Page 46 of Lady in Waiting
“You’re right. This isn’t your fault. I should have never made out it was, but I stand by what I said about you knowing who this is. Everything before that was bullshit. You’re not to blame—”
“Yes, I am,” Regan interrupts, her voice strong enough to break through the tension teeming between us. “I am to blame, just not in the way you’re thinking.”
Her knees clash when she pivots around to face me. She is on the verge of tears, making my guilt bone-crushing.
“I don’t circulate dick pics, nor am I nasty to admirers. I merely keep my distance. Some men are okay with that. Others. . .” she peers straight into my eyes, ensuring I know I am in the “others” category, “. . .have a hard time with it. They don’t understand why I don’t demand they call me in the morning, or they introduce me to their parents. They want me to care about them when I don’t. I don’t sugarcoat anything, Alex. If I want you, I’ll tell you. If I don’t, you’ll know that just as quickly. If this is the reason I am being stalked, then you can drop your investigation. I’m not changing who I am because one man’s ego got bitch-slapped. I’ve done that once in my life. It didn’t end well. I’m not doing it again.”
Pretending her last comment didn’t pique my curiosity, I say, “I can’t drop this case, Rae. I won’t let him get away with this.”
“Why, because you’re a PI, and investigating people is in your job description?” The sneer of my job title tells me she doesn’t believe I’m a private investigator, but for some reason, she’s not calling me out as a liar. This time, anyway.
I shake my head. “This has nothing to do with my job description and everything to do with you.”
The fire in her eyes reveals I answered as she hoped, but that isn’t why I said what I did. I am being straight up honest.
“You have the right to turn down whoever you want without worrying about the repercussions. The idea of you with anyone agitates the shit out of me, but if you want to walk out of my life right now and head straight into the arms of another man, there is sweet fuck all I can do about it. That’s your right.”
“You’ll let me leave if I want to?” She sounds as pained to ask her question as I felt hearing it.
I swivel my tongue around my mouth, easing the dryness inside before answering, “If that’s what you want, I’ll let you go. But I’m not dropping this case.” My eyes dance between hers, which are greener than usual. “Is that what you want, Rae? Do you want to leave?”
She deliberates for barely a second—it seems like a shit load longer—before gingerly shaking her head. I try to rein in my delight; my attempts are borderline. She may need protecting from me more than anybody, but I’ll never let anyone harm her—not even me.
“Can I show you something?” My voice is less angsty than earlier, more understanding.
When Regan nods, I direct her back to my living room. Her unease makes the usual three strides from the door to my couch double the length. She’s not accustomed to giving in without a fight, although I’m not really sure she is giving up. Her defenses are still up, primed and ready to pounce if necessary.
After clearing the fruit platter Regan unknowingly served me for breakfast, I gesture for her to sit. Although I pigheadedly requested she make me breakfast, I never expected she actually would.
Regan dips her chin, scarcely concealing her grin. I stare at her, stunned. She heard my thoughts without even looking at me.Who the fuck is this woman?
Shrugging off my desire to drill her for more information, I gather the evidence Brandon amassed overnight. From the number of photos in the file, his investigation was extremely thorough for a rookie technician.
“Can you look through these and tell me if anything is out of place? It could be a missing item or something added.” Regan’s eyes dart up to mine during my last confession. She seems more creeped out about being left a parting gift than having her possessions stolen. “It could be the most unexpected item, so you need to be diligent. . .”
My words trail off when Regan advises, “A photo frame is missing from my mantel.” She points to a group of photos nestled above the open fireplace in her bedroom. “They rearranged the frames to make the gap inconspicuous, but there is a photo missing.”
“Are you sure it isn’t in another location?” When she shakes her head with certainty, I suggest, “Scan the rest of the photos just to make sure.”
She huffs, somewhat frustrated by my lack of trust. I trust her; I just know how discombobulated your brain becomes when you’re panicked. That’s why I acted so poorly this morning.
“It’s not in any of these photos,” Regan advises a short time later, placing the paperwork on the coffee table. “It’s not a picture that can be easily missed. Luca stood out in a crowd. He never faded into the background.”
The possessiveness in her tone annoys me, but since she’s talking in past tense, it isn’t as notable. The man she is referencing isn’t my competition—not right now, anyway.
After scanning my spotlessly clean apartment, Regan returns her gaze to me. “Did I pack my purse? I have a duplicate of the photo in my purse.”
The pain in her eyes intensifies when I shake my head. “My priority was getting you out of harm’s way, so I didn’t grab your phone or purse.”
Ignoring the jealousy in my tone that she carries another man’s photo with her everywhere she goes, she asks, “Can I borrow your phone then. . .?” Her question falls short when she recalls me demolishing my phone against the brick wall. “What about a laptop? Surely you have one of those?”
My backside lifts an inch off my couch before I remember there is no way she can use my laptop. It isn’t just brimming with information on her employer and his scheming ways; there are numerous images of her splashed across the monitor—ones not used for investigative purposes.
“Ah. I don’t own a laptop.” I curse a million times inside my head for my weak tone before adding on, “Well, I do, but it’s at the shop. I got a virus last week. Destroyed the mainframe or some shit like that.”
Regan’s glare pins me in place—she knows I am lying. Regrettably, her stare doesn’t have the same paralyzing effect on her legs. She charges across the room at the speed of a bullet. Her pace is so fast, she’d barely create a blip on the radar.
When I follow after her, I’m once again torn between being a man and an agent. With her satin slip discarded on the floor, she is standing before me in nothing but a scant pair of panties and an impenetrable ability to destroy me. Her body is downright faultless. Smooth long legs, curvy hips, tiny waist, and breasts Hugh Hefner would have liquidated the Playboy mansion for to feature in his magazine. She is perfect—nothing less than pure fucking perfection.
