Page 56 of Darcy
No one has accessed it except for me. My breath leaves my lungs in a rush, and before I can think better of it, I delete and purge the file. Then I take an older video and rename it in its place, doing the same for all of her backups.
Hopefully, that should stop anyone getting suspicious for a while.
How the hell can anyone go along with filming others like that?
It only gets worse.
Their phones are bugged. They have hundreds of recordings of their calls, texts and even emails.
When I bumped into Gabrielle, I never thought she could be capable of something like this. How deeply is she involved? Is she a victim like my guys? Another doing her job to avoid Miguel’s wrath? Her body language doesn’t scream evil cartel assistant to me.
Whatever her reasons, she’s in deep.
She wasn’t mentioned in my briefing, but if I find evidence that she was a willing accomplice, I won’t feel bad if she gets caught in the blast.
I close her files and switch over to her calendar. Gabrielle’s obsessive organisation continues here as well. Every single part of the tour has been broken down and itemised.
Right down to the “family meeting” taking place after the concert in El Paso.
Bingo.
That’s my chance.
It’s the seventh stop on the tour. The band still has to play Seattle, Las Vegas, and Phoenix before we get there. Plenty of time for me to figure out a plan to get—
Footsteps sound. I slam the lid of my laptop closed, hastily shoving it back into my bag before I settle onto the cushions and do my best impression of sleep.
A door opens just as my head hits the cushioned arm of the chair. I take a deep in breath and let it out slowly, keeping my eyes as lightly shut as I dare. Before I can work up the courage to peek through my lashes, a warm pair of hands scoops me up from my spot on the sofa.
I’m cradled like a princess against a warm chest. I don’t recognise the fresh, clean scent of his soap, so I don’t think it’s Dodger, and this kind of move is too subtle for Slate.
Which leaves Arlo. Sneaky Arlo. I didn’t think the quiet guitarist had it in him to kidnap me.
I crack open one eye as I’m gently deposited on silken sheets and have to stop myself gasping in surprise.
Prophet tucks me in like I’m made of glass. The room is dark, but his silhouette is too broad to be anyone else. A finger traces my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear with such exquisite care that I melt a little.
“In another life,” he whispers, so quietly I barely hear the words.
Then he leaves, shutting the door behind him. Leaving me alone in the massive bed with a case of whiplash.
“I don’t understand that man,” I murmur to the shadows.
Does he hate me and want me gone? Or does he want to tuck me into bed like a princess and take the couch?
* * *
I waketo the scent of fresh coffee and the quiet hum of conversation. It takes a second for me to work out where I am, and when I do, I can’t help but sigh all over again.
I don’t want to leave this warm, cosy slice of heaven, but I also don’t want to miss out on coffee. Decisions, decisions.
As a compromise, I drag the covers with me into the living area, yawning as I go. The guys aren’t in the kitchen, or on the sofa, where someone has left a neatly folded blanket and a pillow. It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to notice them at a table tucked away in the corner, and I blame my morning brain.
“She lives!” Dodger jokes, lifting a shiny silver cloche from a plate in front of the only remaining empty chair. “We ordered for you. The chef here is damned good.”
Ignoring the breakfast wrap, I grab the huge mug of coffee someone has left out and inhale my first sip.
Perfection.
