Page 60 of Cry, Little Dove

His head tilts. “And which one’s the real me, little dove?”

“I think there’s a bit of the authentic Cain in both. But you seem far more comfortable in your jeans on horseback than at a gala giving speeches in a tux. Me personally, I like seeing you with a spark in your eyes and a genuine smile on your face.” I fidget with the string of the clutch around my wrist. “I want you to be happy.”

Realizing what I said, my mouth snaps shut. Cain’s brows shoot up, and the surprise in his gaze makes my heart tumble into my stomach.

Fuck, it’s true, isn’t it? I didn’t just say that to be polite.I want my kidnapper to be happy.

A nervous laugh bubbles from my throat. “Okay, I uh, I think I have to freshen up a little. The champagne is getting to my head. I’ll be right back.”

Cain gives me a long, thoughtful look before he nods and takes out another cigarette. “I’ll be here. Can’t be bothered to run the social circuit yet. I’d rather wait and drag you along for that. It’ll be much more bearable with your pretty self on my arm.” He winks, and his smirk releases some of the tension in my belly.

I smile, too. “Sounds good.”

As I open the door to the ballroom, a wave of music and chatter hits me. I walk around the dancefloor when a man cuts out of the crowd, bumping into me. He wears a black suit and dark sunglasses contrasting his grey hair. His expression is grim, mouth pulled down and jaw set.

I bristle. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says without missing a beat, not sparing me a glance as he pushes past and heads in the direction of the balcony.

I click my tongue. Yikes, poor Cain. So much for not running the social circuit yet. I hope he can make do without me for a few minutes until I swoop in and save him from what is sure to be an awkward conversation.

I take a sip of thin, black coffee, tasting more of the paper cup than the coffee.

Bright, fluorescent lights buzz above. One flickers obnoxiously. The clock on the wall ticks away, and I have to stop my foot from tapping in rhythm under the steel table. I put the cup on top of it and lean back in the hard metal chair.

My bow tie feels too tight, but I resist the urge to loosen it.

I can’t afford to seem nervous. Iamfuckin’ heart-in-throat, gut-churning anxious, but I don’t need the assholes watching me from the other side of the interrogation room mirror to know that. They likely won’t let me out of their sight, hoping I’ll incriminate myself somehow if they watch long enough.

What they’re waiting for, I can’t say. That’s exactly the issue.

I’ve been waiting alone in this room for over an hour, watching shadows pass by the windows to the hallway, but I can’t see shit because of those damn blinds. Nobody has told me why I’m here, either.

They’re doing this on purpose.

It’s a strategy to break me and get me to confess or some shit. Well, tough luck. My lips are sealed.

My phone weighs heavily in my pocket. The temptation to call my lawyer grows stronger with every passing minute, but I worry getting him involved might seem like an admission of guilt, like I have something to hide.

I came in voluntarily to answer a few questions, though the agent who cornered me on the balcony at the gala didn’t make it feel very voluntary when he flashed the gun under his suit jacket and shoved his badge in my face. Typical intimidation tactics.

A surge of panic flares behind my ribs. Do they have a warrant to search my house? If they did, if they knew about my crimes, they would’ve paraded me around in cuffs, right?

Fuckin’ FBI.

I wish I could let Erica or Mandy know about this shit show, but I wasn’t given time to leave a message for them. On the drive to the nearest police station that asshole agent watched me like a hawk, stopping me from sending a sneaky text.

My pulse races faster as I remember what Erica said.I want you to be happy. And right after I went and vanished on her. What awful fuckin’ timing. I hope she knows me well enough to realize I’d never ditch her.

The same agent who took me in enters the room and closes the door behind him. He brushes over his grey hair, the deep wrinkles around his eyes creasing into craters as he slides into the chair on the opposite side of the table and drops a file onto it.

“You’re a difficult man to track down, Dr. Morrow.”

Amused, I raise my brows at him. “Am I? I thought the FBI would have no problems finding a regular citizen. How long have you been searching for me?”

“Weeks. The difficult part was identifying one of San Antonio’s most prolific businessmen in such an…unusual getup.” He opens the file and takes out a picture, holding it away from me so I can’t see it. “This look matches none of your official photographs in the papers or online. The tattoos on your forearms were a surprise, too. I suppose they don’t fit your clean guy image. You keep them well hidden.”

My chest tightens and I struggle to control my expression as he slides the picture across the table.

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