Dallas made the call as the vehicle sped up, skidded around a minivan, tires squealing. “In pursuit,” he said into the speaker, then rattled off his coordinates.
Hector couldn’t believe the stupid driver was making him do this. A few seconds later, they were told the vehicle was stolen. Chase on.
They soared around corners as if they were on rails, sped through lights, nearly hit oncoming traffic. Thank God for sensors that did more than differentiate between green and red. All Hector had to do was stay on the sedan’s tail until reinforcements found them and caged the bastard. Or managed to nail the hood of the guy’s car with a handy little device that would shut off the engine.
Which happened in three minutes flat. AIR swooped in from every direction, until there was no place for the culprit to go. They also pegged the hood, just in case. Hector parked and stormed outside, pyre-gun already drawn. Dallas did the same, approaching from the other side.
“Open the f**king door,” Hector demanded, barrel pointed at the darkened window, his finger on the trigger. Guy had picked the wrong night for this shit. The alcohol had destroyed the rest of Hector’s restraint. “And keep your hands in the air.”
“Now!” Dallas shouted.
A moment passed, then the metal was lifting and moving out of the way. A squat, fat balding man came into view, skin pasty and dotted with sweat. He had his shaky sausage hands in the air, palms out.
In a trembling voice, he begged, “Don’t hurt me, please.”
Hector spun him around and pressed him into the car, then patted him down. No weapons. “Where’d you get the car? It’s not yours.”
“From my ex-wife. She loaned it to me.”
“Try again. She reported it stolen.”
The guy attempted to lift his head from the metal. “That bitch is—”
A flick of his wrist sent the guy back into position. Bang. “Why were you following me?”
A thready pause, beady gaze angling to find Hector’s gun. Then, “The story. The pregnant Tremain heiress … I saw her with you earlier, and I … here, take the cameras, take whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.”
A f**king reporter. He’d known this would happen if he hung out with Noelle. Even though they weren’t together—shit!—his face still might be plastered over the news.
He’d counted on a bone-deep fear to hit him and make him do what needed doing. Instead, he felt numb. Noelle already knew everything about his past. And to be honest, the rest of the world didn’t matter anymore. “Well, this just in,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING, HECTOR rooted through the cabinets in Noelle’s kitchen, nursing a killer hang-over—and a raging temper he barely had under control. He should go home. His arms were burning and itching, and steam was already rising from his gloves.
He wasn’t going home.
Noelle had stayed out all night. He knew, because he’d broken into her home. She hadn’t answered his knock. Concern had gotten the better of his drunken mind—fine, jealousy had—so he’d busted in her door. Set off her alarm. Disabled her alarm. And waited.
He was still waiting.
Dallas was asleep on the couch.
When the local PD had arrived to check out the disturbance, he’d flashed his badge and an I’ll-murder-you vibe, so they’d quickly taken off. Noelle should have been alerted; she should have raced back. Clearly she needed better security.
And where the hell did she keep her painkillers? A couple hundred should do the trick, but though everything from the dishware to the canned food had a place, and a weird one at that—the brownies were next to the peas—he couldn’t find a single medicinal bottle.
He paused for a moment, stuck on the food placement. Was there a method to her madness? Like Noelle would eat the brownies, and then feel guilty for her lack of nutrition so she’d go for a vegetable next. Hence, the peas.
Know her so well, do you?
Well, yeah, he kinda did. In his almost stalkerish watching of her the past few months, he’d noticed she treated rich people the same way she treated poor people when they reached her tolerance for bullshit. She enjoyed comfort in every form. Clothes, food, as well as her living and work spaces. She wouldn’t jog a mile if she could drive it, and she loved pretending the world revolved around her.
Hell, it probably did.
He heard a muted “What the hell?” and stiffened in relief, pleasure, and a renewal of fury.
Finally. Noelle had returned.
She had a shit-ton of explaining to do. “Back here,” he called, careful to keep emotion out of his voice. He might scare her away before he’d had the chance to scream at her.
As if anything would scare that woman. Except Corban Blue.
Stomping footsteps, mumbled curses. A moment later, she entered the kitchen, pausing to glare over at him. His jaw nearly unhinged. She looked f**king eatable. Dark hair brushed to a glossy shine, face scrubbed free of makeup and all the more exquisite for it.
A short, skin-tight black dress molded to each of her curves, shoving those br**sts of hers under her chin. Black ribbons wound down her calves, ending in killer five-inch heels.
Heart slamming against his ribs, Hector decided not to ask her where she’d been. Wasn’t his place. They’d made no promises to each other. That didn’t stop red from dotting his line of vision as he said, “Your security sucks. You had no idea anyone was here.”
A flick of her wrist sent her hair flinging over one elegantly bared shoulder. “My system is great. I knew you were here all along.”
All along? Hardly. “The PD phone you?”
She propped a fist on her hip. “My system is synced to my phone, so I had your name the second you stepped onto my porch. I figured you had rewired the door. What I didn’t know was that you’d ruined it!”
Wait. Back up. “So you knew I was here, but you didn’t come back.” Because she’d been in bed with the Arcadian? The red thickened, bleeding into everything he saw.
“Exactly,” she said haughtily, unaware that she stood in the crosshairs of peril. “I was busy.”
“Were you busy with Corban Blue?” The barely suppressed fury escaped, too big for even his body to contain. You weren’t supposed to ask her about that. Speculating was bad. Having it confirmed was even worse—like the burning and itching in Hector’s arms.
He needed to leave before he inadvertently torched Noelle’s house.