FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-SEVEN


“Ask him what he knew before your car went off that road.”

Felix’s voice carried through the closed door.

The words entered the room while Wesley’s hand was still beneath my blouse.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

My legs were still parted around him. My fingers remained twisted in the front of his shirt. His mouth had left mine swollen and damp, and his breathing was still rough enough for me to feel each exhale against my face.

Then the meaning reached me.

The crash.

Wesley’s hand slid from my skin.

I released his shirt.

The distance between us returned quickly, though the desk remained at my back and he still stood between my knees. A moment ago, his body had felt like the only thing holding me steady. Now every place he had touched seemed contaminated.

“What did he mean?”

Wesley’s eyes stayed on mine. He looked controlled again, but the transformation was incomplete. His shirt was pulled loose where I had gripped it. His mouth was reddened from mine. A strand of dark hair had fallen out of place.

He looked like a man caught between two different kinds of exposure.

“Get down from the desk,” he said.

The cold command hit me like an insult.

I slid off without his help. My knees felt weak, but anger kept me upright.

“What did he mean?”

“We are not discussing this here.”

I laughed once. “You were willing to put your hands under my clothes here.”

His jaw tightened.

“Now the room is inappropriate?”

He turned toward the adjoining door.

I caught his wrist.

Wesley stopped and looked down at my hand.

“Do not walk away from me.”

Felix shouted from the other room. “He knew Bernardi was planning something. Ask him why he did nothing.”

Wesley pulled the door open so violently it struck the wall.

Felix sat in the chair where Roy had left him, wrists still secured behind his back. Two guards stood near him. Roy was positioned by the far wall, his expression grim.

Felix looked at Wesley and laughed. The sound held more fear than humor.

“There he is,” Felix said. “The man who knows everything except when it matters.”

Wesley stepped into the room.

I followed.

Roy’s attention shifted to me, then to Wesley’s wrinkled shirt. His face gave nothing away, but I saw him understand enough.

“Take him downstairs,” Wesley said.

Felix leaned forward. “Tell her.”

One of the guards reached for him.

“Tell me what?” I demanded.

Felix’s eyes found mine. “Marco was preparing an accident. Morano heard about it before it happened.”

The room seemed to lose its air.

I looked at Wesley.

He did not deny it.

My heartbeat slowed into heavy, painful strikes.

“How long before?”

“Catrina,” Wesley said.

“How long?”

Felix answered for him. “Long enough to ask questions.”

Wesley crossed the room and gripped the back of Felix’s chair. He bent close, his voice low enough to make the threat more frightening.

“You have one chance to stop speaking.”

Felix’s face drained of color, but desperation kept him going. “He protected his source. That is what he does. Men like him protect information before people.”

Wesley straightened.

“Take him.”

The guards hauled Felix out of the chair. His shoes scraped across the floor as they dragged him toward the door.

He twisted his head toward me.

“Ask him why he married you,” he shouted. “Ask him whether it was guilt.”

The door slammed behind him.

Silence remained.

Roy stayed where he was.

Wesley looked at him. “Leave us.”

Roy hesitated.

“Now.”

Roy walked out and closed the door.

I stared at Wesley across the room.

He stood with his back to me for a moment, one hand resting at his hip, the other curling slowly into a fist. He looked as though he were arranging the truth into a version he could tolerate giving me.

I had seen him do it before. Each pause. Each careful choice of words. Every silence designed to keep control in his hands.

“Do not edit it,” I said.

He turned.

“I want all of it.”

“You will have what I know.”

“That is already an edit.”

His expression hardened. “Two days before the crash, a source inside Marco’s organization warned me he was arranging an accident.”

The room tilted.

I caught the edge of the table beside me.

“What kind of accident?”

“The source did not know.”

“A car?”

“Possibly. He had heard Marco speaking to a contractor who specialized in mechanical failures and staged collisions.”

My stomach clenched.

I saw the road again.

Sunlight on the windshield. My hand resting low over my stomach. The sudden failure when I pressed the brake. The car refusing to slow. The barrier rushing toward me.

I forced the image down.

“Did he give you my name?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

I studied him. “Did he mention me?”

“No.”

“Did he mention Marco’s wife?”

“No.”

“Then what did he say?”

Wesley’s eyes remained steady. “That Marco intended to remove a problem without drawing police attention.”

My mouth went dry.

“A problem.”

“Yes.”

“And you assumed it was business.”

“I assumed it involved a rival, a shipment, or one of his own men.”

“You assumed.”

“I investigated.”

“How?”

“Quietly.”

The word made something vicious rise inside me.

“Quietly.”

“If Marco discovered the source, the man would have been dead within an hour.”

“My child was dead within two days.”

The sentence left me before I could brace for it.

Wesley’s face changed.

Only slightly. A flicker in his eyes. A tight pull beside his mouth. It was more emotion than he usually allowed, and it made my anger worse.

