Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters #2)(78)

She slowly shakes her head. “No. I don’t think there’s anything left to be said.”

There’s plenty to be said. But if she wants to play it this way …

I’m not going to stop her.

Chapter Twenty-two

Rose

What I’ve done is wrong. I know it. Deep in my heart I can see the fault in my reasoning, but I tell myself I’m keeping my heart protected. I’m throwing up barriers and pretending that what I discovered doesn’t really matter as long as I have one more night with him.

With Caden.

On the cab ride over to Mitchell Landers’s house I finally broke down and did a Google search on him. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much to be found. Society page photos, Caden posing with groups of people, all of them smiling, covering a wide range of years, from a late-teenage Caden to Caden today.

Some of those people he’s standing with I know. Most of them I don’t, but I’ve heard their names. All of them are wealthy and of a certain social status he lost long ago when his father killed himself rather than face his punishment.

There were mentions of that, too. Of Carl Kingsley taking his life. Of the many wrongs he did to his clients. Not one mention of what Caden might do for a living; not one mention of him stealing from anyone, either.

Thank God. I was both relieved and confused. What’s the truth? What are lies? I didn’t know. I needed more answers.

So I called Ryder during that cab ride too—traffic was unbearable and I couldn’t stand to be alone with my thoughts.

“Tell me the truth,” I’d said to Ryder when he answered. “About Caden. Tell me everything you know.”

And he proceeded to do so, hiding nothing, being brutally honest. So honest I flinched a few times, I felt tears come to my eyes, and at one point, I became filled with utter despair. He warned me at the end of the conversation that not all of the information he told me was confirmed, but he and Caden had some mutual friends. Friends who knew what Caden was capable of.

What he was capable of. Those words devastated me.

What would I do? How could I stand by this man when he’s done nothing but steal for a living? He’s not an honest man. He can’t be a good man, can he?

“People can change,” Ryder said to me before I ended the call. He was quiet. Thoughtful. Choosing his words in order to make the strongest impact on me, I could tell. “I think he cares for you, Rosie. I think he cares a lot. The love of a good woman can change … everything. Trust me. I wasn’t good for your sister at first. I didn’t care. Hell, I wanted to hurt her. But she made me a better man. Her love is everything to me.”

I couldn’t believe what tough, dark, and dangerous Ryder McKay said to me. His words cracked my heart wide open and filled it with stupid, glorious, just-out-of-reach hope. Hope that crashed and burned to the ground the moment I walked into that townhouse and saw Whitney with her arms around Caden, her boobs pressed to his chest and his hands on her waist.

I wanted to kill her. Pluck every bleached blond hair out of her head. And I saw it then. My reality. I knew there was no way Caden could give up what he does all for me. He might not be stealing for the best reasons—he is most assuredly no Robin Hood, though he doesn’t spend excessively, either—but he’s been doing it for too long. How can I expect him to give it up for me? How can I expect him to change?

Do I matter enough to him?

What we share is good. So incredibly, wonderfully good … but I don’t think it’s everything to him. The way he is for me.

I sit in a cab now, once again. This time with Caden by my side, his arm slung over the backseat, his fingers dangling and brushing against my shoulder every few minutes as he shifts and squirms like a little boy. He’s uncomfortable. I’m sure I shocked him when I told him I didn’t want to hear what he’s done. That I didn’t want to talk about it.

Why put myself through that torture again? One last night is all I want. Then we can go our separate ways.

No matter how much it hurts.

Traffic again is awful, maybe even worse since everyone’s off work and it’s a Friday. The cabbie hits the brakes hard and smacks his horn repeatedly, cursing at the car in front of him when it comes to an abrupt stop. Caden’s arm falls to my shoulders with the jolt and I bump against him, reaching out to rest my hand on his hard, warm thigh to brace myself.

“Sorry,” I mutter, about to remove my hand when he places his free hand on top of mine, keeping it in place.

“I don’t mind,” he murmurs, his voice so deep it feels like he’s touching my heart, my soul. “Keep your hand there.”

Slowly I look up at him, his dark eyes filled with so much emotion, his hair falling across his forehead. He looks sweet. Lost. Nervous. Hungry.

I feel the same way.

His other hand streaks across my shoulder before lifting to toy with my hair and I scoot closer, resting my head against his chest, my hand gripping his thigh, never wanting to let him go. We sit like that for long, quiet minutes and I try to match my heartbeat to his, my breaths so that I’m inhaling and exhaling to his steady rhythm. Doing so helps me feel connected to him, like I’m a part of him. And when he leans into me, his mouth at my temple, his fingers playing with the neckline of my dress, I close my eyes.

And let myself fall under the spell he’s so skilled at creating.