Blacklist (Beautiful Idols 2)

James laughed and disappeared back inside, and the next thing Trena heard was the sound of water hitting the marble tiles and the whoosh of a shower door opening and closing. Then she sprang into action, wasting no time fishing his cell out of the back pocket of the jeans he’d dropped on the floor the night before.

Of course the screen was locked, which meant she wouldn’t get very far. Still, there was a string of partial text messages that were visible, one of them mentioning something about a building that had exploded in the middle of the night.

Trena frowned. Why would James be getting a text about a burning building? What connection could there possibly be? Was he somehow involved?

She glanced around the well-appointed room, taking in the king-size bed with its black leather tufted panels and gray sateen sheets, the ornate silver table lamps resting on top of matching charcoal-stained sand-blasted night tables, the cream-colored flokati rug at her feet. The room was sexy, sophisticated, decorated with an eye to high-end design, and the building he lived in was far nicer than hers. Also, if she remembered correctly, he drove a customized Cadillac CTS-V coupe. All of which left her to wonder, how did he afford it?

What sort of odd jobs did he do on the side?

“You coming, babe?” he called, his voice competing with what sounded like a powerful set of showerheads.

She swallowed hard, her hand shaking ever so slightly, and said, “Actually, I . . . think I’ll take a rain check. . . .”

Quickly, before he could get suspicious and catch her in the act, she snapped a pic of James’s cell phone screen with her own, and was just replacing his phone when she found him standing dripping in the doorway. His muscled physique was slick, wet, and coiled for action.

“What’s going on?” He kept his voice light, but his gaze was dark and unkind.

She pretended she was merely folding his pants, and carefully placed them at the foot of the bed. “You should be careful where you leave these.” She laughed, a high, false note she was sure he would see right through. “I just tripped over them. Nearly knocked myself out.”

He remained dripping onto the rug, his gaze so studied, so intense, she cringed under its glare.

“I don’t like snoops.” His voice was quiet, calm, and loaded with menace.

Trena fought to keep from shaking as she wiggled her dress over her hips and said, “Who does?” She moved in an exaggerated way, hoping to distract him, all too aware of the reality of the situation she found herself in—half-naked, vulnerable, and at his absolute mercy. “So how about I promise not to stalk you on Facebook or Twitter and you do the same?” She forced herself to approach him, turning her back as she looked over her shoulder and murmured, “Zip me?”

It was probably the most dangerous, foolish move she could make. Never turn your back on the ocean, bears, and shifty men who are onto you. And yet she needed him to think she had nothing to fear, that she hadn’t crossed the very line he suspected her of crossing.

She sucked in a breath as she felt the zipper slowly climb its way to her neck. He paused at the top, his breath hot on her flesh, his hands kneading the skin at her nape, until his fingers gently circled to the front and he pressed the tips tightly together.

“Be careful out there.” His lips nipped at her ear, as his body pressed hard against hers. His fingers tightened for an agonizing moment, before he finally released and nudged her away.

“You too,” she croaked. Hurriedly fishing around for her shoes, her purse, she waved a shaky good-bye and found her way out of the apartment.

Barefoot, she raced down the hall and had just rung for the elevator when her phone buzzed in her purse. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was from her source at the LAPD.

Madison B’s car found outside office building that burned.

Was it the same office building she’d read about on James’s phone? Impatiently, she punched the call button again, desperate to flee, all the while reminding herself that it was hot, they were in the middle of a drought, the Santa Ana winds were at gale force, and fire season had been officially declared one month before. Which meant it wasn’t at all out of the question to think there had been more than one office park that had burned over the course of the night, and yet . . . She checked the pic she’d taken of James’s text. There was no name attached—just an odd series of numbers that provided no clue to his source, probably sent from a burner phone.

Had the rest of the text, the part she couldn’t view, made mention of Madison’s car being found?

And if so, why was James receiving a message like that?

He wasn’t press, wasn’t an investigator. He had nothing to do with any of it—or did he?

From somewhere down the hall Trena heard the click of a knob being turned, a lock disengaging, followed by the prolonged creak of a door slowly opening.

Deciding not to stick around long enough to see whether or not it was James, Trena raced for the stairs and fled from the building as though it was on fire.

THIRTY-TWO

VICTIM OF LOVE

Mateo slumped over his breakfast and stared blearily at his phone as he contemplated what to do about Layla.

Technically, he wasn’t required to do anything. Though they’d pretended they were “taking a break,” they’d both known at the time there was no going back.

And yet, the memory of the hurt and angry look on her face after seeing him with Heather left him feeling awful, like he needed to explain.