“You knew Marco was planning to kill someone,” I said. “You knew he wanted it to look like an accident, and you protected your informant.”

“I protected the only person close enough to tell me what Marco was planning next.”

“You protected an asset.”

“Yes.”

His honesty struck harder than an excuse would have.

I stepped toward him.

“And while you were protecting him, I got into my car.”

“I did not know you were the target.”

“You knew enough to ask questions.”

“I did.”

“Did you ask about me?”

A pause.

That was all it took.

I felt something split open in my chest.

“You did.”

“Marco’s behavior toward you had already become unstable.”

My fingers went cold.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he had increased surveillance around you. He had assigned men to follow you without telling you. He had started removing staff members you trusted.”

“You were watching my marriage.”

“I was watching Marco.”

“Do not hide behind that distinction.”

“It is not a distinction. It is the truth.”

“You knew he was watching me, and you still did nothing.”

“I had no proof he intended to kill you.”

“You had proof he was planning an accident.”

“I had a rumor from a source who was still establishing details.”

My hand struck his chest.

The impact hurt my palm. He barely moved.

I shoved him again.

“You could have warned me.”

“And said what? That a man you had never met believed your husband might be planning an unnamed accident against an unknown target?”

“Yes.”

“You would have told Marco.”

“I would have left.”

“You had already threatened to leave him. That was why he escalated.”

The words stopped me.

Wesley looked as though he wished he could pull them back, but the damage had already been done.

“You knew that too.”

“I knew you had spoken to a lawyer.”

I stared at him.

The room became too small.

“How?”

“Marco had the lawyer followed.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“My people were watching the same man.”

The answer landed piece by piece.

Wesley had known I wanted to leave. He had known Marco was becoming unstable. He had known an accident was being planned.

He had stood outside my life, gathering information, while I moved toward the worst day of it without knowing anyone was watching.

“You knew enough,” I whispered.

“Not enough to stop it.”

“You keep saying that like it absolves you.”

“It does not.”

His voice was lower now.

The anger inside me faltered, confused by the lack of defense.

Wesley stepped closer, then stopped before entering my reach.

“I should have acted sooner.”

I looked at him.

He held my gaze.

“I should have exposed the source. I should have forced the issue before I knew the target. I did not.”

“Because your information mattered more.”

“Because one source inside Marco’s organization could prevent a war.”

“And what did my life prevent?”

His face tightened.

“What did my baby’s life prevent, Wesley?”

He looked away.

It was the first time I had ever seen him unable to hold my eyes.

That hurt more than any answer.

I crossed the room and gripped the back of the chair Felix had occupied. My knees threatened to give out. I needed something solid, and there was nothing solid left.

The kiss returned to me in humiliating detail. His hand in my hair. His mouth against mine. My legs around him. The way I had pulled him closer after weeks of fighting the desire.

I had given him that while he held this inside him.

“Was that why you married me?”

Wesley’s gaze came back to mine.

“Was what why?”

“Guilt.”

He did not answer immediately.

I laughed, but the sound broke in the middle. “Felix was right.”

“No.”

“Then answer.”

“The marriage protected you and weakened Marco.”

“Strategy.”

“Yes.”

The word scraped through me.

“And guilt?”

His silence answered first.

Then he said, “Partly.”

I closed my eyes.

For one second, I could not breathe.

The bargain replayed itself. His offer. His cold certainty. Marry me, take my name, become untouchable. I had believed I was a weapon he intended to use against Marco. That had been difficult enough to accept.

Now I saw another possibility.

I had been penance.

Something Wesley could save after failing to save what came before.

“When you looked at me,” I said, “did you see me or the mistake you were trying to correct?”

His expression shifted.

“You.”

“You had files on me.”

“Yes.”

“You knew what Marco had done.”

“Some of it.”

“You knew about the crash before I knew it was deliberate.”

“Yes.”

“And then you offered to marry me.”

“Yes.”

Each answer felt like another door locking.

I moved toward him before I knew what I intended to do. My hands struck his chest again, harder this time.

He let me.

I shoved him once, twice, my grief and fury moving through my arms because there was nowhere else for them to go.

“You stood in front of me and acted like this was business.”

“It was.”

I hit him.

My palm cracked across his face.

His head turned slightly with the impact.

The sound shocked me into stillness.

Wesley looked back at me slowly.

A red mark began forming across his cheek.

I waited for anger. For the brutal control I had seen in the range. For his hands to close around me and prove every fear I had ever held about him.

He did nothing.

That restraint broke something else in me.

I shoved him again.

This time he caught my wrists.

The movement was fast, instinctive. My hands stopped against his chest, held there between us. His fingers closed firmly around the bones, and the contact drew me close enough to feel his heartbeat.

It was racing.

Wesley Morano, who could stand over a bound man without changing expression, had a heart pounding hard beneath my palms.

My body noticed before my mind gave it permission.

