Page 37 of Seduced By the Billionaire
Ronan opened his mouth to reply, but she was already backing off. “To think I believed that you had goodness in you—that you were more than just another voyeur with a Pretty Woman fetish.”
He finally turned her way, the softness in his eyes gone. “You lied to me. Forced me to cover for you with the medical examiner and my goddamn boss?—”
“You chose to cover for me. Even now, I have no idea why you did it.”
Ronan shrugged, then winced, brought a hand to his injured shoulder. “Yeah, well, I don’t know either.” He said it softly, deliberately, but her breath caught in her throat. There was power in his voice. Danger. Threat.
“I knew you were running from someone,” he went on. “I couldn’t figure out why you were hiding his identity. But it’s obvious now that you’re making a deliberate choice. And with the way you’re covering for him, it feels a lot more likely that you’re an accomplice. My partner thinks so, too.” His nostrils flared.
The air left her lungs, her eyes on fire. “Ronan, you don’t get it, he’s?—”
He put up a hand. “I don’t want to know who he is.”
Her jaw dropped. “All this about me not opening up to you, and now you don’t want his name? Now you don’t give a shit?”
“I gave a shit when I could have done something about it. Now, I’d like to live, Jenny. Whatever you’re involved in?—”
“What I’m involved in?”
He turned to face the window once more. “Go home, Jenny.”
She dropped the flowers; the dull smack when they hit the ground was louder than it should have been. She stood there for another moment, her eyes burning with unshed tears, her chest wrapped in jagged thorns. Then, with a final glance at the back of Ronan’s head, she walked out.
Goodbye, she thought. And fuck you.
Men were all the same.
She’d been stupid to think otherwise.
Chapter 17
Ronan
Ronan listened to the hospital room door open and close with his heart in his throat. He hated himself for hurting her. Hated himself more when he’d seen the tears in her eyes.
What he’d just done was extreme, a tactic he wished he could have explained to her beforehand—he hadn’t expected her to show up in his hospital room. But he thought she’d understand… in the end.
The killer knew more than he should. He’d realized that when he woke up on the foyer floor.
Ronan owned a number of homes, all through holding companies—none of them were in his name. This precaution was imperative because he used those homes as safe houses for women running from abusive relationships. Shonda lived in one with Ellen, both former dancers at The Velvet Cage. A dancer from another club lived in a different house while she got her finances in order.
Domestic abusers were a particular brand of vicious, so he’d let Charles install “bug detectors” in each garage. No one could track his car without him knowing. There were also cameras on the roads, sending up alerts if anyone followed him or sat too long outside any of his homes.
Yet, despite dozens of safeguards, the killer knew where he lived—not just that he owned the place, but that this specific house was where Ronan would be. They’d already confirmed there were no explosives at the other locations.
And the only time he’d said his street aloud had been in his own car—with Jenny.
He was certain she hadn’t told anyone. Despite how he’d treated her, he knew she wouldn’t sell him out to her ex. There were no bugs or trackers on his vehicle—security would’ve flagged them. No one had followed him home, and Charles had secretly outfitted Paddy’s car with cameras. If someone had tailed Paddy to his place, they’d know. And Jenny didn’t even have a phone to track.
So how the hell did he know? Was it Jason’s cell? Bugs hidden in Jenny’s clothing—a button, maybe? Sneaking into the club locker room wouldn’t be hard. And if the killer had that level of access…
Ronan kept his gaze on his hands, trying to avoid scanning the corners, the television, the metal nightstand. Was this hospital room bugged? The idea was a stretch, but no precaution seemed far-fetched right now. This guy had resources to spare, following her for so long. Money. And if he’d killed Mercer, he was in the area.
Ronan didn’t believe her ex outsourced homicide. Yes, there were the inherent risks that a hired gun might get caught and talk, but Ronan had seen that scar on Jenny’s chest. This asshole might pay for stalkers, but he liked to do the wet work himself.
Ronan swung his feet to the floor, his lungs aching, guilt threatening to eat through the lining of his stomach. If this psycho believed Ronan and Jenny were together, they were both in more danger. If the killer thought Ronan suspected her, she was all the safer. He’d even called her by her fake name to demonstrate that she hadn’t told him who she really was. That she was still playing this maniac’s game.
Ronan grabbed his singed jeans from the corner, ignoring the faint hint of sulfur when he shook them out. He needed to make the killer overconfident, lull him into thinking his plans were still in motion. He couldn’t send private security to follow Jenny, or the killer would know Ronan’s accusations were a ruse.
