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“Not playing games, Lindsay.”
“Then get your hot, strong, incredibly enticing arms off of me and leave.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Enticing?” His voice morphs into sensual territory.
“Leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I want to cry when he actually listens to me and walks away. What am I doing?
“Wait!”
He stops in the doorway, the light from the hallway illuminating his body. Broad shoulders, thick with rolling muscles, taper down to a narrow waist, strong thighs in his sweat pants and his ass—
“Yes?”
“We’re not getting anywhere without talking.”
“Then talk.”
“I meant you, Drew, and you know it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
His jaw clenches.
“Damn it. Someone’s trying to kill me. We think it’s those bastards.”
Silence.
“It’s John, Stellan and Blaine.”
Saying their names makes him reach up and grab the doorway with both hands, his arms up high, his lats pulsing.
“Do you have any idea who they’ve become, Lindsay?”
“They’ve becomes soulless—”
“I don’t mean that. I mean who they are.”
“We know who they are.”
He whips around and gives me a look so hard it could crack open a walnut.
“John Gainsborough is now a major league baseball player. Stellan Asgarth is a television celebrity. And Blaine Maisri—fuck, Lindsay. Blaine is running for your father’s old seat.”
I blink slowly, like an owl.
“Don’t you see? They’re not just a bunch of frat boys I need to tail.”
“How?” I gasp.
“How.” He barks out the word, walking back into the room, rubbing his neck in frustration, his jaw grinding. “I’ve asked myself that question since I came back from deployment. How. How the hell did those little pricks find their way to so much success?”
