Page 81 of Blind Prophet

“Dad found it embarrassing. He pulled some strings. Didn’t hit the news in the US. No one really cared anyway. My father’s been reclusive for years.”

“I noticed that. Over the years, fewer and fewer photos of him surfaced. The same with you, after the first couple of years from our split.”

“Even when you and I were together, Dad was growing more reclusive.” He slides down on the cushion and rests his head against the back, and, in his position, his head is slightly lower than mine. “You asked when his dementia started. Looking back, I think the personality change might have been a symptom. Either that or he noticed issues, and he withdrew to avoid observation.”

“And why did you become reclusive?”

One side of his lip rises in a crooked grin. “I wouldn’t say I’m reclusive. I travel a ton. And contrary to what you believe, I didn’t live for the media attention.”

I narrow my eyes and give him a look that calls bullshit, but I’m teasing him.

“Seriously. And straight up?”

“No. Lie to me.”

He smirks. “The only media I’ve ever chased was right after you left. Like I told you, I wanted pics to make you jealous. I staged a few. Hired a PR specialist and everything. Hell, I probably paid to have those photos featured.”

“You did not.”

“I’m not proud of it, but…” He grins.

“Look at you. You aresoproud of it.”

We both grin at each other. I hated seeing him strutting around with supermodels, but I had other diversions. I couldn’t really worry about him once I joined the CIA. His grin falters, and he threads his fingers through mine.

“What about you? Any serious relationships?”

“No serious ships,” I say, forcing a smile and shortening the word because it feels lighter, and some part of me doesn’t really want to be having this conversation.

“Why?”

I meet his gaze head-on, reading him, sensing his mood and intention. He wants me to say he’s the reason, but… “You clearly haven’t tried the online dating game.”

I do date. I just haven’t had any luck. My dates range from not finishing my coffee before I excuse myself to suffering through a ho-hum dinner.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits, his cocky attitude coming through his smirk.

“What am I saying? If you created an online profile, you’d need your assistant to manage your account.”

“I’m glad you haven’t found anyone.” He squeezes my fingers, and the sensation tightens my chest cavity.

I search his expression for any sign he’s joking, but his intensity warms me from the inside out, wrapping around my heart.

“I’ve never gotten over you, Caroline. I don’t think I ever will.”

He shifts closer and caresses my cheek. Our breaths slow, and with it, time.

His dark eyes search mine, asking for permission.

I tilt my head, bending to him, granting his request. The movement is the most natural thing in the world.

His lips softly move against mine, a light stroke, testing, teasing.

The uncontrollable hammering of my heart drowns the remote part of my brain begging to push him away, to stop before I lose control.

His long fingers cup my head, positioning me as he prefers. His lips ghost over my face, his kisses lighting long-dormant needs. His groan into the shell of my ear lights through my body, shredding any control.

I slip my tongue into his greedy mouth and am momentarily awed as he seizes control, deepening the connection.

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