Page 38 of Wicked Mistletoe

“He’s not. He said something came up at work and?—”

A string of curses cuts me off, so vicious they make me flinch. Stacey rarely swears around me. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her lose her cool like this. “Find out everythingyou can and get back to me. I’ll mobilize a small team here while we wait for you.”

The call ends abruptly, leaving me in a suffocating silence. My throat feels tight, my stomach a roiling mess of anxiety and dread.This can’t be happening.

I force myself into motion, trudging out of the bedroom on unsteady legs to check every room. Living room—empty. Kitchen—empty. Dining room, library—all empty.Are the guys with him?The question nags at me, adding another layer to my growing unease.

Back upstairs, I start opening doors. Laundry room, two guest bedrooms, and finally… his office. I hesitate at the threshold, knowing this is it. The point of no return. Once I go in there and start digging through his things, there will be no coming back. If I find what I’m afraid I’ll find…

A shudder racks down my body despite the warmth blasting through the heaters in the penthouse. But then again, it has nothing to do with being cold. I inhale deeply. One deep breath. Two. Then I walk in, carefully closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels as final as a coffin lid.

The large desk in the middle of the office draws me like a magnet. There are two drawers, and I hunker down, fully expecting some kind of resistance as I tug on the top one. To my surprise, it slides open easily.Huh.

I freeze, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me as realization sucker punches my gut.He trustsme. Completely, utterly trusts me. That’s why the front door is unlocked, why his office is accessible. In his world, enemies don’t make it past his men. And me? He has no idea I could be working against him. These drawers are unlocked because the thought of me betraying him has never even crossed his mind. To him, I’m not an enemy. I’m his…

Bile rises in my throat, sharp and sudden, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting it back. Then I drop my hand and carefully breathe through my mouth until it passes. When it does, I force myself to think.

I have to do this. If not for anything but to be sure what kind of person the man I’ve fallen in love with really is.

With shaking hands, I rummage through the drawer, but there’s nothing useful. Just a mess of receipts that make no sense, credit cards, some car keys, and… my fingers brush something that makes my heart stop—the familiar blue box he dropped on the table at our very first dinner together.

I slam the drawer shut.

The second drawer isn’t much better. It’s filled with random junk that’s not particularly useful or damning.

Then I direct my attention to the desk itself.Could he really be so brazen as to place something incriminating out in the open? As I sweep over it, my fingers brush against something—a handwritten note in unfamiliar handwriting. There’s a name on it:Little River Home.

It’s the name of an orphanage.

My hands now shake so badly I can barely type out the name to Stacey. Her reply is instant.

Stacey

That’s where the child was kidnapped.

It feels like the final nail in a coffin I never wanted built.No. There has to be a good reason why he has this on his desk.There has to be.My chest constricts until it burns to suck in oxygen, my heart pounding so painfully and loudly in my ears it drowns out everything else.

I move to his laptop and stare blankly at the password prompt. I key in his birthday—wrong.

I hesitate, then key in my birthday—wrong again. Tears of frustration prick in the corner of my eyes. Damn it, what password could he have used, what?—

A ridiculous notion pops into my head, and I almost laugh at the absurdity.No way it’s that.I hesitate again, but desperation wins out, and I type in the date from six years ago—the day everything went to hell.

The screen unlocks.

My jaw drops as I stare at the home screen of his laptop.I’m in. I’m actually in.

Several tabs are open at the bottom, like breadcrumbs left out just for me. This is almost too easy.

The first one is a Word document—a draft of some contract. I skim it briefly, but it’s nothing useful. Typical business jargon. I back out, careful not to close it. Can’t afford to leave any clues that I’ve been snooping.

The second tab pulls up a folder full of photos. Mean-looking men stare back at me, and I feel a chill crawl down my spine. Who the hell are these guys? I don’t recognize any of them, but they sure don’t look like the friendly type. Are these people he’s working with? Or worse, people he’s trying to take out?

Then I open the third tab, and my heart lurches. It’s a map of the city—no, wait. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The map is dotted with moving red points, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s a tracker.

There are four dots, converging and moving in the same direction. It takes a second, but then it hits me.It’s him. And Maximo. And Romero. And Michael. My mind reels as I try to process what I’m seeing. They’re being tracked. Somehow, someway. There’s a device on them—phones? But more importantly,where the hell are they going?

My phone beeps with a text.

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