Luck of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #2)(8)

Of course. Of course he wants something from me. I can only imagine what it is.

“Not so quick to ask questions now, are you?” His smug tone makes me want to backhand the smirk off his face.

Play the man, not the game. Pull it together, Indy. He’s trying to bait you.

“That’s not it,” I tell him, my tone frigid this time. “I just know you won’t answer a single one. I shouldn’t be surprised either. You always go back on your word.”

Bastien’s expression sharpens. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“You said you’d tell me everything if I came with you. My instincts to run the other way were absolutely right.”

“And stay with Forge? He’s the one who fucked you over . . .” His lip curls as he drags his gaze up and down my body. “Literally and figuratively.”

A greasy feeling pools in my stomach and I sidestep toward the door. “You want me to believe he’s the bad guy in this scenario? Give me proof.”

Bastien laughs caustically. “I didn’t peg you to be so fucking naive, Indy. Answer one question for me—did he make you sign a prenup?”

I freeze. It’s the same question I asked myself. How the hell could Bastien know to ask that?

“If only your face was this expressive at the poker table. You’d never fucking win,” Bastien says with a cruel grin. His index finger taps the rim of the glass. “So, no prenup . . . Did you even bother to ask yourself why a billionaire would commit financial suicide by getting married without a prenup?”

I may as well have turned into a statue, because I did ask myself the question . . . and just let it go like a freaking idiot.

Bastien’s tapping stops as his grin turns shark-like. “One answer . . . because he has more to gain than to lose by marrying you.”

“I’m broke, Bastien. What the hell could Forge possibly have to gain?”

A fractured memory comes back as Bastien crosses the room to sit on the bed.

“Forge is using you to get what he wants from your father.”

But I don’t have a father.

Bastien pats the mattress beside him. “Why don’t you sit down, Indy. It’s a long story.”





6





Forge





Death by a thousand cuts was the wrong way to play Isaac’s revenge. I should have killed de Vere. If he were dead, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Now I’m going to kill him with my bare hands, and I don’t give a fuck who he is.

His father can scream down the House of Lords, and it will make absolutely no difference to me. De Vere took my wife. Somehow, he’s involved in this whole fucking mess, and I don’t know how. Yet.

“You’re sure she was drunk? Not unconscious?” I demand answers from the blond twenty-something kid who works the marina where Bastien’s sleek red Donzi is docked.

“I don’t know. People are always carrying other people off boats after they’ve had too much. It’s not my job to ask questions.”

I curl my hands into fists and fight the urge to pick this guy up and toss him off the dock, because it’s not going to do me any good.

“He didn’t say where he was going?” Donnigan asks.

“No. He just put her in the car and left. I didn’t see which way he went. We had another boat coming in—”

Useless fuck. I turn away and head back to the chopper where a crowd has gathered around it on the quay.

“Let’s go. This is a waste of time.”

Donnigan matches my stride by the time we reach the helicopter. “Where to next?”

“His villa. He just might be stupid enough to go there.”

Once we climb in the chopper and put on the headsets, Donnigan radios the tower again, but they refuse to clear our takeoff after our unsanctioned landing. Donnigan looks to me.

I reach out and flip the channel on the radio so the tower can’t hear us. “Go. I’ll pay their fines. Just avoid the goddamned planes.”

With a nod, he takes off, and within minutes, we reach a large white house situated in the hills. It’s Bastien’s party pad, although not for much longer, if his parents really cut him off.

A red Lamborghini winds its way down the curved driveway.

“Set it down right in front of him. Don’t let that fucker get away.”

Donnigan doesn’t question my orders. The car speeds up as we approach, and I motion to the ground.

“Now!”

The driver slams on the brakes as the helicopter touches down on the pavement. I whip my harness off and jump out.

“What the hell,” the driver yells from the window, but he goes quiet when he sees me charging at him. His hands flutter in the car, and the window slides up.

I yank open the door before he can lock it. “Where the fuck is de Vere? He inside?”

The driver, a dark-haired Spaniard with a thick gold chain hanging around his neck and a goatee throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know shit, man. I made a wrong turn. Bad address.”

“Lying sack of shit. You’re going to fucking tell me where de Vere is right now.” I grab the chain and twist it around my hand.

“I’m just the help. I don’t know anything. I swear.”