Page 60 of Resist

It has to be because of the wine.

It might have been only one glass, but I never think in terms of romance. I only visit the park to take Lucy to play. I only notice the soft glow of lights to make sure a parking lot is illuminated on the way to my car. And I never look at a man with anticipation and wonder what it will be like when we have sex.

Because that is where this is heading—obviously—I just hope that this time I can do it without the past rearing its ugly head. I just hope that hint of whatever he made me feel that first time returns to make me feel alive again.

“You haven’t spoken since we left,” I say and recall everything that ensued. The breath-stealing kiss he gave me that prompted us to leave The Club. The utter want and fear that we were heading someplace to have sex. The confusion that followed when his driver dropped us off here—in Central Park, of all places. “Do you want to talk about what’s wrong or explain what that was all about or . . . I don’t know, tell me why you’re in such a foul mood?”

He slides a glance my way, and his sigh is audible as he shakes his head. “Shitty day,” he murmurs but doesn’t expand.

“So you figured you’d take it out on me?”

“Took on a new client I’m not a fan of.”

“Then why’d you take him on? You’re big enough, well known enough—I’m sure saying no wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Mmm.” It’s the only sound he makes as we pass a group of people sitting on the grass. They’re a little intoxicated, and something one of them says makes me laugh even though I shouldn’t be listening.

“This new client is a man, I presume?”

“Mmm.”

“And why not a woman? Why not add to that status of yours of representing power players and instead opt to defend a wife one of these days?”

He slides me a glance that tells me he thinks I’m crazy, and yet there’s something about the look in it that I can’t quite read. “Because men are safer.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You just keep thinking that.” I shake my head and try to focus on the path ahead instead of the man beside me. And it works, for a few minutes—the crunch of his footsteps, his gentle touch to my lower back as he ushers me out of the way of a passing pair of joggers, the silence of our thoughts—until he speaks.

“How did he not know who you were the other night?”

“Who?” My mind flashes to the guy at the bar earlier. Is that who he’s talking about?

“The senator. He knew you but couldn’t place you. Why?”

I open my mouth and then close it, ready to explain but needing to keep the integrity of my word when it comes to my clients, regardless of the fact that Carter Preston is an asshole. “You’re the only client I’ve ever met face-to-face without wearing a disguise.”

“Humph.” It’s the only sound he makes, but I see the tension manifest itself in his posture.

“Ryker?”

“He’s a client of yours?”

“No one is a client of mine. They are a client of Wicked Ways,” I say, trying to stay afoot on the slippery slope we’re treading on here.

“I’m a client of yours,” he states, matter of fact, and while he’s right, while he’s the only client I’ve ever had, I don’t respond. Can’t. Because that would be giving too much away to a man who unnerves me and unravels me all in the same breath. “The dark hair doesn’t suit you.”

My footsteps falter as his words hit my ears. “Dark hair?” I feign ignorance as my heart races.

“The wig you wear. It’s sexy but not you.”

“Wait. What? You had me followed?” There’s a quiet anger in my voice. One that only scratches the surface of the discord his comment created.

“The same way you had me followed. Seems both of us use private investigators.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Your secret is safe with me,” he murmurs while my mind spins a million miles an hour.

It’s safe with you so long as I fulfill your requests.

The second part isn’t stated but implied. Just another threat to hang over my head.

I usually only dress up as Vee to meet new girls. They get one face-to-face with me if requested. The only personal touch I provide so that I can look them in the eyes and let them know they can trust me.