Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Jesus. Tate didn’t know whether to be pissed or freaked out that he’d dug up so many buried secrets. But Cole’s ability to elicit a vulnerable reaction was a good thing. If he could arouse fear in people, taunt them with personal information and provoke them to talk, maybe he really could make headway on Lucia’s case. Because somewhere, someone knew what happened to her.
“I’m impressed.” Tate tilted his chin down, measuring his words. “So I was raised among whores and earned a living as one for a while. What of it? You going to turn me in?”
“Rumor is, generations of sheriffs, judges, and mayors have kept this place in operation in exchange for VIP treatment.” He glanced around the room, watching topless women serve cigars and cognac. “To be honest, I’m waiting for the girls to break out in song, a la The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” A smirk stole across Cole’s face. “I work outside of the law, Tate. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“I appreciate that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not sure how any of this helps you find the woman I’m searching for.”
“I’ll find her, but it won’t bring you any closer to the woman you want.”
He stopped breathing, and his heart flew against his ribcage. He didn’t care if Cole knew he lost his virginity to a man at age fourteen or that he’d sold his body to female clients for a few years. Hell, he didn’t even care if Cole had gleaned what happened to him in Van’s attic.
But Camila was off-limits. In her crusade against slavery, she committed the kind of felonies—kidnapping, torturing, and murdering criminals—that would earn her a death sentence if caught. He didn’t want Cole near her, asking about her, or investigating her in any way.
“This was a mistake.” Tate moved to stand.
“Camila Dias is safe.” Cole gripped his wrist, holding him in the chair with a cutting glare.
“She’s none of your concern.” He yanked his arm away and sat back.
“True, but she’s in your head, messing with your thoughts. Isolating you. That’s why you’re here. You came back to the beginning, to the one place that gave you a sense of belonging.”
“What are you? A fucking psychologist?”
“No.” Cole laughed, a hollow sound. “Nothing like that. I just know from experience that a broken heart is the worst kind of hell, a goddamn lonely path from which you can never recover.”
He touched a thin chain that hung around his neck, lifting it from beneath the t-shirt and letting it drop in full view. A tiny silver ring dangled at the end. A woman’s wedding band.
If he was married or engaged, he wasn’t any longer. Not with her ring in his possession and no ring on his finger.
Tate removed a pack of smokes from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. “What happened to her?”
“I let her go.” Sadness whispered through Cole’s voice, but an admirable amount of fortitude sharpened his eyes.
“Let me guess. She’s with someone else?” At Cole’s nod, Tate repeated the same words he gave Lela upstairs. “They belong together?”
“Yeah.”
The air around them agitated before settling into a quiet hush. Cole did a good job tucking away his feelings. But Tate knew how deep that well could go and how hot and relentless the turmoil could burn within it.
“We’re in the same hell, then.”
“I don’t think we are.” Cole rubbed his whiskered jaw. “I watched you check out that dancer. You’ll have her on her back by the end of the night.”
Her or one of the other girls who worked here. Tate wasn’t picky, as long as she was restrained and trembling beneath him. “I’m a man, not a saint.”
“I’m a man, but there isn’t a woman out there who compares to the one I had.”
Given the tattooed silhouette on his arm, his ex-fiancé…wife…whatever must’ve been a dancer. That explained his displeasure with the dancer earlier.
“What’s your point?” Tate asked.
“If you truly loved her, you wouldn’t be fucking every tight ass that crossed your path.”
He wanted to deny the accusation, but after Matias walked into that bar with a claim on Camila, he’d reverted to some old vices, such as smoking cigarettes and fucking anything in a skirt.
But that was beside the point.
“You did your research.” Tate tapped the cigarette in the ashtray. “Which means you knew my background and the reason I asked you here before you walked in the door.”
Cole nodded. “You’re looking for Lucia Dias, because you think you’re in love with her sister.”
He did love her, but the dickhead could believe whatever he wanted.
“What I haven’t figured out…” Cole studied him for a moment. “What is the price you’re willing to pay?”
Back to this again. “How about we start with your fee?”
“A hundred grand.”
His pulse raced. “A hundred—?”
“She’s been missing for eleven years. It’ll take time, but I’ll get you the location of her body—dead or alive. That’s the finder fee. It doesn’t include retrieval. If she lives and wants to be removed from her situation…” Cole folded his hands on the table and exhaled slowly. “You can’t afford it.”