Part 2 Leo squinted at her. “I mean, she was carrying the umbrella we were told to look for. The bright-red Burberry one.”
Part 2
Leo squinted at her. “I mean, she was carrying the umbrella we were told to look for. The bright-red Burberry one.”
“It was a gift,” Sloan finally sobbed out, her voice cracking. “My boss gave it to me for Christmas.”
Vincent took a slow step toward her. She shrank back as far as the ropes would allow and squeezed her eyes shut. She expected a bullet. She expected him to order his men to dump her in the Chicago River.
“What is your name?” Vincent asked softly.
“Sloan,” she stammered. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “Sloan Jenkins. I’m a bookkeeper. I don’t know any O’Donnells. Please. I just want to go home to my cat. I won’t tell anyone. I swear to God I didn’t see anything.”
“You saw my face,” Vincent interrupted gently. It wasn’t a threat. It was a simple, damning statement of fact.
“She’s a nobody, boss,” Leo panicked, realizing the magnitude of his colossal screw-up. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it quick. No loose ends.”
Sloan’s breath hitched. This was it. She was going to die because a billionaire gave his fat bookkeeper an expensive umbrella.
Vincent stood perfectly still, his dark eyes tracing the frantic pulse beating at her throat, then drifting down the soft, terrified curve of her jaw. For a man who lived his life surrounded by engineered perfection and hollow beauty, something in his gaze shifted. It wasn’t pity. It was intrigue.
“No,” Vincent said smoothly, reaching into his jacket to pull out a silver Zippo, flipping it open with a sharp clink. “Wrong girl.” He snapped the lighter shut and looked her dead in the eye. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a dangerous smirk. “But I’m keeping you anyway.”
“You can’t just keep me.” The words flew out of Sloan’s mouth before her brain could filter them. Fear had momentarily been eclipsed by sheer, unadulterated disbelief. She was a human being, not a stray dog he could decide to foster.
Leo looked just as stunned as she was. “Boss, with all due respect, what are we supposed to do with her? She’s a civilian. A liability. The O’Donnells are still out there, and we blew our one shot at grabbing their daughter.”
Vincent ignored his right-hand man entirely. He stepped closer to her chair. The scent of expensive sandalwood and something distinctly metallic washed over her. He leaned down, placing one hand on each of her armrests, boxing her in. His face was inches from hers.
“I don’t make mistakes, Miss Jenkins,” Vincent said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. “And I certainly don’t let the mistakes of my men dictate my business. If I let you walk out that door, you go to the police. If you go to the police, my operations on the West Side are compromised. And since I am not in the habit of slaughtering innocent women who bake cookies and pet cats—”
“I don’t bake,” she whispered defensively, utterly paralyzed by his proximity.
Vincent’s smirk deepened. “Rule number one of surviving this room, Sloan. Do not interrupt me.”
He straightened and snapped his fingers. “Leo. Cut her loose.”
“Boss—”
“Do it.”
Leo muttered a string of colorful Italian curses under his breath and drew a switchblade. Sloan flinched, but he only sliced through the thick ropes binding her. She rubbed her raw wrists, shivering as the dampness of her clothes clung to her skin.
“Stand up.”
She pushed herself up on shaky legs. She was five-four, entirely dwarfed by Vincent’s imposing six-three frame. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly hyperaware of her body. The soaked dress clung to her heavy stomach, her wide hips, and her large chest. In the presence of men who undoubtedly dealt with models and assassins, she felt entirely exposed.
Vincent’s gaze, however, didn’t hold an ounce of disgust. It was analytical, heavy, and oddly appreciative as it dropped to the soft curve of her hips before snapping back to her eyes.
“You said you were a bookkeeper,” he noted, walking over to a sleek mahogany wet bar. He poured amber liquid into two crystal glasses. “Where?”
“Apex Logistics,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. “It’s a shipping company down in the South Loop.”
The sound of clinking glass abruptly stopped. Sloan looked up. Vincent had frozen, his hand still resting on the decanter.
He slowly turned his head to look at Leo. The two men exchanged a look that sent a new icy spike of terror straight through her heart.
“Apex Logistics,” Vincent repeated, his voice completely void of emotion. He picked up both glasses and walked back over to her, holding one out.
She shook her head. “I don’t drink.”
“Drink it,” he commanded quietly. “You’re going to need it.”
