“Noelle,” the agent said, his voice as dead as the grave. “She’s here.”
Twenty-five
NOELLE STROLLED INTO DALLAS’S apartment as if she owned it. In a way, she did. The building belonged to her family. Hell, half the buildings in the city belonged to her family. A reason to gloat, sure, but she never cracked a smile.
She was in too volatile a mood.
When Hector hadn’t called or swung by to pick her up, as she thought she remembered him promising to do before he left her place last night, she’d assumed they were supposed to meet at AIR. So, after dressing in a tantalizing ensemble sure to entice him, off she’d gone, arriving bright and early and eager to see the man who’d given her such a glorious orgasm. Only to wait. And wait.
He was a good agent, and an even stronger, more dangerous man, so when he failed to show there, she hadn’t worried for his health. She’d simply assumed his own mind-blowing orgasm had made him lazy and he’d slept in.
Hoping to wake him, she phoned him—no answer. No big deal, though. He’d probably turned off his ringer. She’d driven to his home, a middle-class house in the center of suburban paradise. She’d looked forward to seeing him surrounded by his things, getting a tour of the place. Maybe kissing each other hello. But he hadn’t answered the door.
At that point, she’d begun to fume. Where was he? What was he doing?
She’d broken in.
His furniture was plain but well cared for, his bedroom neat and tidy. There’d been no personal touches anywhere, and that had surprised her. He really did keep himself distanced from everyone.
Last night he’d made an exception for her, but he must have changed his mind, because clearly he’d ditched her like yesterday’s news. His badge, gone. His pyre, gone. Which meant they were with him. Which meant, he was on the job. Without Noelle.
Mia Snow was a smart woman, had known Bobby’s identity before Hector and Noelle ever made it to the scene. After all, one of the cops would have IDed him before calling AIR. Dealing with the rich was often difficult, and Noelle could help in ways Hector hadn’t realized. Yet he’d rather go it alone than deal with her.
Well, he would soon learn that wasn’t even a possibility.
She’d headed back to AIR to hack into the GPS database and find his location, planning to show up and knock the shit out of him. Along the way, the PI she’d hired to document Cherry Picking Barry’s every move for the rest of his unnatural life had emailed her a string of photos.
Hector had stopped by Barry’s office. Hector had beaten the ever-loving hell out of him.
Hector had somewhat redeemed himself.
However, white knight or not, the beating hadn’t earned him a free pass. He had a lot to answer for. Now, however, she’d use words rather than steel-toed boots.
Dallas, Hector, and hello, gorgeous Devyn Targon were on their feet, watching her with differing amounts of astonishment as she sailed inside the living room. Dallas was wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans, his dark hair in complete disarray around his model-perfect face.
The sight of Devyn, warrior king of the Targons, had her sighing dreamily. As always, he was a walking fantasy. His hair was dark and glossy, while his skin possessed the radiant sheen of crushed diamonds. And his eyes, oh, his eyes were the color of the richest, most decadent brandy.
He wasn’t ignorant of his appeal. He’d be the first to tell you exactly how magnificent he was. Actually, no. Not true. Anything female would be the first to tell you. He’d be a close second.
He wore a pinstriped suit tailored specifically for his spectacular body, not a wrinkle or flaw in sight. His silky brown hair was styled away from his face, ensuring his amber eyes were perfectly framed, and his crushed diamond skin on full display.
At one time, he would have made her mouth water. Same with Dallas. Over the last year, she’d developed an obsession for raw intensity.
Finally, her gaze moved to Hector. His hair looked even longer today, a glossy jet, with the occasional strand of flax. He wore a black T-shirt, black slacks, and both paid his bad-boy muscles the proper homage. His dark brows were drawn low, his golden eyes narrowed. Thick lashes fused together and cast spiky shadows over cheeks flushed with growing … anger? Probably.
Fuck you, Hector. Back to his pissy, distant self, regretting what they’d done. Whatever. He’d made his bed, and now he could lie in it. Alone.
“Morning, boys. I’m happy to see you, too. Oh, goody. Coffee.” She grabbed the cup resting on the table and sipped. Grimaced. “Gross! What is this crap? Because it’s definitely not coffee.”
“We took turns peeing in the cup,” Hector snapped.
Non-deserved hostility was always a party in a box. “Well, your piss needs cream and sugar.” Wishing she had a shot of bleach for her mouth, she placed the cup back on the table.
“Too good to drink what the rest of us drink?” Dallas muttered. A night apart hadn’t improved his mood, either. Wonderful.
“Yes, actually, I am.” Her taste buds were not snotty; they just knew the difference between good and nasty as hell.
Hector shoved his gloved hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here?”
“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to your partner?”
He blanched.
That’s when she knew beyond any doubt that he wanted to do this without her, despite the passion they’d shared. Hurt bloomed. Rather than give in to it, she raised her chin. “Dallas offered to take me to sexual heaven, and since I wasn’t busy, I decided to let him.”
“Sexual … heaven …” Hector nearly popped a vessel in his forehead. His gaze swept over her body. The deep V of her thin white top, with a silver chain hanging seductively between her br**sts, the tightness of her black leather pants.
Dallas gulped, paled.
Devyn had already lost interest in her and was playing some kind of game on his phone.
“He tell you boys the same thing and you’re expecting all kinds of pleasure? Should we just get in line?” she asked, then strode to the couch, about to scoot herself between the two very hard D’s. That way, she’d have a straight-shot view of Hector’s face. And his emotions. “Or am I interrupting some kind of male bonding ritual?”
“Don’t sit there!” Hector shouted.
She froze, her pulse points even skittering to a stop. He hadn’t sounded angry or even jealous; he’d sounded frightened. “Uh, okay.” Unsure, she straightened. “Why?”