Scandalous (Sinners of Saint 3)

Jackpot.

His iPad was in my hand, nauseous euphoria washing over me. Jordan was in Switzerland. He wouldn’t be able to attend to this until next week. I had to make a fast move.

Tucking the iPad into the waistband of my sensible skirt, I breezed out of the room, throwing polite smiles in my wake as I headed toward my father’s office. I had the key to it, not because he trusted me, but because he was expecting the delivery. Guilt spread inside me like angry cancer cells. My action had pointy teeth, and they ate away at my soul. But Theo was more important than Trent, and, yes, the need to protect him burned in me stronger than caring for Luna.

I slipped into my father’s office, shoving the iPad into one of his drawers and nudging it shut. Quickly—so very quickly—I jogged back to the door, locking it twice behind me and turning the handle to make sure it was tamper-proof. My eyes were so focused on the key clutched in my unsteady grip, the voice behind me made me jump and squeal.

“This is not my office.”

“Good God.” I turned around, slapping a hand over my heart. “You scared the life out of me. I had to stop at Jordan’s office to water his plants.” The lie slipped so fast and easily out of my mouth, I wanted to throw up from what I’d become. True to his Dutch roots, my father was big on flowers and had an unreasonable amount of vases in his office. Trent was going to hate me for real, very soon, when he realized how badly I’d screwed him over. I couldn’t let his soul-sucking eyes and heartthrob body mess with my head.

“Jordan? Why the fuck are you not referring to your dad as Dad?”

Because he isn’t. “European education,” I explained, clearing my throat.

“European, my ass. Never bullshit a bullshitter, ring a bell?”

Trent glanced left and right, making sure we were alone, before grabbing my hand and dragging me to a narrow alcove that separated the restrooms and the break room. He pinned me to the wall again, crowding me. His scent hit me first, drugging my senses, then the soft fabric of his shirt brushed against my shoulder. Every muscle in my body tensed as I tried hard not to shiver.

“I’m asking you this one last time. Have you or have you not fucked Bane since Saturday night?”

I was going to hell for what I was about to do. For the cruelty I was willingly pouring into this already toxic relationship. In my defense, I was certain he only cared because he was an egomaniacal asshole.

“I did,” I lied, not daring to smile. Smiling was too much, but he needed to know he didn’t own me. No one did. Not even Jordan. “As I said before, I don’t take orders from you, Rexroth.”

If I expected him to shout, slam a fist to the wall, or act crazy jealous, I was mistaken. Instead, Trent flashed me a dangerous smirk, turned around, and walked away, leaving me there to pant against the wall. My clenched, needy thighs felt like what we’d done was foreplay, but the hole in my chest suggested this was more than just physical.

Also, what the hell just happened?

A THIEF AND A LIAR.

She’d earned those titles through hard work and persistence.

The first time I saw Edie Van Der Zee was at a barbecue when we were celebrating Knight’s—Dean Cole’s son’s—birthday. It was mere weeks before she started working at Fiscal Heights Holdings, and she’d stolen the attention and limelight purely by standing there, looking like she did. Like a dirty, grunge angel with big ocean eyes and hair like virginal sand.

The second time I saw her, her theft was literal—she was stealing from my mother.

The whatever-the-fuck time I saw her today, she was lying to my face about watering Jordan’s plants (he hired a certified florist for that—she came in four times a week), without blinking an eye.

So why in the good fuck was I taken aback by the footage in front of me?

I was watching the security camera playing the same image of Edie trying to go through my locked drawers and slipping my iPad in her skirt. Over. And over. And over. Again.

Rewind. Pause. Squint. Repeat.

Finally, I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers together and assessing the shit storm she’d so persistently brewed for me.

There was nothing on the iPad she could benefit from, unless she had the interests and hobbies of a four-year-old. The iPad belonged to Luna. The only repugnant evidence Edie had access to were pictures of animals and food items and some kiddie apps.

But why would Edie need my iPad in the first place?

The girl wasn’t swimming in materialistic things. That was not an assumption, but a fact. The way she’d eaten at the restaurant, like she was tasting food for the very first time, was a dead giveaway to her situation. Then there were the small things not many people would have noticed, but someone who used to be poor would. Her shoes—not the ones she borrowed from her mother—were tattered and worn-out. Her backpack was stitched, held by safety pins, and not because it looked cool. Her car needed an urgent date with the shop. She never ate out or ordered takeout with the rest of the floor.