Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(2)

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t recognize you. You’re Jane, right? You’re his sister. God, that was totally lame of me.” She drags her perfectly manicured fingers through her pixie-style hair. “I just saw you looking at him, and I assumed that you—anyway, never mind.” She draws a deep breath and extends her hand. “I’m Fiona. Did I mention I’m an idiot?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Honest mistake. Really. I was looking at him. But that was irritation you were seeing. Not lust.” That, at least, is half true, and I allow myself one deep breath in relief. Crisis averted. Bullet dodged.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that some tiny, screwed up part of me wishes that she’d called my bluff. That she’d felt the heat that burns in my veins for him—and that she’d figured it out.

Because as much as I love Dallas, I hate that we have to hide. And some rebellious, hidden, bold, stupid part of me wishes that we could be open and out there and real.

We can’t, though. I know we can’t. The law and our parents and the threat of public humiliation keep us trapped firmly in the shadows. And, honestly, I’ve never been too fond of the spotlight, so the idea of having tabloid attention focused on me because I’m sleeping with my brother really doesn’t sit well.

But it’s not just family and privacy and social mores that are keeping us apart. There’s Deliverance, too. Because as long as Dallas is Top Secret Vigilante Guy, everything in his life is going to remain hidden, including the man he truly is. A man so very different from the one he shows the public. A man that even I don’t fully know or understand, because we haven’t yet talked about how Deliverance operates or about its core mission to track—and presumably kill—the miserable excuses for human beings who kidnapped us both seventeen years ago. We need to, of course, but neither of us wanted that conversation to intrude on our four days of bliss. We only wanted each other.

“Hey,” Fiona says, her forehead creasing as she peers at me. “You okay?”

“Fine.” I force a smile, even though I feel like crying. Because for the first time it’s fully hit me. He’s mine. Dallas Sykes is absolutely, one hundred percent, totally mine.

And yet I can never truly have him.

Not in the way that counts. Not in the way that matters.

We’re living a lie that is shiny and perfect and wonderful in the shadows, but that shrivels and dies in the harsh light of day.

I love him. I do.

And even though we promised each other that we would make this work, I can’t help but fear that’s a promise we never should have made. Because it’s a promise that is impossible to keep.





Rear Window

An hour later I’m finally alone and on my third bourbon. Fiona has overcompensated for her faux pas by prattling on about nothing and everything, which was good in that her constant attention kept my eyes from drifting to Dallas.

And bad, in that her constant attention kept my eyes from drifting to Dallas.

Even knowing I shouldn’t, all I want to do is watch him. And imagine him touching me. And seethe about the fact that he is spending the party touching everyone but me.

Apparently, he’s even touched Fiona.

“We went out a couple of times,” she told me, eyes sparkling. “Everyone knows he hardly ever sees the same woman twice, but, well, he saw me three times.” Her lips curved wickedly. “He saw all of me.”

My stomach twisted as I smiled politely and said something about my brother’s reputation and how I really needed to go take care of something with the staff. I escaped inside, hid out for half an hour, and when I returned, I didn’t see her at all.

Dallas, however, caught my attention right away.

Now, I’m leaning against the corner post of one of the pool cabanas trying not to watch him. Or, at least, trying not to be obvious about the fact that I’m watching him.

He’s moved on from the blonde. Now he stands next to a brunette with streaks of neon blue. Her long hair falls in loose curls over her back, bare in the designer halter she wears. She sports a tattoo on her shoulder—not a feminine one, but a skull against a blood-red background.

She wears a black leather miniskirt and five inch heels, and I have no doubt that this is a woman who takes what she wants. I can tell simply from looking at her. I can also tell from the way she keeps leaning toward Dallas and running her tongue over the edge of his ear.

I’ve never met the woman, but I’m going out on a limb and saying that I don’t like her. Not at all. Not even one little bit.

I realize I’m staring again, and so I pull out my phone and make an effort to go through my emails. The attempt is futile—I see words, but they make no sense to me at the moment.

At least not until a text message flashes across my screen.

Watch.

It’s from Dallas, of course, and my body tightens merely from seeing his name. I react on instinct—my head lifting, my eyes going straight to where he stands with Skull Girl. He’s not looking in my direction, but I know that he is aware of me. He always is. Just as I’m always aware of him.

I stand, my feet like weights holding me in place as I watch the scene unfolding in front of me. Dallas and the woman standing near the pool, chatting casually with a few of the guests. Dallas’s hand, brushing lightly against her bare back. His fingers trailing down her spine, then over the halter’s tie at her waist.