Page 21 of Her Billionaire Protector

The adrenaline drains from my body, and I’m struck with a cold sadness, a hollow fear that hits at me from the inside. He saved me again. Maybe this time, he paid for my life with his.

I pound both fists on the dashboard.

Nothing makes sense. He took an envelope from Harvey. Or his driver, same thing. He’s a goddamned billionaire. What the hell does he need from Harvey?

And, if heiswith Harvey, then why did he pistol whip him and intercept Harvey’s assassin?

I slump in my seat. It’s deserted back here. I watch time slip by on the clock. No calls or texts. No sign of Armin.

My mind replays my weakest moments, crying on the couch in his arms. I would give anything to be in those arms right now.

I should have found a way to protect him.

I blink my eyes open. The sun’s riding high over Halo City’s skyline. It’s quiet. No SUV in the parking lot. No Armin. I check my phone. Nothing. A sick wave of nausea rises inside me.

I wonder if they nabbed Harvey, at least. If the shootout at Morrow was enough, and the DA will finally unstick his ass from that shiny leather chair of his and press charges against him and the Assistant DA while we put together the rest of the federal case.

I’d better get to work.

I start up the engine and speed over to the westside site, let myself into the apartment. Dave’s passed out on the threadbare couch, an overturned coffee soaked into the carpet next to him. Some Special Agent he turned out to be.

Though my face heats when I realize I did the same.

I slam the front door, and he wakes with a start, pulls his feet off the couch, dirty sneakers and all.

“There she is,” he yawns. “How’s it feel?”

“How’s what feel?” I snap, and head into the bathroom, fling this stupid dress into the shower, and pull on the backup clothes I keep hidden under the sink. I turn on the faucet to wet a wad of toilet paper and wipe the mascara out from under my eyes.

“The Assistant DA’s being brought up on charges today. Thanks to your evidence. And the driver’s.”

“Who?”

“You know, the HPG informant. The driver. For Harvey Blagas.”

I turn off the water. “Harvey’s driver is with HPG?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He laughs, a short little chuckle. “I thought you knew.”

“YouthoughtI knew?” I throw the wad into the toilet and storm out of the bathroom. “Would’ve been super fuckingniceto know. You’re supposed to be the info officer, Dave. I’d love it if you ever gave me any info, instead of playing video games and jerking off all day at time and afuckinghalf. ”

“Take it easy.” He skirts me, hands up, pours the last of the coffee into a dirty mug, and sloshes it all the way across the kitchen and into the microwave. “Here. Have a doughnut.”

He points to an open box of half-eaten doughnuts I brought in late last week. I pull the last whole one out and stuff it into my mouth to keep from screaming. The stale carbs pacify me enough to keep the conversation going without choking him out in the immediate. “You got anything on the Morrow shootout?”

I wonder if Armin’s alive, for the millionth time, and a chill creeps through me.

The microwave beeps its way into a migraine creeping up behind my eyes. I dig my thumb and index finger into my eye sockets, but it does no good.

“What shootout?” He pulls the coffee out of the microwave. I fantasize about decking him and drinking the coffee.

He sits down in front of his computer and refreshes his email. I scan the screen from over his shoulder, searching for any evidence that Dave has done a single hour of work here, for an update on Harvey.

For any hint Armin might be alive.

“That.” I point at an email. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s the sitrep on Blagas. From last night.”