Page 48 of Girl Anonymous

He didn’t answer.

She said, “The red bottle.”

“I know what you mean.” His voice was emotionless, unreadable. “In your house?”

“In my house. In my home. In my sock drawer.” Like it made a difference whether it was her socks or her silverware.

“Is it real?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there at once. Don’t touch it.”

She spoke into the phone. “Like I would be that stupid.”

He had hung up.

No, she wouldn’t put a fingerprint on that bottle.

CHAPTER 21

Forty minutes later Maarja had turned on all the lights in the house. Yet when someone rang her front doorbell, she froze in place, then deliberately relaxed and checked her phone app. The porch camera showed Dante Arundel on her front porch, dressed in a dark business suit, starched white shirt, and a charcoal tie, loosened at the neck.

She opened to him at once. “How did you get here so fast? Transporter beam?”

“Helicopter.” In a shrewd sweep of dark-eyed intelligence, he assessed her physical health and her mental distress. “You have to invite me in.”

Like he was a vampire. “Come in,” she said, not because he compelled her, but because she actually knew why he wanted the words spoken aloud. Her front porch camera recorded conversation, and for a wealthy man like Dante, permission must save on lawsuits.

He walked in and back toward her bedroom.

A black sedan was parked at the curb, and the unmistakable form of Nate lurked beside it.

She shut the door. “If you came by helicopter, how did you get here by car?”

Dante looked back at Maarja. “We set down at Angelica Lindholm’s helipad.”

Angelica Lindholm essentially owned Gothic.

“She graciously allowed me to keep a car for my use in her garage.” He walked into Maarja’s bedroom.

Angelica Lindholm also didn’t graciously allow anyone to exploit her, her influence, or her facilities without good reason, which meant Dante had…paid her? Threatened her? Commanded her? Maarja took a breath to ask, then exhaled and hurried after him. She had other more important questions, like “Why would you do that? Keep a car in Gothic?”

“I thought this day might come.” He stood by her chest. “Which drawer?”

“Second one. What day?”

“The day you called me.” He opened the drawer.

“Left side.” He was talking about her, and him, and pregnancy. “I had a period. A little late, I think, but there’s been a lot of trauma so it’s not surprising.”

He lifted her socks and looked, nodded, then put them back. “You could have told me.”

“I did tell you. I told you when we had… When you brought it up…” Shit. She was fumbling this big-time. “Afterward, after we…were in the shower, I told you I wasn’t pregnant.”

“Hm.” He gave his opinion clearly in one syllable, like he had no faith in her previous assurances and still didn’t quite believe her.

But shehadhad a period. It was as simple as that. Bleeding, cramping, moodiness…more moodiness…more moodiness. Her hormones had been hell-bent on reminding her of Dante and his prediction of fate and babies to unite the families and, oh, my God, the dreams for those nights. Talk about a horror show, complete with the entire cast of hostile characters from the funeral, her sword-wielding mother, and some assassin who kept showing himself, but without a face.

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