by Kyra Davis
And I don’t think any of the patrons in that restaurant were close enough to hear us.
So does Lander know Javier? Or has he talked to Travis?
And if it’s the latter . . .
I shake my head. Once again I find myself questioning what Lander does and doesn’t know. I throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater as I tuck my gun into my waistband . . . just like Javier.
The metal feels uncomfortable against my stomach, serving as a reminder of the precariousness of my situation. If I could just hold it in my hand it would bring me a sense of comfort and strength—which, I realize, is not unlike the feelings I’ve had while holding Lander’s hand.
How odd that holding Lander is like holding a lethal weapon.
I almost laugh at myself. How can I be having romantic thoughts about Lander when my life could be in danger?
More importantly: my plan could be in danger.
I transfer the gun to my purse. It will be easier to reach and more difficult to drop. I pull on my tennis shoes. I’m not sure what I’m doing or where I’m going. To Lander? Is that wise?
I exit my apartment and take the stairs two at a time until I’m outside in the still night air. On the corner I spot a dealer, which is, strangely, almost reassuring. The world is as it was yesterday and the day before.
What would scare me more now is if the man on the corner was a banker.
I need to get out of here quickly. I start heading toward the subway, keeping my breathing even. I won’t go to Lander’s, not right away. But I will get far away from my apartment, maybe go to one of the all-night cafés near his penthouse and call him from there. I need to figure out what he really knows and what he doesn’t. The worst thing I can do in a crisis is tip my hand.
I’m walking swiftly down the street, praying for a cab, when I hear a voice.
“Psst! Clif Bar lady!”
I look up and see Mary just a little way up, her head peeking out from an alley. Even in the dim street lighting, I can spot the colored pencils sticking out of her hair.
“Clif Bar lady!” she says again, gesturing for me to come forward.
I pick up my pace as I move over to her.
“Mary, I don’t have—” But before I can finish my sentence, she grabs my arm and with surprising strength pulls me into the wide alley . . . where a limo is parked.
And outside the limo are Micah and Javier, standing side by side.
“These guys say they’re family,” Mary says almost scornfully. “Don’t you know better than to ignore your family?”
Javier smiles a slow, treacherous smile as he holds up my phone number in one hand and his phone in another.
I look down at my own phone, which is clasped in my hand. With a shaking finger, I tap on contacts and then look at Lander’s number . . . and realize that someone has changed it, likely while I was in the bathroom at the bar. The texts that came with Lander’s name on them weren’t from Lander at all.
“I really need to talk to you again, Sweet,” Micah says.
“Is there a problem, Micah?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice steady.
He opens the limo door. “How ’bout you take a ride with us and we’ll discuss some things.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” I ask. The gun is still hiding in my purse, but it’s no use to me now. No matter where I aim or fire, there will be another man, with another gun, and the driver is undoubtedly armed as well.
“What if you don’t want to?” Micah laughs and translates for Javier in Russian-accented Spanish. Javier’s smile broadens a little more.
“Sweet,” Micah says as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “What did I tell you the other night? You have an obligation to live. Don’t make choices that will undermine that objective.”
“Móntate en el coche,” Javier says, as if I am now the one who needs a translator.
Slowly I walk to the car. In the background I hear Mary muttering to herself. My phone vibrates as I approach the door but Micah takes it out of my hand before I can even look at it.
“Well, look at this! Now Lander really is texting! He says he just had a dream about you. Aw, that sounds nice.”
I don’t say anything. Instead I just stand there looking at the car’s interior, wondering about what lies ahead.
“Maybe we should call him up, make it a foursome.” Micah laughs. His laugh sounds warm, even friendly.
I’ve been so stupid.
Micah tucks my phone into his coat pocket as I get into the car.
It’s funny, but it’s Lander I’m thinking about as the car carries us away. It’s his face that I’d like to see again more than all the others.
But now . . . it seems doubtful that I’ll have the chance.
Don’t forget to order Deceptive Innocence, Part Three now—available March 17, 2014
acknowledgments
I want to thank Rod Lurie for all his support and feedback and for putting up with me when I was completely freaking out about deadlines. And I want to thank my friends and family for being so patient and understanding when they didn’t hear from me for weeks on end because I was completely caught up in writing. I don’t know what I would do without any of you!
about the author
Kyra Davis is the New York Times bestselling author of Just One Night, the critically acclaimed Sophie Katz mystery series, and the novel So Much for My Happy Ending. Now a full-time author and television writer, Kyra lives in the Los Angeles area with her son and their lovable leopard gecko, Alisa.
Visit her online—www.KyraDavis.com
Follow her @_KyraDavis—www.Twitter.com/_KyraDavis
Visit her Facebook fan page—www.facebook.com/pages/Fans-of-Kyra-Davis/303460793916
also by kyra davis
Just One Night
A beautiful young woman is out for revenge—only to find the man she's targeting has secrets as dangerous as her own, and a passion she cannot resist.
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Pocket Star Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Kyra Davis
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition February 2014
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Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Cover design by Anna Dorfman
Cover photographs © Adrian Ricardo/Alamy
ISBN 978-1-4767-5629-5
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