Page 83 of A Taste like Sin
expression weren’t so stern.
“I’m fine,” I lie, placing his untouched file back where I found it this morning. Shadow drapes the
cover, adding an ominous aura to the truths it may contain.
“Your father’s condition is stable,” he says, deploying his uncanny knowledge of my every move.
Intentionally? A hard swallow can’t displace my unease. Does Julio really intend to keep our little
secret? Something I sensed in his tone holds the paranoia at bay—concern. Damien may be his
employer, but he cares about him.
“The doctors seem convinced he may recover with little complications,” Damien adds.
“For now,” I agree, crossing the room to join him. The moment I sit, his hand finds mine, placing it on
the ridge of his knee. “But there is an open investigation. They think…he may have been poisoned.”
It feels so strange to say it out loud. So surreal. For all of my father’s obsessive paranoia, I never
truly believed something like this could happen. That someone could want him dead.
How ironic that a prime suspect might be seated beside me.
Damien’s grip tightens as if he’s sensing my thoughts. “You can accuse me, if it helps,” he suggests,
admitting as much. “But trust me when I say I did not harm your father. Not in this instance.”
I raise an eyebrow. “This instance?”
A muscle in his jaw lurches as he turns my hand so the palm is upright. “I may have attempted to
persuade his donors away from supporting him,” he confesses. “I may have mounted an ad campaign
to thwart his chances at reelection. And Imaybe funding his opposition…”
“But?” I prompt, sensing one.
A sudden tightness hardens his expression. “But I would never kill him.”
And I want to believe that, more than I have the right to.
“You did not read the file,” he adds, catching me off guard.
“I…”
“I’m not insulted,” he says. “It’s funny. Something told me you wouldn’t.”
“Because I need to hear it from you.” I shift, gently detangling my hand from his. In the same motion, I
run my fingers along his jaw, amazed at just how welcoming he can feel. Beneath the cold, sometimes
ominous demeanor, he’s silk under my fingertips, a wealth of contradictions. “So tell me. What
happened to Mathias?”
“We should start with Emily Borgetta,” he suggests, tilting his chin into my touch. “A beautiful, if
