Page 80 of Destroyed With You

“It will be tomorrow,” he says, and I realize the underlying assumption. No matter what happens next, at the very least, I’m staying here for the rest of the night. I look at him, wondering where his head is. He abandoned his no gratuitous sex policy at the party, but that was almost like taking one for the team. So have we broken down that wall? Or was that incredible experience a one-off?

The question, however, isn’t one that ranks right now. We have an envelope to open.

He nods to the sofa. “Coffee?”

“Please.” To be honest, I’d prefer the whiskey he mentioned earlier, but it’s been a very long day, and depending on what’s in this envelope, it’s going to get harder for one of us.

I ignore the sofa, choosing to join him in the kitchen. It’s big and roomy, and I lean against the counter and check out the house from this vantage point. “I love your place,” I say, and he grins. “Where’s Tiny?”

“At a sleep-over.” He holds up his phone. “Leah texted that she didn’t have the chance to bring him back today.”

“Leah?”

“My partner,” he said. “At Stark Security. She volunteered to keep him at her place while I was in Texas. He’s buddies with her dachshund.”

“Seriously?”

“They make a cute couple.” He passes me a coffee. “You realize what we’re doing, right?”

I nod. “Fine. Time to stop procrastinating.” I reach into the interior pocket of his jacket and pull out the envelope. Then I meet his eyes. Do you want to do the honors?”

“Go ahead.”

I manage a quick, curt nod, then slide my finger under the flap. There are two photographs and a folded sheet of paper covered with cramped handwriting. But all I have to see is the first photo—Billy Hawthorne standing on the deck of a boat I recognize. A yacht I’ve been on at least a dozen times for lazy afternoons on the lake.

The yacht my boss keeps moored at a marina on Lake Erie.

And he’s right there in the picture, standing alongside Billy Hawthorne, as cozy as you please. Dustin Collins.

The man I thought of as a father.

And now I know he’s as dirty as sin.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I’m so sorry,” Winston says, and I look up at him through tear-filled eyes, hating the weakness that keeps me from being stoic about this.

“Have you looked through the rest?” I ask.

“Another photo of Hawthorne with Collins plus Bartlett’s notes. Things he was going to testify about. It’s a lot. And he makes clear that he’s been working with Seagrave to bring Collins down.”

I hug myself. “Well, that’s good for you.” I draw a breath. “I should go change. You need to call Seagrave. He’s going to want to deploy a team right away.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” He hesitates. “I’ll toss your clothes in the wash so you have them for the morning. Right now, you should get comfortable. I’ve got a robe on the back of the bedroom door. Or do you want me to find you some pajama bottoms and a tee?”

“The robe is fine,” I say gratefully. Then I go to change, my head full of regret and betrayal and self-loathing since I never once had even a hint that the man who’d been like a father to me was also a traitor.

I tug the ring off and put it in the interior jacket pocket before laying the suit coat across the bed. Then I step out of the mangled evening gown that Ryan lent me, hoping that Jamie won’t be too annoyed. I consider tossing it, but a tailor might be able to work some magic.

Then I stand naked for a moment, unsure of what to do now. It’s over. Our part is done. By the time I go back into the living room, a Chicago-based SOC team will be prepping to raid Dustin Collin’s house as well as Billy Hawthorne’s.

How could I have been so wrong about Collins?

There’s a tap at the door, and a soft, “Can I come in?”

“Sure. Yes. Of course.” My voice is flat, belying how much I want him to hold me.

He enters, and I move to sit on the end of the bed. “I’m so sorry,” he tells me again.