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She waved the last part away, her interest locked on his face. “What kind of operation?”

He chuckled and leaned against the desk opposite the bed. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“What, like I’m going to rat you out? If I’d wanted to do that, I would have done it when you’d have gotten hard time. Tell me.” She narrowed one eye, which warned him she wouldn’t let this go. He didn’t want to talk about his illegal activities. And actually, that life was getting really fucking old. He was getting old. At thirty-two he wanted to settle down—not worry about losing everything and going to jail. More importantly, he wanted a life with someone.

Someone like Dani.

Nope. He couldn’t go there. He’d fucked up royally and she’d made it blatantly clear that she had no room in her heart for forgiveness.

He sighed. “Let’s just say I’m into online sales, all right?”

She leaned forward on the bed, her hands clasped over her knees. “Like what? Are you selling something bogus?”

Insulted, he tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk at his hip. “Hell no. I have a team that hijacks delivery trucks. Major appliances, sporting equipment, stuff like that. I have an off-site garage and sell the items online.” He reached for a small bottle of water on the desk and downed it. “It’s actually quite lucrative and a hell of a lot more stable than one big random job two or three times a year.”

“But more tedious.”

“Yeah, there’s that. And I have more people working for me than I’d like, but it allows me to stay pretty hands-off.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess you’re still very much into it then, aren’t you?” Disappointment laced her words.

Had she hoped he was out? Why would she care if she wanted nothing to do with him? The need to tell her what he hadn’t said aloud to anyone tugged at him. He crunched the plastic bottle in his hand. Exposing his deepest wants to Dani shouldn’t be so hard. But fuck, when she was around he felt exposed, vulnerable, and, hell, even pathetic.

“What is it?” She watched him carefully.

He shrugged. “You’re right, is all. I haven’t gotten out.” He picked at the label of the bottle with his thumb, keeping his gaze away from the heat of hers. “I don’t enjoy it anymore. The thrill is gone. Even when I started stealing from the trucks . . . it’s just not worth it.” He chortled. “It’s stupid. But I have nothing else I can do. I’ve been doing this so long, I don’t even know how to be different.”

He peeked up. Her eyes had softened, but she didn’t say a word. He tossed the bottle in the recycling bin and rocked back against the desk. Silence stretched, and the need to explain himself further pulsed through him.

“Milo and Serena . . . they have it figured out. He’s into renovating houses, she sells them. It’s a good gig. And they’re happy.”

Dani stood and crossed the room. She stopped in front of him and folded her arms over her chest. “We?—”

Ring, ring

He jumped as his phone burst out in song and then fished it from his pocket. Shit. “It’s Leland. I’ve got to get this.” He answered the call and pressed the device to his ear. “Hey?—”

“What the fuck, Brock! A dead body? Tell me you don’t know anything about this.”

Brock mumbled a curse. Jesus. How could he have forgotten about the Interpol guy? “Man, I’m so sorry. There was a break-in and?—”

“Don’t give me that. Your friend, Danielle Metcalf, US citizen, is all over the news and wanted as a fucking terrorist.”

Brock’s stomach lurched. “W-What?”

“Turn on the TV.”

He grabbed the remote off the desk and turned on the flat screen that hung on the wall. He flicked through the channels until he landed on the news.

Danielle Metcalf is believed to be involved in a bioterrorism attack in Geneva, Switzerland. The twenty-eight-year-old United States citizen . . .

Dani inhaled sharply behind him. “Oh my god.”

He turned to face her. Leland’s voice droned on in his ear. “Is she there with you? You need to turn her in, Brock. You’re going to end up?—”

Dani’s face went from stark white to fluorescent green as two images of her—a social media profile picture and her driver’s license photo—filled the screen. Brock hung up the phone and caught her by the elbows as her knees gave out.

. . . suspected of murdering Interpol agent Rudolph James. Police are investigating the agent’s reasons for being at the young American’s residence off duty.