Page 12 of Seduced By the Billionaire
“Fair enough. But I don’t think either of you is being completely honest with me. So… does your boss have something on you that would make you want to protect him? Or whoever was in that office with him? I can’t imagine that dickhead earned your loyalty without blackmail.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “What do you think he might have? The knowledge that I work in a strip club? You think he’ll tell my mother?” She forced a smile.
Ronan shrugged. “What would Mommy and Daddy say about that?”
She laughed, as she assumed was expected. He didn’t. His gaze darkened, then he glanced at her chest.
The scar pulsed, pulsed, pulsed—bright and sharp. The scar that had ruined her for anyone else. Which had been exactly the point.
But she didn’t see disgust in Ronan’s gaze. Something warmer—something she’d thought was desire in the club.
“Do you… like scars?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Why the fuck had she asked him that?
“I don’t like the pain that caused them,” he said, his eyes carefully focused on the road. “But a scar doesn’t detract from someone’s desirability if that’s what you mean. What matters most is in here.” He tapped his temple. “Some of us have scars in there, too, in places that don’t heal over.”
Her chest was wrapped in a vise—she could barely breathe.
He pulled to a stop at a red light and turned to face her. “Are you in danger, Ms. Crandall?”
Yes. But she said, “I don’t think so.” And she hoped it was true. Because though Ronan might believe that his badge would protect him, the man she was afraid of had murdered officers in the past. If provoked, she had no doubt that he’d do it again.
She really hadn’t seen what had happened to Jason—she’d told Ronan the truth about that. She hadn’t even seen whoever Waylon was with. As of now, there was no way to tell whether this was about her.
But if it was… she couldn’t let them catch the killer. If they found him, he’d beat the charges—he always did. But they’d also find her.
Hopefully, Jason had died over a gambling debt or just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gang initiation, maybe. The senseless crimes, the ones without motive, were always the hardest to solve—she’d seen that before.
But the pit in her belly was telling her this wasn’t some random act of violence. She’d met Jason the night before—and she’d had a reason for walking away. She’d been suspicious then that he might have approached her at Daniel’s behest. And now… he was dead.
Earlier today, Brittany had accused her of being paranoid—she’d thought it herself just minutes ago.
But just because she was paranoid didn’t mean someone wasn’t after her.
Chapter 7
Ronan
Five things he’d learned about Jennifer Crandall on the way back to her house. One, she was well-read with a broad vocabulary—she’d at least started college at some point, maybe a psychology major. Two, she hated her boss, which meant she was hiding whatever she’d seen for another reason. Three, her parents were dead—that glint of sorrow in her eyes when he’d mentioned them, without the anger he always saw in estrangement, was indicative of loss. Four, the woman was terrified of someone—no matter what she said, she did not believe Mercer’s death was some isolated incident or related to Waylon. And finally…
Every word out of her mouth was a lie.
No one had mentioned gambling—he’d used that to see what her face did when she was actually surprised. The woman was better than most at hiding her tells, as if she’d been doing it her whole life. He imagined she had. Pain recognized pain… well, usually. Sometimes, you beat an innocent man in a parking lot for making out with his girlfriend, who happened to like it rough.
Bubble-gum Brittany had, in fact, told him that she’d heard Waylon arguing with the victim. But her eye had been twitching so hard he’d almost asked if she had a history of seizures. Waylon was a prick, but Brittany hadn’t thought the consequences of that lie through—at best, Waylon would figure out who’d said it, and she’d lose her job. Though he had confirmed that she was of legal age, she was barely so—eighteen as of three days ago. She was naïve, but he couldn’t blame her for trying.
Brittany was protecting Jenny. Jenny was protecting Waylon, but more likely herself. Both could be true if Waylon had something incriminating on her. And he did—he had to. But what could she be more worried about than a murder investigation?
“Turn left here,” she said.
All she’d told him when she’d gotten into the car was “head for the east side,” but in the half an hour since, she’d directed them around a big square. They were only a few blocks from the club now.
Ronan hit the signal and eased onto the next road. “You weren’t sure whether you’d tell me where you lived, huh?”
She blinked at the windshield. “You’re pretty good at figuring stuff out,” she said quietly, but she didn’t sound impressed. She sounded worried.
He cut his eyes at her, trying not to stare. She was even more beautiful up close, which was a completely inappropriate thought. He was here to protect her. To make sure she got home safe.
But he could not help the way his heart beat faster when he watched her thick lashes flutter closed for a beat longer than a blink, the way her breasts rose in the pale glare of the streetlights as he assessed her breathing. The latter was a trick to determine whether someone was lying—respiration changes were a reliable indicator of untruth—but never before had such a thing turned him on.
