Mine to Crave (Mine #4)(29)

Victor’s eyelashes flickered. “I don’t think you understand—”

“Yeah, I understand just fine. Jasmine is a liar and a thief, and she’s not my problem anymore.” The words were hard. They had to be.

He would not think of the way Jasmine had looked when he’d last seen her on that balcony. The pain that he’d heard in her voice as she called out after him.

She was playing him.

Just like—

No. He slammed the door on that memory.

The FBI agent pulled out a card. Tossed it on his desk. “If you should see the liar and thief, call me. I’ll take her off your hands.” But Victor’s whole manner had changed. The guy seemed pissed.

Join the club, buddy.

Victor gave him a little salute then he strode from the office. Did he mutter “Dick” on his way out? Drake’s eyes narrowed. The door closed with a near slam.

Drake waited about twenty seconds, then he grabbed his phone. The text he shot to Trace was blunt.

What the f*ck did you find?

His fingers drummed on his desk. He waited for a text back, but instead, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. “You called back, so I know the shit is bad.”

“I’m still working on the details, okay? Your girl’s past is tangled and twisted.”

“She’s not,” Drake managed to push out, “my girl.”

Silence. “Well, that plays, since I’m getting rumors she’s been claimed by Maxwell Case.”

His blood burned, then turned straight to ice in Drake’s veins. “She’s his lover?”

“That’s what I’m picking up, and, man, that guy is trouble.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Jasmine and Maxwell. Jasmine f*cking Maxwell. His hand was a fist on the desk. His temples felt as if they were about to explode.

“I don’t have proof on that relationship, just rumors. But it’s looking like—”

“He sent her to me.”

I’m not a whore. Grim pride had cloaked around her as Jasmine spoke those words to him.

He pushed back his shoulders as he tried to shove her image away.

“She was born in Kendall, Texas. Her mother was Shirley Bennett, and no father was listed on her birth certificate. Shirley had over a dozen arrests for prostitution so—”

I’m not a whore.

His fist slammed into the desk. That pain in her voice had been real.

“So maybe Shirley didn’t even know who Jasmine’s father was. Seems your gir—uh, Jasmine ran away when she was fifteen, and that’s when things get harder to track.”

Fifteen? He straightened. “What about before then?”

“Uh, before? She was just a kid—”

“What was she like?” Why had he just asked that shit?

“Straight A’s, actually. I got access to her grades. Schools are always the easiest to hack. She was one of those never-in-trouble types.”

His thief had been a good girl?

“She was taking AP classes in math and science and her teachers had been hoping she’d be able to get a scholarship, but then she…left.”

Ran away. To something?

Or ran from something?

“I’ll keep digging but the woman’s life after fifteen—”

“She’s good with computers.” He rubbed his hand against his throbbing temples. “Very good. So good I think she—”

“Might be able to cover her own trail.” Now Trace was annoyed. “You should have mentioned that point before.” He rallied quickly. “Don’t worry. I’ve got my own team of hackers. It’ll take us some time, but we’ll discover her secrets.”

Drake headed out onto the balcony that overlooked Canal Street. Glancing down below, he saw Victor storming from the Casino. “An FBI Agent named Victor Monroe just left my office. He was looking for her.”

“And did you give her up?”

“She’s not mine to give. I don’t know where she is.” Her image flashed before him once more. On that balcony, her face had been so pale. She’d almost looked…broken. Appearances can be deceiving. “She’s definitely working with Maxwell. I won’t let another woman set me up for death.”

“Well, if she’s working for him, then how come she told you all about the bombs?”

Of course, Trace would already know about them. After the visit from the FBI guy, Drake was wondering who didn’t know. “She told me about them because Jasmine didn’t want anyone at the casino to get hurt.”

“Wow, quite the cold-blooded bitch, isn’t she?” Now Trace’s voice was mocking. “Just like Anna Jean.”

“Don’t,” Drake bit out. “Don’t say her name to me.” Because he was so sick of remembering. Anna Jean’s lies. Anna Jean’s life.

Her death.

At his hands.

“Not every woman is like her,” Trace’s voice was soft.

“You mean your woman isn’t like her.” Skye. Trace had been obsessed with Skye for years. But the bastard was lucky—Skye loved him, too. Enough to risk her life for him.

Silence hummed on the line, then Trace said, “It wasn’t your fault.”