Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
After pulling out my purse, I throw a handful of bills onto the space where the bill would usually sit, and then I slip out of my seat and follow Samuel, keeping a safe distance.
As I approach the restrooms, I pick up his deep timber in a barrage of many. It’s low and urgent. He’s still talking to his caller, and from the sound of it, it isn’t a friendly conversation.
“I told you to handle it.” Samuel’s tone is cold and menacing. “I don’t care how you do it; get it done!”
I press myself against the wall before inching closer, needing to bridge the distance to ensure the microphone I wired into the underwire of my bra picks up his conversation.
My heart strums against my ribs when my efforts pay dividends only seconds later. “I don’t care about your reasoning. When the expiration date arrives, she is disposed of.”
She. He said she. Not a product or an item. She.
I roll my shoulders back, loosening my cleavage’s hold of the mini microphone before attempting to dig it out of its hiding place, worried my frantic pulse will interfere with the audio.
As the microphone replicates the annoying boob-jabber all underwire eventually becomes, Samuel steps out of the restroom. His eyes narrow when he sees me mingling at the entrance of the men’s washroom, but I put on a smile and act natural.
“Hey.” I tickle his broad chest with my nails while inappropriately moaning. My cleavage is even more dangerous now because of my dig, and it keeps Samuel’s brows only half fettered. “Is the coast clear?”
His eyes flicker with recognition, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. “No. The only stall is being used.” I grow weary of my covert operation going bust when he finally speaks the truth instead of dropping numerous hints. “But I have a room at this hotel we can use.”
As I smile at him, my eyes gleam with fraudulent lust. “Lead the way.”
We ride the elevator to the top floor in silence, and the positioning of Samuel’s hand on my lower back steals any chance of updating Grayson on my current location.
Usually, I update my handler on my whereabouts every five minutes during stings like this. Since Grayson isn’t aware of my mission, I’ve kept my contact more sporadic. Although he replied to my arrived-at-the-restaurant-in-one-piece text forty-five minutes ago with a thumbs-up emoji, I have no way of updating him on the dramatic turn my investigation has taken.
It’s for the best. He’d demand that I stand down, and when I refused, he’d arrest Samuel before I could get anything useful out of him.
I can’t let that happen. This is the only solid lead I’ve had in months.
“The penthouse of the Aurelia Hotel.” My voice drips with envy, and its high volume ensures my colleagues won’t face any issues deciphering my last known location if I’m found dumped in an industrial waste bin tomorrow morning with my fingers removed and my stomach barren of my child.
My steps into the penthouse suite aren’t as determined as I would like them to be. I can’t stop recalling the horrible procedures the latest female victims in this state endured before someone discarded them, and I am suddenly worried I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Someone stripped those ladies’ babies from their wombs, and I have an inkling that Samuel had something to do with that.
The penthouse suite presents itself in a way you’d expect every fuck pad to appear. The mood is dark and sexually charged. A pricy bottle of wine rests in an ice bucket next to a large king-size bed. Soft ambient music plays from the speakers above my head, and chocolate strawberries sit on the desk, which is as bulky as the rest of the furniture.
I move toward the bathroom, faking a wish to freshen up. “I won’t be a minute.”
Even if my contact forces Grayson to arrest Samuel, I owe it to my unborn child to defuse a possibly dangerous situation. Furthermore, this hotel is a thirty-minute drive from my apartment. I am bound to get something out of Samuel before Grayson arrives. I’ll make sure of it.
Just as I’m about to enter the bathroom, Samuel seizes my wrist and tugs me back. I reach for my gun when our bodies violently collide, but leave it in its mini holster when Samuel’s lips crash into mine half a second later.
He isn’t calling out our date as fraudulent.
He is attempting to swoon me.
He would have a better chance if his mouth didn’t taste like garbage. The flavoring of the filet mignon isn’t potent enough to overtake the horrible tones of stale cigars and cheap liquor.
Inching back, I act breathless from his disgusting kiss. “Just a minute. A girl needs to prepare before being mauled like that.”
My falsified flattery fluffs out Samuel’s groin, and the gap it forces between us exposes another horrifying fact.