Page 39 of Seduced By the Billionaire
“Just because this girl likes you well enough to go to some motel doesn’t mean you’re not wrong. And I’m not going down with you. Do you understand me? Get your shit together.” The words might have been for the sake of anyone listening, but they sure felt real as Paddy turned and headed for the exit. He paused at the door. “Get better too. I don’t want to go to another funeral this year.”
Me either, Ronan thought, watching his partner march into the hall. Especially if he was the one in the coffin.
Chapter 18
Ronan
Ronan nodded to the unmarked on the street outside the club. He’d expected some resistance to that request, but Chief Sam Rourke had only sniffed, then made the call. Strange. Even if Rourke thought Jenny was an accomplice—that they were hoping she’d lead them to the killer—surveillance wasn’t usually the first plan of attack. But he didn’t have the luxury of questioning the chief’s motives.
He didn’t think the killer would come here, despite his request for officers on-site. Everyone at The Velvet Cage would be on high alert, and the police presence would make it less likely that her ex would show. They’d also learned through their interrogations of the dancers that paranoid-pedophile Waylon routinely swept the main floor for cameras.
They knew their suspect was adept at accessing security feeds, so Ronan was safer speaking to her in a place that had none. Especially since any bug on Jenny herself would be harder to hide on her skimpy work costume. The music would distort an auditory feed, too, even if their perp had bugged every chair in the place.
Ronan grabbed the door handle. Early evening, but music was already booming from inside. He ducked into the club and winced as he made his way up the short hallway, through the beaded curtain, and into the main room. While he wasn’t severely injured, just a few scrapes and burns, he had smashed his head against the floor when he’d fallen. He wasn’t concussed, but it was enough to make every pulsing downbeat stab into his temples.
Ronan paused just inside the entry. Brittany was behind the bar today, dressed in her usual pink outfit. When she saw him, she raised a hand and waved.
Ronan returned the gesture, but his lungs were too small. He’d been certain that Jenny would come here tonight—she’d told him she needed money from Waylon. Had she not arrived yet? Or had she already come and gone?
Brittany was still watching him from behind the bar. He took a step toward her, and she grinned more broadly, then glanced at the stage. Her smile fell. Was that… guilt in her eyes?
Ronan stopped and followed her gaze.
The room went black at the edges. The music vanished as if it had been set to mute. All he could hear was the throbbing of his own heart in his ears, the whooshing of blood in his head. All he could see was her.
Jenny’s graceful fingers were wrapped around the silver pole, hips swaying side to side in the dim neon lights. Eyes on the ceiling. Her other hand rested between her breasts. She was still wearing that silvery skirt and her tank top despite being center stage.
What the fuck? Why was she on the stage at all?
His hackles rose, and he turned slowly to see Waylon standing beside the swinging door, shoulder against the jamb. Waylon didn’t notice Ronan. The club owner was watching the stage, too, with a leer on his face that made Ronan want to choke the shit out of him. Smug, but also intensely mean, brows knit together, lips curled downward in a way that could only be rage.
Ronan knew without asking what had happened: this was punishment. Waylon had seen her with Ronan at the station. He probably assumed Jenny was the one who’d accused him of arguing with the deceased. No wonder Brittany looked so damn guilty.
Ronan refocused on the stage. Jenny still hadn’t registered his presence—didn’t seem to notice any of them. Her eyes were staring off into the distance as if she was pretending to be anywhere but here.
Ronan’s mouth filled with iron. His vision went red. The world came rushing back, music blaring, his head throbbing. He marched across the room and stopped in front of the stage. “What are you doing?”
Jenny blinked. She finally looked down.
From behind him came another voice, “Hey buddy, I’m trying to watch the show.”
Ronan ignored the man and offered his hand, reaching across the stage toward the pole. “Get down. This shit is over. If he’s holding your check hostage, I’ll make that bastard pay up without you doing… this.”
Her nostrils flared, but she let go of the pole and crouched so they were eye-to-eye. “Did you really come here to tell me that I can’t work at my fucking job?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. And this isn’t your job, not anymore.” He didn’t care what he had to do. She was never coming back here. Never.
A tap on his shoulder.
Ronan turned to see a tall man with Navy tattoos and a neck that said I haven’t worn a sweater in ten years glaring at him.
“I told you, I’m trying to watch the show.”
Ronan squared his shoulders. “You will sit the fuck down, or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you in the fucking head.”
The man’s gaze dropped to Ronan’s hip—registered his weapon. He raised his hands and retreated, sidling backward without taking his eyes from Ronan’s trigger finger.
Not the right thing to say, not the right thing to do, especially for a cop, but his self-control had all but dissolved. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to run across the room and grab Waylon by the balls.
