Page 140 of Noel Secrets
Brent gave a resigned sigh. “I’ll make sure your Agent Lang gets the videos.”
Clay turned to Darby. “Ready to go?”
The images of Suzanne and Chief Dean added another layer of confusion. Clay could see she was tired of not knowing what was going on. So was he.
She’d been through it today, and he was amazed that she could still walk, much less confront Brent about his involvement. That strength was deep and amazing. But even determination had its limits. She needed rest.
He offered his arm for support as she limped outside to his pickup and climbed into the cab. As he closed her door and walked around to the driver’s seat, he caught Brent Foster watching from the dealership’s front window, seething.
Clay’s feeling of satisfaction at Brent’s jealousy surprised him. Mainly because he’d been surprised at his own level of jealousy when seeing Darby’s ex trying to reconcile with her. Knowing Clay had brought her there and given him the opportunity made it worse.
Her rejection of him shouldn’t fill Clay with gratitude, but it did.
He took out his phone and sent a text to Sheriff Malone, asking him to send his deputies to pick up Brent for questioning. He’d meant it when he’d said he didn’t believe Brent was behind the threats. But his addiction and weakness had dragged Darby into something he couldn’t stop.
Brent watched them drive away then walked back to his office, slamming the door against Delia’s questions about what had just happened.
He poured himself a drink to steady his nerves. This was a mess and he still couldn’t understand how he’d gotten in so deep. Hearing Darby’s life was in danger had rocked him. He’d known the people he was working with were ruthless. But to have her killed?—
His hands shook at the implications.
Brent sat in his chair and berated himself.What did you think would happen, Brent?
Of course, he’d known getting rid of Darby was the only way to get his hands on the money. But faced with her actually indanger? Another matter altogether. All he had to do was hold it together a while longer, and then it would be over.
He took another gulp of his drink then picked up the phone and dialed. The men he owed were dangerous, and they’d do whatever it took to reclaim their money. This was the only way he could ever hope to repay them.
The call rang twice before a man answered. Brent nearly choked over the update he hated to give. “Darby was just here at the dealership. She had someone with her—an FBI agent.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Clay Walker. I think he’s the new guy in her life.”
“Don’t worry about him,” the man on the other end of the line explained. “We’ll take care of it.”
The line clicked and the phone went dead.
Brent hung up then helped himself to another drink. As much as he hated to think about it, Darby’s death would solve all of his problems. He’d need all the liquid courage he could muster to see this through.
Chapter Nine
Sore muscles and aches and pains from the crash kept Darby from getting the rest she desperately needed. She tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up on sleep early in the morning and pulling her Bible to her. The verses brought her comfort as the shock of yesterday’s attacks settled in. Three in as many days. She couldn’t deny it any longer. Danger was everywhere.
She ran a hot bath and soaked in it until her muscles gave way. A few over-the-counter pain relievers helped ease her discomfort even more.
Her body started to settle, but her mind still raced.
Tiptoeing past Clay, who still slept on the couch, she headed to the kitchen to start breakfast. She heard him moving around minutes later and felt his presence before she turned to look at him.
He stood barefoot in the kitchen doorway, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn soft and faded in all the right places. The gray tee shirt he wore clung just enough to show the muscles beneath, but the way it hugged his biceps made her stomach flutter. Sleep-creased marks showed on his face, and his hair wastousled as if he’d run a hand through it instead of brushing it. His eyes—still hazy with sleep—locked on her with a lazy, quiet intensity.
“Smells good,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel warmed by sunlight.
She tried not to stare, but he looked too perfect in that moment—disheveled in a way that was completely unintentional, and completely endearing.
“You’re just saying that because you didn’t have to cook,” she said, turning back to the stove with a smile tugging at her lips.
He chuckled softly, and the sound wrapped around her like a warm blanket. “You caught me.”
