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Then I’m forced to pause.
The inundating moisture evaporates, leaving my tongue dry and parched. I eye the offering dubiously and wonder if my impatience to fill my stomach is leading me into another trap.
“They’re safe.” He grabs the other half of the sandwich and takes a large bite, holding my gaze as he chews.
It’s another offer of goodwill. A display of obvious assurance.
Maybe too obvious.
My insides gurgle, begging, pleading for something to fill the empty space, drugs be damned.
“Just being cautious.” I throw that caution to the wind and bite into the puffy, soft clouds of bread-induced heaven. Flavors burst across my tongue like they’re the most expensive delicacy.
He doesn’t quit watching while I eat, downing the half in a few quick bites. The scrutiny is different to what I’ve come to expect from his boss. More cynical. Less provoking.
“Better?” he asks.
My nod is subtle. Even though the hunger pangs have slightly dissipated, I’m not going to gush with gratitude.
“Cole said you ran into some trouble with the boat driver yesterday.”
I stiffen.
“That’s my fault,” he continues. “Leaving you alone with him wasn’t a smart move.”
“What was the alternative?”
He shrugs. “I should’ve waited with you until he left.”
Staying on the pier may have stopped a gun being pointed at my head, but the conclusion would’ve remained the same. I’m still stuck here. Held captive.
“Cole wants you to feel safe. The sooner you realize you’re not a prisoner, the easier this will be.”
I grab another sandwich, not buying his line. “I’m not a prisoner, yet I can’t leave. That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
“Sometimes people need to be encouraged to make the right decisions. Would you have come here if you were asked? Would you have believed Cole if he trusted you with the truth?”
I don’t have the truth. I don’t have anything but confusion.
“The answer is no.” He stares me down as he takes another bite, his jaw working overtime. “Don’t even pretend otherwise. You might not agree with his tactics, but sometimes catching bees with honey takes a lot longer than—”
“Drugs and abduction?”
His jaw tics with the accusation, his stare remaining fierce as I blink i
“Where is he anyway?” I divert the conversation toward something that doesn’t include judging me.
“Cole?”
No, Spiderman, asshole. “Yes, Cole.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I heard you two arguing by the pool.” I take another bite and another, letting the silence build. “It seemed intense.”
“And?”
“I was hoping for an explanation. I’ve never seen him out of control. It’s not like him to be aggressive. It’s uncharacteristic, isn’t it?”
“Uncharacteristic?” Luca raises a brow and dusts his hands over his crumb-riddled plate. “You barely know him.”
I want to refute his opinion. After what feels like a lifetime learning the ins and outs of the Torian family, the denial sits on the tip of my tongue, held back only to maintain our thinly veiled civility.
“Maybe not.” I shrug. “But you know him, and you said it yourself: he wasn’t acting like his normal self. He was spiraling. What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?” His eyes narrow, scathing in their appraisal. “He told you what he’s here to do. Did you expect him to carry out the job with a smile on his face and a fucking bounce in his step?”
“For starters, I expected this all to be a lie—another game—but I guess when I did contemplate the possibility, I imagined Cole committing the crime with his usual calm calculation.”
Why wouldn’t I?
He’s always been a righteous villain.
“He isn’t playing around. Torian is determined, and nothing will sway him once his mind is made up.” He pushes from the counter and opens a cupboard behind him, grabbing two glasses. “Juice? Water? Soda?”
“Water. Thanks.” The appreciation is grated. My pride takes a hit at having to thank an accomplice to my abduction. “If Cole is so sure of himself, why is he spiraling?”
He fills the glasses from the jug in the fridge, then turns back to slide one across the counter toward me. “I don’t know about you, but where I’m from, killing your father isn’t something most folks do for fun.”
“I understand—”
He holds up a hand. “No, you don’t. And if you have more questions, ask him. Not me.”
“I would, but he’s not the easiest person to speak to.”
His features tighten, his lips pinching. “Neither am I.”
Maybe this wasn’t a peace offering after all.
“Can you at least tell me why I’m here?” I swallow over the last vestiges of ham salad in my mouth and the vile taste of the plea. “What he told me doesn’t make sense. If I witness a crime, I’m obligated to report it. I can’t let it slide, no matter which way Cole tries to twist the situation. It’s cold-blooded, premeditated murder.”
“Ask him.” His tone hardens.
“Please.” I’ve lowered myself to begging, and it fucking hurts. “You told him he needs to give me more information. What else is there to know?”
He grabs another sandwich half and glares at me as he takes a bite.
“Why do I need to be a witness? Why can’t he use some other form of evidence? A photo? A recording? An account from someone else?”
He continues to work his jaw, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He can’t possibly have to chew for as long as he does. I suspect he’s buying time. Weighing his options.
“Luca?”
“Maybe you don’t need to be a witness.” He grins, his entire demeanor changing. “Maybe that’s not why you’re here at all.”
My heart kicks up a notch. “It’s not? Then why?”
“I don’t know. It could be the same reason you kept going after him back in Portland even though you’d been instructed to stay out of the investigation. Neither one of you seem able to leave each other alone.”
The accusation stabs right through me. It’s severe. Harsh. And entirely off base. “The FBI has worked for years trying to get Luther behind bars. Of course I was going to find it hard to walk away from the investigation when Cole used me as an alibi.”
“Turning up at the restaurant had nothing to do with investigating.” He takes a drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass before resting it back on the counter. “Just admit your interest in him goes beyond his criminal reputation.”
I ignore the rise of my pulse. It’s beneath me to rebuff the claim.
“Your cheeks are turning pink.” He smirks. “Don’t bite your tongue on my account. I’d love to hear your denial.”
“Your understanding of the situation is embarrassing. I was only doing my job.”
“Since when does your job include jetsetting with the infamous Cole Torian? Without backup?” His brows rise. “Should I be taking a refresher on the FBI handbook so I can stop confusing an unhealthy obsession with official Bureau protocol?”
Obsessed?
No way. I’m focused. Determined.
“Where is he?” I slide from the stool, squaring my shoulders, then wince at the bite of pain that comes with the movement. My fall last night left me with tense, swollen muscles and a bruise dark enough to rival the night sky. But the last thing I should do is a