beneficiary. And Jerry Stefano had been promised ten percent of that if he could get away with it.
It was murder for hire.
Ryan shook his head. “I know, but what if, Shan?” He dropped his voice to the barest whisper. “Listen, a buddy of mine in the DA’s office said one of the attorneys visited Jerry in prison recently. Hasn’t been there in years, but wanted to ask him some questions. See if he knew about some other crimes.”
Shannon groaned. “He was a fucking Royal Sinners gunman. Of course he knows about other crimes. He was probably involved in them.”
Ryan was undeterred. “We should at least visit her again.”
“She’ll do her usual routine. Like she did at Christmas. She’ll try to manipulate us.”
She didn’t share Ryan’s sympathies. Not one bit. She harbored guilt though. Too much guilt over her mother, and all those years when she and her mother were as close as a mom and daughter could be. Her mom had been there for her, for every dance, every recital, every performance, every moment. Maybe that was why Shannon had such a hard time severing ties with the woman in orange. Or maybe it was because she believed that her mother, in some bizarre way, loved her and her brothers.
Deeply.
Ryan seemed to sense an opening because he pressed. “Look, if you didn’t want to see her, why’d you give her your new address when you moved back to town a few years ago? So she can write to you. Michael and Colin never did. They cut her out completely. They never see her,” he said, then leaned in closer, and clasped her shoulder. “But you did, and I did. I’m not saying she’s innocent, Shan. I just think she’s our goddamn mother. The least we can do is see her again in jail.”
She gritted her teeth. Visits with her mother were exhausting. They wore her thin. But as that kernel of guilt pulsed through her veins, she threw him a bone. “I honestly don’t know if I’m up for it again so soon. But let me know when you go, okay?”
“I will.”
As she headed into the house, she glanced at the time, grateful that the clock was ticking closer to her date. She wanted to speed up the next several hours, run through them in fast forward, because she needed something that felt good. Something that was the complete opposite of her fucked up family story.
* * *
After she tied the slim strap of her charcoal gray top at her neck, she smoothed her hand across her black skirt, which hit just above her knees. The material was soft to the touch. As Shannon ran her palm across it, she closed her eyes, and imagined the feel of Brent’s hand. He had strong, solid, masculine hands that knew her. That had mapped every inch of her body. That had traveled across the terrain of her skin. Images and sensations whipped through her, and an unexpected moan escaped her lips. The sound coming from her own throat snapped her eyes open.
Was she truly so easy with him that the sliver of a memory ignited her? But the answer seemed self-evident in the way the goosebumps rose on her flesh, and heat bloomed between her legs. And, really, that was all she wanted from him anyway. That was why she’d agreed to dinner that night.
Wasn’t it?
Because he was her magic pill, her sip of champagne, her bite of smooth, dark chocolate. He was an endorphin, the most powerful, potent one she’d ever had. That was why she’d agreed to see him. For a quick hit of a feel-good drug.
She walked into her closet, perused the racks of shoes, then selected a pair of plum-colored pumps with four-inch heels, which would still leave her half a foot shorter than her date tonight. Next, she rooted around in her jewelry box and found a favorite necklace of hers. She fastened the slim silver chain, letting the ruby red pendant fall to her breasts. She laughed out loud—poor Brent. He wouldn’t know where to look first.
Boobs or legs.
Good. She didn’t mind the possibility of torturing him. Not only because she enjoyed it from a purely physical standpoint, but also because it gave her the upper hand. She wasn’t into mind games, or control, but she thought of what her friend Ally often said about relationships when she’d recap her dates. “The French have a saying: ‘In every relationship there is always one who kisses and