AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The price of taking that money would be losing myself.
When Henry’s cop friend showed up wanting to “Clear up the matter down at the station,” I went. They didn’t fingerprint me, though I was alarmed when they ran my ID. It seemed to hold up. It always does. The person who supplied our wildly expensive new identities seven years ago said they’d be foolproof, but it’s not like you can test drive that sort of thing.
I wait to see what the police will do, worrying mostly about Carly. I don’t want Mom knowing where to find us and taking Carly back. She never filed a missing persons report on us, but she’s a drug addict who’s proved she’s willing to put her habit above her girls. I’m not taking chances.
I called Carly on the way down to the station. She was just leaving rehearsal with her friend, Bess. I talked to Bess’s mom and made arrangements for Carly to stay there until I could deal with my “unexpected personal emergency.” I’m sure that left a great impression.
My phone is running out of juice, and frankly, so am I.
Finally the door opens, and there’s Henry, still in his fabulous suit.
His smile is pure arrogance, his attitude breezy. He sets a white bakery bag on the table—a bag that’s full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, if the smell is any indication.
I’ll admit, the smell of the cookies is exciting me a lot, but mostly it’s Henry. It’s as if his presence is lending me new energy.
Like he’s the lion who has finally appeared to my David.
Or maybe he’s the flame who has appeared to my moth, but let’s just go with lion.
“The playboy smirkitect has arrived,” I say simply. “How lucky for me.”
His blue eyes twinkle. He tilts his head. “Hello, jelly bean.”
I ignore the sizzle of his gaze on my skin. “Not my name.”
He puts down a leather folder and settles into a chair opposite me. I’m struck by how muscular and golden his hands are, with just the perfect amount of roughness to them.
That wristwatch still peeks out from under his jacket sleeves and white shirt cuffs, all hot heft and dials.
Like what a race car driver would wear. Henry probably owns race cars. He probably drives them in places like the Alps or Monaco.
I tear my gaze from his hands and back to his eyes, ignoring the warmth spreading up my spine.
People have reactions to each other, just like chemicals do. Some blend. Some layer. But some transform each other—they fizz and bubble right out of their containers.
That’s Henry and me—something about him gets me reacting—pulse too fast, skin too tight. Wanting to spar. Something. Anything.
It’s hate, I tell myself.
I hate the hotness of his hands and the wrong heat of us in this room.
“Let’s end this charade,” he says.
Something dark arrows through me.
Charade. To most, the word conjures up a marginally fun game where you wish there was more wine.
Not to me. It’s one of the words they hammered me with. Selfish charade. Disgusting charade.
“I have the papers for you to sign right here. And a check.” He slides it across the table. The implication is clear—if I sign, I’ll be released.
I look up at him.
“You don’t win this,” he says softly. “You don’t win against me.”
My blood races through my veins.
Never again. Never again. I vowed it, didn’t I? Never again to be pushed around by somebody like this.
