Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(36)

“You don’t know that,” he says, and our heads turn at the same time, gazes colliding.

“I do. I just wish I had their memories to hold onto.”

“Memories are the enemies that never die,” he says, turning away and shoving open his door, leaving me with the pain carved in those words that I am fairly certain he didn’t want me to hear. But I did, and they speak to me, diving deep in my soul with the blood of my own loss, and taking root. I say I want my memories back, but I’m not so sure I really do. It’s an idea I reject as I shove open my door and stand.

Kayden is already at my side of the car, and I face him, the door between us. “If the memories die, so does everyone we loved. That might be okay with you, but it’s not to me.”

His jaw tics, but he offers me no agreement or disagreement, a wall firmly placed in between us as he says, “Let’s go inside.”

I step around the door, letting him shut it, my gaze scanning the four motorcycles to my right, and beyond them three cars with Jaguar logos. “Do you have a thing for Jaguars, or just cars in general?”

“Just the Jaguar F-TYPE, but I won’t turn down anything else that catches my eye.”

My attention shifts to a sleek, shiny blue sports car directly in front of the Rolls-Royce. And I walk toward it, stopping by the passenger’s door to examine the curve of the hood. Kayden steps to my side and I glance up at him. “How rich are you?”

“I inherited a substantial amount of money and I have my own.”

“Translation. You’re so crazy rich it’s almost dirty.”

He laughs, his eyes flashing with wicked heat. “I like everything a little dirty.”

I blush, having no doubt that’s true, and refocus on the fancy vehicle in front of us. “This isn’t a Jag, right? It’s a race car?”

“It’s a Pagani Zonda, and yes, it’s designed for the racetrack. They only make twenty to twenty-five a year.”

“Do I even want to know how much something like this costs?”

“A million dollars, give or take, but in my case, it was a gift for a job well done.”

I whirl around to face him. “What do you do to earn a car like this?”

“The client wanted to pay me in cash but I wanted the car. That was my price to do the job.”

I do not miss the way he’s dodged my direct question and I try again. “Price for what, Kayden? What do you do?”

“I work for a group called The Underground. We call ourselves Treasure Hunters. If the price is right, and in this case the car was the right price, we find just about anything for our clients.”

I remember the tattoo on Matteo’s arm that matches Kayden’s. “Does Matteo work for them, too?”

“Yes.”

“What about Nathan?”

“No.”

I dare to reach for his arm and study his tattoos, confirming that the one on his wrist is a square with a king chess piece inside. I glance up at him. “Matteo has this too.”

“Everyone in the Italian division of The Underground has it.”

My thumb caresses the script up his forearm. “And the writing.” I glance up at him. “What does it say?”

“It’s an Italian proverb. Once the game is over, the king and the pawn go back in the same box.”

I close my hand over the words, and it is as if they burn my palm. “In death we’re all equal.”

Surprise flickers in his eyes at my understanding of the meaning, but he’s no more surprised than I am. “Yes,” he confirms softly. “In death we are all equal.”

“Why that proverb?”

“It’s a reminder to us that no one, no matter how powerful, is better than The Underground.”

I reach for his other arm, and trace the image of a bird with bright blue extended wings etched across his wrist. “A hawk?”

“Right again.”

“Why a hawk, Kayden?” I ask, wanting, needing, to understand this man.

“It’s symbolic of me being a protector. I’m the leader of this division of The Underground, thus the protector of those reporting to me.”

“Like you’re protecting me.”

His eyes burn through me, and there is a swell of response in me that borders on longing. “Yes,” he agrees, a velvety quality to his voice. “Like I’m protecting you.”

I am seduced by this man, easily able to forget the questions in my mind, but I do not allow myself more oblivion to add to what is in my mind. “What kinds of things does The Underground find?”

“Whatever the client wants. It could be a car. A painting. A computer file, in Matteo’s case.”

“Do you break the law?”

There is a slight clench to his jaw, but his reply is instant. “Everything we do is not simple.”

The absence of denial is confirmation, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. “What did you find for the man who gave you the car?”

“His ex-wife, who ran off with his money.”

My throat thickens. “You found a person?”

“Yes,” he confirms, his expression unreadable. “I found a person.” Kayden covers my hand where it rests on his arm. “Just like I found you so no one else could. And no one else will. No amount of money will change that.”