Page 63 of Fierce Pursuit

There’s no fucking way.

Solovyov was a psychopath, but he was also a businessman. All of us were, at our core. We didn’t spill blood for fun, we did it for profit. And this?

This wasn’t profit.

The cost of tracking her down—the resources, the bribes, the forged documents to move freely across borders—he’d have spentfive timesthat just getting one of his men past the TSA.

Killing Veronika should have been message enough. There had to be something else.

Hell, I could probably find that much cash in my goddamn sofa cushions.

“What else?” I asked, my voice low, dangerous.

“Nothing,” she said, holding up her hands. “I swear. It was just the money. She even put it in some plain black duffel bag, the kind you could buy at any department store.”

Lies? Or just ignorance?

Either way, something wasn’t adding up.

And I wasn’t about to let her walk out that door until I figured out exactly what the fuck was missing.

“You’re hiding something.”

I didn’t think she was lying, but the numbers didn’t add up. None of this made sense.

“I swear, that was it,” Marina said, her voice tight with frustration. “It was just the rubles. There was nothing else in that bag. And she didn’t send me anything else later.”

I studied her, searching for cracks, for hesitation. “Did she tell you something she shouldn’t have?”

She shook her head.

Fuck.

“Where’s the money now?”

“In a locker close to Penn Station,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to spend it in case he came after me. I was just going to give it back. Really, I would have returned it before, but I didn’t know how and?—”

I held up a hand. “If you’d tried to return it in Russia, he would’ve killed you on the spot.”

“I know.” She huffed, crossing and uncrossing her arms, her frustration palpable. “That’s why I’m here. And I was doing a damn good job of staying away from all of this bullshit until you came crashing into my apartment in New York and then stalked me all the way to Chicago.”

Even now, after coming on my cock over and over, the fire in her eyes still burned.

And I fucking loved it.

Why couldn’t I get enough of this girl’s fire? Why, every time she snapped at me, fought me, pushed back, did my cock twitch with interest?

I forced myself to focus. This wasn’t just about the money. There had to be something else in that bag—something she hadn’t seen.

“That wasn’t me.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“In New York. I didn’t trash your apartment. Solovyov’s men trashed it. Why the fuck do you think I’ve been so desperate to find you? I’ve been trying to tell you, you are in danger.”

She shifted her gaze away from me as she absorbed the information. If I thought I was going to get a thank you ora show of appreciation, I’d die waiting. She remained stubbornly silent.

“You might as well get some rest,” I sighed. I wasn’t ready to let this go, but I wouldn’t get anything else out of her tonight.

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