And failed.
Now I realized it was because he’d known all along my purpose here and played me. And I was an ignorant idiot to believe Chad wouldn’t have suspected me.
I should have gotten a hint the second he’d asked me in the garden if I wanted to kill him. But I’d been too busy aching for his lips on mine to hear the warning bells.
I’d waited until he’d completely fucked my brains out to question how he’d gotten in the complex.Then, like a dull-witted fool, I’d believed him when he said he never knew I lived there.
So distracted. So unacceptably distracted I’d been.
A prime example why screwing your target is never an option. Yeah…you justdon’tdo that. Ever.
My ass was grass. This was a major fuck-up, and I’d been trying all night not to think about what the result of my failure would be when The Voice found out.
In addition to failing, I was being held hostage by my target.
Jhay Byrd: dumbest fucking assassin who ever lived.
The elevator pinged open and coughed us out into a luxuriously pretentious penthouse. So disgustingly arrogant in its deep brown and beige decor, designed for a man’s palette. The ridiculously high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the Bay gave the illusion that the penthouse was a lot bigger than it actually was.
He lived splendidly, this man. How unfair that he’d completely ruined my life, but wasfreeand alive enjoying his to the fullest.
Keeping my lower lip pressed between my teeth, I followed where he led, partly because I had no choice, and partly because I’d given up on everything. I’d gone from one person’s captivity to another. And while I’d like to think that this particular captivity would be a sweet captivity—what with the dangerously toxic, unexplainable emotions I felt for this man—Chad’s surly attitude was like a warning sign to abandon all hope.
He went from wanting our fucks to mean something to not wanting to hear my voice at all.
Setting down the plastic bag with our food on an eight-seater dining table, he led me down a short hallway, stopped at the first door on the right, turned the knob, and pushed it open, gesturing for me to get in.
I walked into the room and was overwhelmed.
In a good way.
In royal purple and beige, the room was capacious and beautifully decorated. Flanked by two nightstands with elaborate bedside lamps was a king-sized bed with a tall, tufted headboard. Two massive, teal armchairs and a coffee table made for a sitting area on the far right. Dresser, chest of drawers, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV on the wall.
I wanted to cry like a little girl, the room was so warm and welcoming. It’s like a long-lost bedroom.Mine. Made forme. Royal purple was my favorite color.Howandwhydid he have a room in royal purple?
“Closet’s stocked with clothes for you. Undergarments and sleepwear are in the chest of drawers,” he voiced from behind me, remaining at the doorway like he wasn’t allowed in. “You have everything you need here. Need any assistance, my housemaid—when she returns in the morning from her day off—will be here to attend to you.”
Those words hit me, like a fist to the gut, and I whirled on him. “You decorated this room for me? Bought me clothes? Shit, you planned to take me hostage all along?”
Straight-faced, he corrected, “You’re not hostage.”
I threw my hands out, the duffel bag dropping to the carpeted floor with a mild thud. “Then what the hell’s allthis?!”
“We played a game and you lost. I manipulatively left myself open on the chessboard and you, predictably, moved into all the traps.”
Ashamed of my stupidity, I dropped my gaze and accepted defeat. “You knew. All along you knew why I was here and you just…toyed with me. Let me think I was winning.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Chad leaned against the door frame. “To give you credit, you were working as a fake stripper inmyclub, right under my nose and I didn’t even smell you. That’s something. Because I have spies everywhere who sniff out my assassins from miles away. No one’s ever gotten…this close.”
“Why are you keeping me alive?”
He chortled at this, but it seemed more like he was laughing at himself, at his own madness. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. For all I know, I might’ve hit my head real fucking hard somewhere and just don’t remember it.”
Because you want me, goddammit! Because I mean something to you. Say it, you proud asshole!
To hide a smile, I turned from him and went to sit at the edge of the bed, keeping my head down. “What else do you know?”
I stiflingly held in my breath, curling my fingers and clutching the duvet, praying like hell he wouldn’t say, “That you’re Tweety Byrd.”
