Risky (Torn Between Two Lovers #2)(28)

“Jesus, Eva. Don’t ever leave me. These are the best cookies I’ve ever had,” he said as he came up for air from his cookie orgy.

I smiled at him over the mug of coffee I was holding, from my position on the other end of the couch. “You said that about the fudge and the other cookies, too.” God, I loved that about him. I loved the way he didn’t think twice about complimenting me for something he enjoyed. Or how good I looked, no matter how sloppily I was dressed. There wasn’t a single day that I didn’t get encouragement from Trace for one reason or another, and I wasn’t used to being praised. It warmed me like nothing else possibly could.

He nodded. “They were amazing, too.”

I rolled my eyes at him, but I secretly loved the flattery. “So tell me about Dane. He’ll be here Monday.” It was Friday night, and I still knew so little about his family. Sebastian would arrive next week as well, and I felt like I didn’t have the details a fiancée would have on Trace’s family.

Trace and I talked about little things, and he’d shared stories about him and his two brothers from his childhood. They’d sounded like happy times, but I was interested to know what had happened since then.


“He’d never leave his Island if he could get away with it. I had to convince him that he needed to come here for Christmas.” Trace’s voice was stoic, but there was a sad inflection in his tone that he couldn’t hide.

“You said you don’t notice his scars. But how would they look to an outsider?” I wasn’t worried about Dane’s scars. I’d seen some pretty beaten up people, and I doubted much could shock me. But I wanted to know if he’d been shunned or ridiculed.

“I suppose they’d be unpleasant,” Trace said grudgingly. “He’s had more surgeries than I can count, but they’re still noticeable. He was burned over a large percentage of his body, and he broke a lot of facial bones. He’s healed, but the scars are still there.”

“Does he talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

Okay. Note to self: don’t mention the accident or Dane’s scars. “I’ll make sure the subject doesn’t come up. What does he like to talk about?”

“Dane’s not much of a talker, but he’s always ready to discuss any kind of art.”

“I’m not exactly versed in the world of art,” I said thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he can’t make polite conversation. He grew up in the world of the rich and superficial.”

Trace was grinning at me, and I smiled back at him. “I guess I just want to find common ground with your brothers. I want them to like me.”

“You don’t have to be anything except yourself and they’ll like you,” Trace muttered, unconcerned.

“You mean a convicted felon who knows nothing about polite conversation with the super-rich?”

I was, after all, an imposter. Trace and I had agreed on our story, that we had met at a party that I was helping to cater. The rest was a little vague.

“You’re not a convicted felon,” he growled, sitting his coffee and empty plate on the coffee table to glare at me.

“Pull a background check,” I replied morosely.

“Okay,” he agreed readily. “I’ll let you do it.”

I gaped at him, confused, but I jumped up and followed him into his office.

He sat me down in his enormous chair, messing with the computer in front of me, caging me between his arms that were extended to the keyboard.

God, he smelled good. I closed my eyes and inhaled, knowing I’d never forget his masculine essence. I could catch a whiff of light sandalwood, but the rest was all uniquely his scent, and my mouth watered to drink him in completely.

“Eva?”

My eyes popped open and I turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. My mind…wandered.”

“Put in your information. This is our background check pre-screening for job applicants. It picks up public records. We do a more thorough check if this comes out clean. If you’re a felon, we’d know.”

Squinting at the tiny print on the screen, I quickly filled in the information requested.

“Run it,” he insisted.

I pushed the button to start the check, my heart beating so fast that I couldn’t breathe. I knew what it was going to show, and I hated seeing it in writing. “You know it’s going to come up.”

He was silent, his focus on the screen. As soon as the report came back, he reached past me and pressed the button to print. He grabbed the report from his printer and quickly scanned it, then dropped it in front of me. “It’s clean,” he announced smugly.

My sweaty palm gripped the papers, and I rifled through the few pages that had printed. My past addresses were listed, and my employment from high school.

It’s not here.

“The report isn’t extensive enough,” I reasoned.

“Bullshit. It picks up any recorded criminal records. Yours is clean.”

I shook my head, mystified as to why it wasn’t showing. “That’s not possible.”

“It isn’t there because it’s been deleted.”

I turned my head to gape at him. “How?”

“After the video was cleaned up, it was evident that it was your mother and not you. It was a shitty video that proved nothing, but I have the technology to make it clearer. I also had a talk with Mrs. Mitchell, and a discussion with the prosecution. I knew you didn’t want to go through a lengthy process, so it was just…deleted from your record.”