The memory of the desk surged between us. His mouth. His hands. His breath against my skin. Anger mixed with unwanted heat until I could not separate them.

“Let me go.”

He released me immediately.

No hesitation. No argument.

My hands fell to my sides.

We stood less than a foot apart.

The space held everything he had done and everything he had refused to do.

“You are not Marco,” I said, though I did not know whether I was telling him or reminding myself.

“No.”

“He would not have let go.”

“I know.”

The certainty in his voice unsettled me.

I stepped back.

Wesley did not follow.

“The kiss,” he said.

I hated that my pulse reacted.

“What about it?”

“It was not part of the plan.”

I stared at him.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lifted again.

“It was not guilt,” he said. “It was not strategy.”

“Do you expect that to comfort me?”

“No.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because you asked me not to edit the truth.”

I swallowed.

He continued before I could answer.

“The marriage began as leverage. Protecting you was tied to what I failed to prevent. Both are true.”

His voice tightened.

“So is this. I wanted you long before tonight.”

A shiver moved through me.

I despised it.

“When?”

“I do not know.”

“That is convenient.”

“It is honest.”

“Honesty after being caught is not honesty. It is damage control.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I kissed you to control the conversation?”

“I think you control everything.”

“Not that.”

The words came out rougher than the rest.

I looked at him and saw the strain he usually hid. It did not repair the betrayal. It only made it harder to hate him cleanly.

“I am leaving your suite.”

His face closed.

“Tonight.”

“The east wing is part of the false information.”

“Then another room.”

“No room is cleared yet.”

“Clear one.”

“Catrina.”

“I will not sleep in your bed after this.”

Something moved in his eyes. Pain, perhaps. Possession. Anger at himself. I could not trust myself to name it.

He stepped aside.

The path to the door opened.

That should have felt like victory. Instead it hurt.

“I will have Roy secure the blue room on the private floor,” he said. “Two guards outside. New devices. Full sweep before you enter.”

“Fine.”

“I will still control access.”

“No.”

His expression hardened.

“I choose who enters.”

“You can choose among people who have been cleared.”

I almost argued. Then I remembered the message on my phone and the surveillance spreading through the estate.

“Fine,” I said again.

I walked past him.

My hand had reached the door before his voice stopped me.

“Catrina.”

I looked back.

He stood beside the desk where he had kissed me, his shirt still disordered, the mark of my hand visible on his face.

“The kiss was real.”

My throat tightened.

“That may be the only thing about you I believe.”

I left before I could see what the words did to him.

The blue room was prepared before midnight.

It sat two doors down from Wesley’s suite, though the distance felt larger when I crossed it carrying the small bag a maid had packed under my supervision. Roy had the room swept twice. Every vent was checked. Every device removed and replaced. The windows were locked, then reinforced with sensors.

I watched the process without speaking.

Wesley did not appear.

I told myself I was relieved.

After the guards took their positions outside, I dismissed the maid and locked the door. The room was elegant in the impersonal way guest rooms often were. Pale walls. Dark furniture. A wide bed with untouched sheets. No trace of Wesley anywhere.

I changed clothes and checked the seams before putting them away.

Then I checked them again.

Sleep did not come.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Wesley’s face when Felix spoke. Then the crash. Then the desk. His mouth on mine. His confession that the marriage had begun as strategy and guilt.

I rolled onto my side and stared at the empty half of the bed.

Anger should have made his absence easier.

It did not.

A quiet knock came shortly after one in the morning.

I sat up.

“Who is it?”

“Roy.”

I crossed the room but did not open the door immediately. “What happened?”

“There is a package outside your room.”

My stomach tightened.

“Who brought it?”

“No one saw.”

I opened the door.

Roy stood with two guards behind him. A flat brown envelope lay on the carpet between us.

No writing. No postage. No name.

“How did it get here?” I asked.

“We are checking the hall cameras.”

“That means you do not know.”

His silence confirmed it.

One guard opened the envelope after scanning it. Inside was a thin folder.

Photographs.

Roy tried to stop me from taking them.

I took them anyway.

The first showed Marco entering a restaurant in Sacramento.

The second showed Wesley’s car parked across the street.

The third showed me outside a café months before the crash.

I stopped breathing.

There were more.

Me leaving my lawyer’s office.

Me standing beside my car in a grocery-store lot.

Me sitting alone at an outdoor table with one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee.

My life captured from across streets and through long lenses.

At the bottom of the stack was a photograph dated the morning of the crash.

I stood beside my car, keys in one hand, the other resting over the slight curve of my stomach.

The image was sharp enough to show the small smile on my face.

I remembered that morning.

I had been thinking about names.

A second car was reflected in the glass behind me.

Black.

Familiar.

One of Wesley’s.

My fingers began to shake.

He had not merely known of me before the crash.

He had eyes on me that morning.

Someone had watched me enter the car.

Someone had taken the photograph and let me drive away.