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“Fine, be mad, but tell me you love me so I can hang up.”
“I love you, asshole.”
“I love you too, Belle.”
Oh, he thinks using my childhood nickname is going to earn him points.
Click.
I don’t think so.
Jackson started calling me Belle when I was four or five. I was obsessed—really obsessed—with a movie about a girl who saw something different in a beast that everyone else feared. Most days I would only wear that costume I’d gotten one Halloween.
I’m going to find all his little tracking devices, and then I’m going to shove them all up his crazy ass—well maybe I’ll make Alana do it for me.
She better not know about this. I’ll murder her so help me—
I jump in my seat, startled at the tap on my driver’s side window. When I turn, I come face-to-face with the man I’ve only seen in pictures, and from afar.
Drago Acerbi.
Damn...
Jesus H. Christ.
I have to force myself to stop breathing in order not to gasp. He’s a lot hotter up close. Pictures certainly do not do him justice.
My door opens before I can react. Thanks to automatic doors that unlock when I turn the ignition off.
“Is there a reason LAPD is scoping out my parking lot?”
How does he know I’m law enforcement?
“You look confused? What’s the confusion about?” He smiles, but it’s wicked. “Is it that I know you’re a cop or that I caught you here in the first place?”
I remain silent. Mainly, I’m not sure what to say yet. How does he know either? I thought hiding in plain sight was a smart idea.
“Your car doesn’t belong here. Not today or when you were here two days ago. I ran your plates, Detective Brianna Andrews.”
He smirks. And although he’s attractive in looks—too attractive—it pisses me off.
“You aren’t too bright. How did you manage to become a detective or is this your first day on the job? I walked right up to your car and you never once saw me.”
Distraction.Nice fucking job, Brianna.
I was distracted by my phone call with Carrie, and then Jackson. I shouldn’t have been on the phone to begin with—at least not here. Not while I’m supposed to go unnoticed. You can’t stay undercover when the suspect knows where andwhoyou are.
Fuck.
“I wasn’t hiding.”
He gives me a look that says I’m full of shit.
“Well, then”—he displays that devilish smile again—“let me invite you inside—to my office.” He holds out his hand, palm facing up for me to take.
I don’t.
Placing one leg outside of my car, I watch him as I step out and onto the concrete ground. I have to grab a hold of the door, or otherwise, I’m afraid I might stumble right into his chest.
