My hand finds the back of that red wig and I lean in close. “Is that a promise?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s absolutely a promise.”
I lean in to kiss her and she presses her fingers to my mouth. “Red lipstick and not the stay-on kind.”
“That’s your only objection?”
“We might die. That makes me liberal with my kisses, but that doesn’t mean you can kiss me when this is over.”
“We aren’t going to die, and with you, baby, I will take what I can get.” I pull her hand back and kiss the hell out of her, drinking her in, consuming her, possessing her, and when she moans, I part our lips and say, “That shit about not knowing what this is was bullshit to protect you. You know that, right?”
“I know enough,” she whispers. “Call Blake. Let me just do this. I have a fight with you at your place to get to.”
I hesitate on her “I know enough” reply, but this isn’t the time or place for this conversation. I kiss her again, hard and fast before I grab the earpieces and help her place hers properly.
“Talk to us. Tell us what you see. Tell us what your instincts tell you. We’ll be close. I’ll be close. Understand?”
She nods. That’s all, just a nod. No words.
She’s focused on what is before us, probably fighting nerves. I install my headset and signal our readiness to the team before I wipe wayward lipstick from above her lip. “You look like you’ve been kissing some asshole.”
“I have,” she assures me, with a hint of a nervous smile. “Is it all over my face?”
“No. I got you,” I promise, and I’m not just talking about the lipstick.
Her eyes warm and she motions to my mouth. “You have a few hints of pink on your lips.”
“I don’t mind looking like I’ve been kissing a pretty woman.” I motion her toward the exit.
She nods and we enter the foyer, pausing at the door, where she draws in a sharp breath and turns to me, poking my chest. “Do not get killed or arrested, Adrian Mack. Do you understand?”
I capture her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
She glares at me for obvious impact and then turns and opens the door. The minute it closes behind her, I swear I’m losing my mind. I scrub a hand through my hair and promise myself that she’s safe. She is so fucking safe. We’ll be in my apartment fighting and fucking in no time.
It can be no other way.
Or I might go on a damn killing streak that will put Savage to shame.
Chapter Twenty-Four
PRI
I step into the empty elevator car and remind myself that I have to own the moment when I exit to the lobby as surely as I own the courtroom when I deliver an opening or closing statement. As a prosecutor, even if I’m not sold on my position, I have to sell it. And right now, I have to sell Paige, the redhead with pink lipstick. The elevator is modern and speedy and it’s time to execute my ownership of Paige a little too quickly. Nonetheless, the doors open and my heart flutters at the idea of a killer in wait for me. Shoving that horrid thought aside, I exit the elevator and lift my chin a little higher, a façade of confidence my friend, as I tell myself to enjoy wearing pink instead of boring, professional black, and navy.
Remembering Adrian’s warning about a traveling gaze drawing attention, I travel the lobby without a glance at anyone else, certain Paige would have nothing but her need for Starbucks on her mind anyway. Oh to be that carefree in real life right now, able to enjoy the sweet thrill of coffee without fear of death. I’ve actually never been what anyone would call carefree. I like having a case to fret over. I need a purpose at all times. And prosecuting Waters is my purpose now. I will never walk away. The fact that I’m in a wig, forced to run for my life, doesn’t change that. It just reminds me of his pure evil and enforces why I can’t back down.
I can’t believe Adrian would believe I’d do otherwise.
Anger burns in my belly, and with it, courage swells—I’m fighting this monster and I will not cower. Adrian won’t convince me to do otherwise.
With the newfound push of rebellion charging my footsteps, I move a little quicker as I spy the doorman, a short man with a shiny bald head, and step right into his path. “Excuse me, sir.”
His rather beady brown eyes fix on me and I look for some strange reaction to a woman in a wig, but if he notices, he offers no indication. “Yes, miss,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
I blink with the use of the word “miss,” which is unfamiliar as it applies to me. Obviously, the hair and outfit affect perception—a comforting thought that confirms I don’t look like myself.