Page 19 of Hart of Darkness
I had a long day at work tomorrow anyway. I grabbed my scarf and secured it around my neck.
Dillon made some sort of low noise.
I didn’t know if he was trying to tell me not to put on the scarf, but I said, “Habit. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on Nadine.”
As Dillon walked me out, an idea bloomed.
“I want to find dirt on the guy who gave me this scar. You want to find your sister.” I shrugged. “Maybe we can help each other out.” Personally, I wanted to get to know the real Dillon Hart and not the rival gang member I knew long ago.
Professionally, as a reporter, I wanted stories, good, bad, or indifferent. And Dillon had a story to tell, particularly because he’d started a refuge for battered women. Former Gang Member Turned Entrepreneur Gives His Heart To Helping Women In Dire Straits.Now that was a headline, although not one that would put Cory behind bars.
Intrigue flashed in his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”
Aside from the thought of him running those rough, calloused hands all over me, kissing me, and giving me a night to remember, I had another idea. “Can you introduce me to your financial advisor?”
We lingered on the porch, the heat of the night hotter than a bonfire.
“I’m not sure you’ll learn much about Cory by talking to my financial advisor. But I can do something better.”
I held my breath, my mind blank on what he could offer me other than his hot bod.
“Denim might be able to give us some dirt on the Black Knights. Prisons are notorious with gangs. I know the cops won’t tell you jack, but does your detective friend know who’s running the show?”
“Ted says whoever is at the helm of the Black Knights is a ghost. If gang members are caught, they don’t talk. They’d rather rot in jail.”
“All the more reason for me to reach out to Denim,” Dillon added. “Give me a few days.”
I lifted up on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.” I didn’t know much about gangs in prison, but if they were anything like the ones on the streets—closed mouth and protective of their people—then Denim might not be able to learn anything.
I waved as I hurried to my car.
He watched me until I got to the driver’s side door.
“Dillon, again, I’m sorry about your sister.” I truly was.
His heated gaze caressed my face, slowly and oh-so-sensually, before I ducked into my VW and sped away. A block down, a giddy feeling tickled me. I’d reunited with a man who made my stomach do somersaults and backflips. More importantly, I was blanketed by a renewed sense of hope that I might get some info on the Black Knights.
