Page 71 of Bulletproof

“Not,” I repeated.

“Not?”

I glanced around. “I’m so clueless right now.”

“This man is not your detective?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” I said slowly. “Have you not pulled up a picture of Sam Kage? I figured you would have, with all your interest in me.”

“I never said I was in⁠—”

“Okay, wait.” I raked my hands through my hair. “So, you’re sitting there, telling me you have no idea what Sam Kage looks like?”

Time ticked by, and there was a second flicker of doubt on his face.

“Seriously?”

“Jor—”

“I figured you, with all your connections and stuff, could for sure get into police department files. The bad guys can always do that kind of stuff in the movies.”

“So, I’m a bad guy now?”

I gestured at Sam. “Well, you’re clearly not the good guy if you’re beating people up.”

He glared at me.

“What did you do to him?” I asked, going around the table until I was beside Sam. It took every drop of concentration I had not to touch his face.

“I told him,” Sam said, his eyes on mine, “that I didn’t know you.”

“But that’s not true.” I smiled at him. “Because we met on the yacht the other night.” I looked back over at Cristo. “You were there, remember?”

And his eyes widened, like maybe—just maybe—he had forgotten that. When I returned my gaze to Sam’s bruised face, he took a quick breath.

“I do remember that now,” Cristo said softly.

“Good,” I said as my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest so it could leave me and go live in Sam’s, where it belonged. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.” He winced when he sat back.

I squatted down beside the chair, getting a closer look at him, and saw that his shirt was torn and there were marks on his throat. There looked to be a shoe imprint on the white T-shirt that was visible beneath the shredded dress shirt.

“Are your ribs broken?”

“Just bruised, I think,” he told me, giving me a trace of a smile as he trembled just slightly. While it was hard for me not to touch Sam, it had to be just as difficult for him. He was hurt, and more than anything, he wanted me to comfort him, kiss him, and put my hands all over him. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry to drag you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything,” I murmured, scrutinizing him.

He had been hit very hard, very long, and it was taking a lot of energy for me not to yell. The man needed to go to the hospital, and looking at him—allowed to do nothing else—was twisting my stomach into knots.

“Like I said, we met on the stupid boat, and that was it.”

“Yes.”