Page 6 of Seduced By the Billionaire
Chapter 4
Juliette
His blue eyes appeared darker in the yellowed lights. He was more domineering, too, shoulders broader—authoritarian, though he had no more power here than anyone else.
Though, to be fair, he certainly had more power than Jason.
Her eyes drifted to the sticky tile. The man’s head was turned to the side, eyes wide and staring, blood reddening a slimy path from his lips to the floor—the flow had stopped. No defensive wounds that she could see. His knuckles were free from gore, and though his hands weren’t exactly clean, he didn’t appear to have blood beneath his fingernails.
Blindsided, then. Six stab wounds. The first must have been the kill shot, the others for the sake of pure rage. He hadn’t had time to fight back.
“Don’t move,” the man snapped, and she glanced over as he stepped through the swinging door into the main room, yanking his cell from his pocket. Calling the police from the way he was rapid-firing their address. Within seconds, he was barking orders at her coworkers, or maybe at the other patrons—“You, sit down. You, hit the lights”—voice low and gruff like he had gravel in his throat.
Strange. He was acting as if he was the owner of this place and not Waylon, who was still standing by the open door to his office, upper lip set in a trembling sneer. The lights in the main room snapped on.
The hairs on her neck prickled. She turned back to see Waylon glaring at her. It wasn’t just a look—it was a warning.
“You remember what I said,” Waylon hissed, deep-set eyes tight.
“I remember,” she fired back.
He pushed himself off the doorframe but did not step toward her—avoiding the body.
But Juliette wasn’t avoiding it. She couldn’t afford to.
She tried to keep her face even, but her mind was racing, eyes scanning the room. No bloody footprints, no obvious dirt from a boot heel, but anything subtle would be hard to see. Waylon owned a mop for the front room, but no one ever cleaned back here. And they should.
Especially Waylon’s nasty office.
Her hackles rose, but she pushed those thoughts aside. What was she supposed to do now? The fact that she knew Jason would be a problem if the police put her into the system. And if they realized her license was fake, snapped her photo, and ran it through facial recognition software… fuck.
She glanced at the swinging door—no more music, just that man barking orders. The back door was still wide open, the night breeze hissing over the tiles and ruffling Jason’s short, blond hair. Smears of ruby on the door itself—transfer stains about the height to be from a jacket sleeve. Nothing on the handle.
Another chilly gust blew into the room, and Juliette had to restrain herself to keep from racing through the exit. The potential for escape was inviting… which was probably the point. Should she risk it? Would she fare better out in the dark alley? Or was it a trap?
“I’m serious,” Waylon said, bringing her back. “You didn’t see shit, Jenny. I know enough about you that?—”
“I said I remember,” she repeated. “And you didn’t see anything either, right? Now be quiet, he’s coming.”
As if on cue, the man stepped back through the door, eyes grazing her face, then Waylon’s before locking on Jason. With the music off, the silence was deafening. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, the disgusting whoosh of air through her nose.
“How did you know the deceased?” he said. Far too calm. Far too… used to this.
Juliette’s shoulders stiffened, her spine a steel rod. The deceased? Who talked like that? Only one group she could think of. People who dealt with dead bodies. With victims.
Oh no. Juliette lowered her head, avoiding his piercing gaze. Of all the dangerous bullies in the world, cops were the absolute worst. How the hell had she missed this? Because he had money? She’d caught him sneaking around the locker rooms once but hadn’t said a word because Waylon had found thousands of dollars stuffed into their cubbies—money surely meant for them.
But cops didn’t have that kind of money to throw around. Not unless they were dirty.
“Ma’am?”
She raised her head. “I didn’t know him.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you often kiss people that you don’t know?”
“Excuse me? Who are you to?—”
“I’m Ronan Duffy.” He reached into his pocket and flashed a badge—not just any cop. A detective. “And your lipstick is on his mouth.”
