Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(55)

She placed her fingers on his cheeks and held his face in her hands and kissed him. “I will miss you so much.”

That was all for now, and it had to be enough.

Seconds later, he lifted her suitcase into the trunk and walked in the other direction, not looking back.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Four months ago

When he heard the siren, Sanders cursed and banged a fist against the steering wheel. With a frustrated motion, he flicked on his blinker and pulled to the shoulder of the highway.

A yawn erupted from his mouth. He was so tired from the drive. So damn exhausted, so many hours spent trying to finish up these last few runs to make the money he needed. Fucking college loans. Goddamn bills. Too many doctor’s appointments for his bad back. They all added up to the need for more greenbacks, so he’d taken on more runs like this one. He’d barely slept on this quick trip to California, and he’d just wanted to get home to Vegas sooner after visiting his sister in the Golden State. As he cut the engine, he peered in his rearview mirror to see the cop open the door of his state trooper sedan and walk toward him.

He should have relied on the tried and true tricks for a long drive.

Gum. Coffee. Loud music.

Any or all of those stay-awake aids. Maybe even tried one of those damn apps his sons were always telling him to use to avoid the speed traps. But smartphones were agony, and he’d always followed the speed limit.

Until now.

Because he wanted to get home to sleep in his own bed next to his wife. So he’d gunned the engine.

He lowered the window. Boots crunched over the gravel on the side of the road.

“Afternoon,” the officer said, his voice cool, his eyes obscured behind aviator shades. “License and registration, please.”

“Hey, there. Sorry about that, sir. I was going a little too fast,” Sanders said, opting for patent honesty, hoping it might do the trick.

“Yeah, I’d say,” the officer remarked, humorless. The young man studied him from behind his sunglasses, then whipped them off. Sanders felt naked and exposed, and he blinked several times, unsure of why he was under such scrutiny. The trooper scrubbed a hand over his chin as Sanders reached for his wallet in the center console. It slipped from his fingers, and he gripped it more steadily, shaking his head. Damn, he needed to get some sleep.

He fished in his wallet, and handed the cop his ID.

The cop raised his chin. His mouth curved up, and his eyes narrowed as he glanced from the ID to Sanders, then back again.

“Funny thing, Mr. Foxton,” the cop began in a drawl. He clucked his tongue and tapped his finger to the ID. “Your eyes don’t look so bloodshot in this photo.”

He sat bolt upright. “Come again?”

The cop cocked his head. “You been drinking? Smoking, maybe? You look like you might be enjoying some substances.”

Sanders’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head, fear prickling along his skin. “No, sir.” He’d never done that, never would. But when the cop’s eyes roamed the car, spotting his bag on the backseat, the man arched an eyebrow. “What have you got in there?”

“Just my stuff.”

“What were you up to? Where have you been?”

“Visiting my sister. In California.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

“What are you looking for, may I ask?” His voice was etched with worry.

“Whatever you’re on,” the cop said smugly.

Sanders held up his hands. “I’m not on anything. I swear.”

Doubtful eyes stared back at him. “You were swerving in the lanes like you’re drunk or high. Your eyes are bloodshot.”

“I’m just tired. Been driving a lot. Trying to get home and sleep in my own bed.”

“If you’re just tired, you won’t mind if I have a look around.”

Oh shit. His stomach plummeted. “Go ahead,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t terrified.

Five minutes later, the cop gave him a sharp, knowing stare. “You want to start talking about what you’re transporting across state lines?”

For more than eighteen years, Sanders had been making these runs. He’d been f*cking flawless. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t wanted to know. He’d simply taken the packages and brought them to the addresses he’d been given.

He’d never been pulled over, never gotten questioned. And now, four months from retirement, he was nabbed.

This was just his luck.

For the first time, he felt the cold grip of fear that the authorities would find out all he’d done.





CHAPTER THIRTY


The grocery store. The piano shop. His house.

That was what the private detective had said Luke Carlton’s daily life consisted of. The day Michael returned from New York, he shoved aside all thoughts of Annalise.

Narrowing his focus on the investigation, he conducted some recon of his own.

He pulled into the parking lot at Luke’s regular grocery store on his usual evening to shop. Maybe it was an act of desperation. But hell, this guy was slippery. And Michael didn’t like slippery. He wanted the man to be caught. Put behind bars. Locked the f*ck up.

Maybe he could find a clue. The detail that would tip the cards in the favor of justice. He sat in his car and waited, like he was the private eye.