Echo(82)

I don’t want to believe Richard had anything to do with my dad, or that my dad had anything to do with him. But . . . if he were still alive, he’d be right around Richard’s age, so there’s possibility in what he claims. But how?

“When Bennett had me following you, I started digging into your past. When all the pieces came together, I couldn’t believe the Archer girl had been right in front of my face for years. I should’ve known you’d turn to pulling cons. At first, I thought I was your target when I was convinced you knew who I was. But when I started thinking back, I realized you didn’t. I knew then it was Bennett you were after. But I still don’t know why.”

“Why would I be after you?” I question in terror, wondering who this guy really is.

“Maybe you blamed me for what happened.”

“Tell me how you knew my dad.”

“There’s a lot I can teach you, you know? You were pretty good at fooling Bennett for all those years, but whatever it was you were trying to do, you moved too slowly and didn’t properly assess the people you were surrounding yourself with.”

“Tell me,” I demand as I struggle to keep my tears back because just talking about my dad has me falling apart. He’s my weakness, my softest part, and now I fear Richard has something to do with me losing him. “Tell me!”

“Call Declan.”

“What? I don’t have his number.”

“Then we wait,” he says. “I know he’s in London and will be returning tomorrow. You’ll call his landline then.”

“Tell me how you know my father, Richard. You want to hurt me? Is that what you want? Then just tell me, because anything you have to say about him will surely be a dagger.”

“That’s too easy.”

Richard then leaves me to be as he moves to the other side of the room and sits. I struggle to get comfortable with my hands still taped together. I lie on the cold concrete and rest my cut cheek to the ground to help soothe the ache that pulses through the gash. My head weighs heavy in an excruciating headache, and I close my eyes to drown out the cheap fluorescent lighting, but the buzzing from the bulbs keeps me agitated.

Hours pass as I drift in and out, and when the fog from all the high-strung emotions begins to clear, I’m finally able to focus. I run through everything Richard has told me, trying to figure out what the f*ck is going on, when I remember his claim.

Guns.





MY MEETINGS HAVE been long, sitting around and listening to several architectural firms make their presentations and going over the bids for the job. This will be another boutique hotel that will cater to wealth, and above all, privacy. Lotus was my first solo venture, and it has proven to be a success in the few months it’s been open. We maintain an exclusive clientele, which the city of Chicago was in desperate need of. It’s full service in every luxury accommodation, selective on who’s approved to book a room, and the London property will be the same.

I ring the house as I head back to the hotel for some much needed sleep. It’s late, and I’m at my end.

It feels strange to have Elizabeth in my home, as if she’s more than just a houseguest. She has me on mental overload. There are times I see her and I want to smash her face against a wall because my anger is too much to contain. And then there are times I look at her and I wish it could be like before with us. In those moments, I want to touch her and inhale her soft scent. I want to feel her, lick her, taste her, f*ck her. I want it all, but my heart refuses to get too close to her.

She’s the devil’s angel.

The moment I start crossing lines, I shut down. It’s not even something I consciously realize I’m doing, it just happens. One moment, I want my tongue tasting her sweet mouth, and the next, I want to rip more of her hair out.

Fucking her outside against my house yesterday was a twisted delight I selfishly indulged in. When I saw her from my office window, sitting on the ground, I saw someone so broken that I doubted her malice. In that moment, I let my guard down and got tangled up in the moment. And nothing can deny the solace that consumed me when I sunk my cock inside of her sweet *. Having her snug around me, Jesus, no woman has ever felt as good as her. But her warmth and comfort are merely an illusion. She’s a magician’s ruse that I stupidly fall for repeatedly.

She’s evil and duplicitous, and yet a part of me wants her—a very disturbed part of me. Because no one in their right mind would want anything to do with the widow who injects her poison with self-serving motivations. For some reason, in knowing what a con she is, I don’t want her to leave. A part of me feels sorry for her. I pity her. I’ve never seen a person at a lower point than she is at right now. This has to be her rock bottom because I’d hate to see what would happen if she got any lower.