and fuck if it doesn’t feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders I didn’t even know was there.
“Don’t mock me, Lockhart.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Ah, so very clever.”
“I try.” I glance up to the house in front of me. “Was this what you wanted to talk to me about when I get home?”
“Yes and no. There’s just . . . we’ll talk when you get here.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh, hey. Tell me something,” she says.
“What?”
“Are you still representing Carter Preston’s wife?”
Her question completely throws me for reasons she couldn’t even know.
I think of the drama this week at work. Bianca revoking my representation in the oddest conversation ever.
“No. I’m no longer representing her. Why?”
“No reason.” Her tone is indifferent when mine is anything but.
“Why did you ask? Is Carter causing problems for you? I can cancel this meeting and be back—”
“Carter’s always causing problems,” she says with a laugh. “It would be stupid for you to jump to my rescue every time he did.”
“Is he bugging you? I can have Stuart—”
“I’m fine, Ryker. Better now that I talked to you. I promise.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Goodbye,” she sings the word out.
And just like that, the woman who has had every part of my life in an uproar over the past week ends the call as easily as she owns my heart.
She loves me.
Whew.
I shake my head and smile, then pick my phone back up and dial.
“What’s up, boss? Need something?”
“Keep an eye out for Vaughn, will you?” I ask Stuart, her comment about Carter sticking in my head.
“Will do. My load is light. You want me following her or just checking in?” he asks.
“Whatever you think is best. He’s been too quiet for my liking.”
And she loves me. I have to protect her at all costs.
“Ten-four.”
He ends the call, and I’m left looking at the one thing left I have to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Ryker
James Dillinger’s house stands before me.
It’s quite the spread. There’s no masking the Dillinger money when it comes to this structure. And inside is even more impressive than the outside when the hired help lets me in and has me wait in the formidable foyer.
“Is he expecting you?” the woman dressed all in black asks.
“No. Just a quick visit, really. I was in the area waiting to catch up with his nephew, Chance, and thought I’d stop by to let him know about a little shared connection I discovered.”
“Oh, how sweet of you. He doesn’t get many visitors these days who aren’t here to try to pick that brilliant mind of his, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see someone and not feel obligated to discuss complex dynamic systems or capital theory.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, not caring in the least. The fucker doesn’t deserve any visitors.
I look around the place as I wait. It’s stuffy and stately, and I have a hard time picturing Vaughn and Samantha here as young girls. There’s no way this cold place could have given them an ounce of the warmth children need. Not at all.
The help comes back out with a warm smile. “He’ll meet you in the library, Mr. Lockhart. Right this way.”
She leads me into a room lined with walls filled with all the literary greats. It smells like leather and wood and paper and is rather impressive, but I wonder if it’s all for show. Not a single thing in the room looks as if it’s been touched in years.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Water, soda, wine?”
“I won’t be staying long. Thank you, though.”
“Just let me know if you change your mind.” She heads to the doorway. “He’ll be right in.”
Alone, I move toward the rows and rows of books. Each literary work looks like it’s an original, with spines bound in leather and creased from being used at some point.
I hear him when he enters the room. The hum of his motorized wheelchair. The rasp of his breath. The stop and start of the joystick controlling his movements. But I don’t turn around. I let him sit in his feeble state and wonder what this strange man is doing in his house. I let his curiosity build.
“Those are all first-print publications,” he finally says. His voice has a hint of New England with the lilt of aristocracy.
“I noticed.” I run my hands along them, knowing if these truly are his prized possessions, he’s cringing at the oil from my hands running across them. I keep touching them on purpose.
“Dickens. Austen. Brontë. Twain.” He moves his chair closer.
“I was