Page 37 of Anton

“Well, when we get out of this, sign me up for one,” I said, eyeing the belt more seriously now. “Actually, have you thought about designing something more suitable for a woman? I mean, sure, we could use a belt like that, but it wouldn’t be much use unless we were wearing trousers. I’m thinking something like a garter belt, you know, the kind female agents use to conceal weapons under their sexy dresses.” I wiggled my eyebrows and grinned.

“I’ll think about it,” he replied, returning the grin.

“I like the idea of having something that isn’t what it seems—a surprise for the next fucker who tries to kidnap me,” I added with a wicked smile.

“Definitely a good idea,” he said, his smirk growing. “Although, you already have something that isn’t quite what it seems,” he said, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression.

“Say what?” I asked, brows furrowing.

“Your earrings are lovely, Marcie,” he said, his gaze locking with mine.

I fiddled with them. “Yes, they are. You did get my thank-you card, didn’t you? I sent one out to everyone after the party.” I swallowed, feeling that familiar awkwardness creeping back. The party where I made a fool of myself over him, then pushed too far the following morning, leading to months of avoidance.

“I did, yes. But they aren’t just earrings. I should have told you sooner, but well, things between us were a little…” His voice tapered off.

“I… I know.” I nodded, the awkwardness becoming almost unbearable. “So, what do you mean? They aren’t just earrings?” I asked, the full meaning of his words finally sinking in.

He reached up and touched one. “They’ve got a hidden tracker inside.”

“A tracker?” I felt the other one.

“Surely, they’re too small?” I asked, frowning. Was he kidding?

He shook his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“How’s that even possible?”

“Another prototype of Marko’s. He’s always working on something. All the Rominov men have a tracker in their watches, and all their women have them in their jewellery. I got him to put one in each of your earrings.”

I gasped. “That’s why you put the little note in, saying you hoped I’d wear them always?”

Oh, my god. My mind raced back to what he’d just said: “…all their women have them in their jewellery…” All their women?Was that how Anton saw me? As his woman—even though he desperately tried not to admit it? My insides practically danced at the thought, but I forced myself to keep a tight rein on my emotions. I wasn’t willing to read too much into the gesture or his words—not yet. My history with my stalker and our friendship might be the real reasons for the tracker.

“Yes,” he nodded, pulling me from my thoughts. “I wasn’t sure you would wear them at all after the way we parted that day, but I’m so glad you did.” His voice was low and soft as he met my gaze.

“I cherish them. I’ll always wear them, Anton.” My voice was barely a whisper as I stared at him, the warmth in his gaze burning through me deeper than the heat from the sun. God, how I wanted this man. If only he wanted me the same way.

I shook my head to break the spell he had on me.

“So, wait. If there’s a tracker inside, can Marko track us from it?” I asked, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

“Only if we’re within range. We’re too far away. And they’d have to be looking for us. I’m not sure if they even know we’ve been taken yet,” he replied, putting a dampener on my hope.

My body slumped as I sighed, nodding. “I thought that too. The arseholes who took us searched me for my car keys, so they must have moved our cars out of the car park. I’m not working again until tomorrow, so unless someone checks on me sooner, nobody will miss me.”

“Me neither,” Anton said. “Of course, they saw you storm out and me go after you, so maybe Claire or Ash will call one of us to find out what happened. If they don’t get an answer, I’m sure they’ll try reaching the other. When neither of us responds, I think they’ll start worrying.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I murmured, unable to keep my upset hidden.

Anton lifted my chin. “Don’t worry. Once we get to a phone, the guys will come for us. Then we’ll be home before you know it and tend to those blisters.”

“And when I get home, I’m going to burn these bloody boots. Although, it’ll be a shame. Derrick bought me them for my birthday,” I lamented with a pout.

“I’ll help you do it. And I’ll buy you replacement boots since I broke the heels.”

“Not your fault they had to be broken,” I said, wondering at his offer.

“But you liked them?” His question was more of a statement.

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