Page 72 of Blind Prophet

I lift the mug, testing the heat as it nears my lips, and set it back down.

“Caroline, I’ve done my best to forget you. But I haven’t, and I’m under no misconception that will change when you return home. I want you back in my life.”

A wave of dizziness surfaces. If I’d sipped the tea, I’d suspect he drugged it. I flatten my palm on the stone counter, absorbing the chill. He’s already told me he wants me back, so why am I having a physical response now?

Am I really considering this? No, we just need closure.

“We should talk.” My tone is firm, but do I mean it?

“Let’s sit on the sofa. Watch the snow fall.”

He heads into the living area, not waiting for my agreement. He opens a cabinet, then another one, rushing around until there’s a pile of throws on the sofa.

“You sit there.” I point at a different sofa than the one I’m sinking into.

He smiles a slow, sexy smile, wide enough that his singular dimple pops. “You love to cuddle.”

I narrow my eyes. “We need to talk.”

“Who have you been cuddling with?”

His words are cold, tone stern, and once again, I’m taken aback at how quickly he transitioned from flirty and fun to icy and serious.

“That’s not what we need to talk about.”

“I disagree,” he says, but sits where I directed.

He connects his fingers and rests his arms over his knees. Sitting forward on a leather sofa, he’s not projecting his executive steel, but there’s purposeful intimidation in those dark eyes and subliminal aggressive stance.

But I’m no longer easily intimidated, and there are more pressing concerns.

“Let’s cover some important matters first. As I told you, I still work as an analyst.” He’s unreadable. “I’m here because you are a person of interest in a terrorist investigation.”

Now I have his attention. The lines around his eyes deepen, and his head cocks to the side. But he’s not as shocked as I would have expected.

“A terrorist cell?”

“Not exactly. We believe there may be a rogue member within the syndicate, or what you like to call an alliance.”

His lips purse, and his gaze drops to a corner. “Nick told you I’m responsible.” He exhales frustration. “I told him I’m innocent. He sent you on a wild goose chase. But I appreciate your vote of confidence.” His tone is terse. Facial features and hands still. There’s no indication he’s lying.

“Nick Ivanov?”

He nods.

“There’s a source. They haven’t shared with me the name of the source, but he’s in your syndicate?”

Again, a singular nod.

“It could be him. He could be the source.” I’ll definitely ask Sophia next time I speak to her. It makes sense. I should’ve considered Nick as the unnamed source. He’s the one who was targeted by the syndicate. I guess I’d assumed, given the attack is well-documented, they wouldn’t have kept his name off of reports as the source. But, Project Unity is so expansive, keeping his name off the project documentation is likely meant to prevent him from being targeted again.

“There’s evidence,” I say.

“If there’s any evidence, it’s planted.” I agree, and he must recognize this in my reaction, because he visibly relaxes. “What do you have?”

“We’ve traced communications from this compound. I believe you’re innocent, but what about your father? Would he do something like this without your involvement?”

He looks to the ceiling with an expression I haven’t seen before. It’s a mix of suppressed mirth and disgust. Or maybe disappointment. In me?

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