Page 27 of Seeking Vengeance

“I don’t chase women,” he adds. “And I definitely don’t beg for their attention. I assure you, I’m equally caught off guard.”

I don’t look at him. His reciprocated emotions only make this seem all the more surreal. I’m in Denver for revenge. For destruction. Not indulgence.

“How about we change the subject?” His touch retreats. “Tell me why you’re watching Costa.”

I chill at the whiplash in conversation. Here I’d been stuck in visions of heated flesh and sweaty skin while he’s had Emmanuel at the forefront of his mind the entire time. “Why areyou?”

He grins. “I’m sensing trust issues.”

What he’s sensing is annoyance. I shouldn’t have been stupid enough to let down my guard. Instead of exposing my emotions, I grab a chicken stick and force myself to eat.

“I still think one of them broke your heart,” he continues. “What I can’t figure out is if it was recent. Maybe this is a childhood grievance. That would explain why you were so close to them without fear of being recognized.”

“You’re partially correct,” I concede, hoping the slight forward momentum will be enough to tide him over. It isn’t a lie, either. I didn’t need to be in soul-deep love with Benji to have my heart shattered when the Costas stole him from me. He wasn’t merely a husband. He was a father to our gorgeous daughter. And a good father at that.

“Which one?” He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Which brother is to blame?”

“Does it matter?”

He eyes me for a long moment. Staring. Scrutinizing. “I guess not.”

“It’s your turn now.” I finish the chicken stick and reach for another. “Why do you spy on them?”

“They’ve screwed me over more than once, and I don’t plan to let it happen again.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises. “Business or personal?”

“Does it matter?” He mimics my previous reply.

Yes, it does.

He said he works in hospitality. He owns clubs. In the eyes of the naive world, Emmanuel Costa is nowhere near that line of work. But I know better. I’m well aware the ties likely to bind them are drugs.

“I’ve said something to scare you.” He discards his bamboo skewer on the side of the plate and frowns. “What is it?”

“I’mnotscared.” I take another bite of chicken, acting casual even though the risks are rising. “Why do you keep asking that? Are people usually frightened of you? Is that why you assume I’m the same?”

He eyes me, his gaze never wavering.

I’m right.

He’s feared.

Why?

The thought should be enough for me to join the tally of those who are fearful. Itshould.However, the tingle running down my spine is far from fear-based.

“You’re not going to answer me?” I taunt. “Why is that, Matthew?”

His jaw ticks as he breathes deep, letting the air out slowly. “You’re right. I guess it is a default.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

His stare narrows. It isn’t in anger. The intensity is something else. Shame, maybe. “Designer suits and fancy restaurants haven’t always been a baseline,amore mio. I’ve had hardships, and those dark times had me doing anything to claw my way to the light. But that’s where I am now—in better days.”

His honesty is unnerving. Invigorating. I’m not used to people being open with me. Not when the men who usually surround me hoard their secrets as if their lives depend on the truth remaining buried.

This conversation is a gift. An offering.

---