like that, but it was something. Something that would not allow her to betray him.
It wasn’t some sappy sentimentality. Some oh-you’re-such-a-good-fuck-I-could-never-rat-you-out nonsense. It was something deeper. Something raw. Something spurred on by the steady stare of his deep-brown eyes. Something that spoke to her and whispered, Don’t do it.
And she couldn’t.
It didn’t matter if he was what she suspected. Hell, she didn’t care if he was a member of SEAL Team Fucking Six. She wasn’t turning him over to Marcus. She wasn’t going to continue with her investigation.
Thank God she hadn’t given him the updates he’d been harassing her for. She hadn’t shared her intel about the links to the bar or her suspicions about the air base outside of Deep Ellum. She hadn’t shared anything. She would tell Marcus some bullshit lie that rumors about the team were a bunch of hooey started by the café owner who had called the report in—in hopes of bringing in tourists. He’d buy that. She was sure of it.
It frightened her a little, the thought of thwarting him, because he was a mean son of a bitch when he was thwarted. But she was a good liar. And he trusted her to tell the truth. He had too much on her to ever suspect she’d turn on him.
Yeah. Tomorrow, she’d pack up her shit and get out of Dodge. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could stumble onto some other juicy story she could toss his way to pacify him. Some alien bunker shit.
Filled with resolve, she steeled her spine and fluffed her hair, then headed back into the bedroom. She knew Steve was drained. She knew there’d be no more kinky fuckery—certainly no more delicious spankings—tonight. But she liked the idea of curling up against him and soaking in his heat.
It was lonely in her world. And cold. Baking against him had been blissful.
With that memory curling a smile on her lips, she came out of the bathroom…and stopped stock-still.
Steve stood in the middle of the room, holding her phone in one hand and her purse in the other. Was he robbing her? Anger and betrayal sluiced through her. Her gut lurched. She hated when this happened. When guys played her like this. She’d really thought there was something here.
Fool.
When he glanced up, his expression was hard, nothing like the charming, seductive man she’d seen up until now.
“Why are you going through my things?” she snapped.
He didn’t answer, other than to clip, “We need to talk.”
She folded her arms. “There’s nothing to talk about. You need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until you explain this.” He held up her cell.
“It’s a phone. People use it to communicate with other people who are too far away to hear them yell.”
His lips twisted, but not with humor. Damn, he was scary like this. She didn’t like him like this. Not at all.
“Who’s Marcus?”
“A little early to get all possessive, isn’t it? One fuck and you’re worried about other men?”
“Two fucks. And that’s beside the point. Who. Is. Marcus?”
“Another man.” She simpered. She didn’t want to answer his questions, because frankly he was being an ass.
He flicked through her contacts. His finger stalled and a muscle bunched in his cheek. “Marcus Morrow. Publisher of the National Snoop. Now why would a waitress be texting him?”
She drummed her fingers. “I thought I saw a movie star.”
“In Deep Ellum. Right. Come on, Candy. Or should I call you…Veronica?”
She bristled. “How did you know my name?”
“It’s on your driver’s license.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. She knew who he was. What he was. Despite her gullible willingness to ignore it. “Jese-o-pese. Did you go through everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, it’s not Veronica.”
His brow quirked.
“No one calls me Veronica.” No one ever had. Except Mom. And she was gone. “I’m Roni. And I assume you aren’t Steve.”
“Nope. Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in?”
“I’m a waitress. At a bar. In a Podunk town.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He reached into her suitcase and pulled out her press pass, dangling it between his fingers.
“Did you go through my underwear too?”
He smirked. “Didn’t need to. You’re not very good at hiding the evidence.”
“Evidence? This is hardly a crime.” Might as well go on the defensive. She hated that she felt her walls rising again. But hell, she needed them.
His expression tightened. “What are you investigating here?”
“Sandstorms.”
He growled at her.
It pissed her off that she liked it. “I’m doing a story on…biker gangs, of course.” She thought she managed a