming to see me today.”
“I need a favor. A personal one.”
“What’s up?”
James stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, ignoring Brogan’s answering frown. He wanted this conversation to remain private if someone came home early.
“I have a woman working for me. I need to make her ex-husband disappear.”
Brogan’s eyes narrowed on James’s face. “And why do you need to do that?”
“Because he beat her near daily for eight years until she faked her own death to escape him.” James took a deep breath, and Brogan’s scowl deepened. “If we were normal, I’d hold her hand through a divorce and pray he didn’t kill her. But we’re not normal, and I want him to pay.”
