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“Bad blood isn’t hard evidence,” I said softly.
He looked at me finally, pinning me with his intense stare. But those cold eyes were full of the perpetual sadness he carried around. He wasn’t half as good at hiding it as he thought he was. Those eyes gave him away every time.
“While the rest of us have scraped by, especially with the market being so volatile in the last decade or so, the Heberts are somehow thriving. They have more trucks than any of us, sure, but no one knows what they’re doing.”
“So you think they’re trafficking drugs.”
He shrugged, looking up at the map. “Can you ever really know what’s going on in that much wilderness? That’s why the stash house Hazel and Remy found stayed secret for so long. We can’t possibly keep track of all the activity. My dad knew it was happening and fought hard to stop it.”
I met his eyes, hoping to convey my understanding silently. His dad had been murdered because of what he knew. But what did he know? And how?
“You done?” he bit out. And with that, our moment of connection was over. “I’ve got some things to do before we head home.”
I sat down again, my mind spinning with ideas, and jotted down notes. A few theories were taking shape in my head, and I needed to air them out, let them breathe before I dug deeper. Spending time in the office and learning about the business had unlocked so many questions.
“Must you type so loud?” he snapped after more than an hour of silent work.
I was transcribing notes and organizing files on my laptop. I was in the zone, and I hadn’t registered his annoyance. With more humor than I’m sure he expected, I looked up and stuck my tongue out at him.
“It’s like you’re trying to break the keyboard. What did the alphabet ever do to you?”
I carefully removed my headphones. “I’d give you a nasty look, but you make enough of them for the both of us.”
His frown deepened.
“And sorry my typing volume is a problem for you. Is this better?” With one finger, I employed an exaggerated hunt-and-peck strategy. “Does this please King Pascal?”
He shook his head and turned his attention back to his laptop. “You better be good at your job.”
“I could be,” I snapped back, “if you’d stop interrupting and let me fucking work.”
Chapter11
Pascal
Why did she have to be pretty?
The first time I saw Parker Harding, she was striding through my office in a black pantsuit. She and a bunch of other cops were meeting with management at my private equity firm, Atlantic Partners.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a slick ponytail, and her crimson-painted lips were mesmerizing.
She wasn’t tall, but she carried herself like a confident warrior as she strutted through the open space in sensible heels.
I did a double take from my office, leaving a colleague in Hong Kong hanging for a few moments while I drank in the sight of her.
At that time, I didn’t know she would become the architect of my professional ruin. Or the dark angel that haunted my dreams.
I didn’t know that cool, professional exterior hid a fiery temper and claws as sharp as a goddamn wolverine’s. Now, despite my best efforts, no matter how hard I worked to dislike her mouthiness or to be offended by her general disdain for me, things had changed. We were living together, and I was subjected to watching her dance around and smear peanut butter on every possible food. I was confronted by a bra hanging from every hook and every knob. Yet I could no longer access the dislike I’d been holding tight to. Slowly, this woman was breaking me.
Shit.
But how could it be possible? I was the master of my feelings. Or so I’d thought.
Watching the light dance across her face as she chatted with Adele on the far side of the bonfire, I realized that no amount of willpower would keep me from being attracted to her.
She was so much more than the sum of her parts. It wasn’t the shiny hair or the mischievous eyes.
Or the curves. Jesus, the curves.
