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“Talking about what? About Hawk?”
He glances up, brows arching. “Not about Hawk, no.” He taps the glass partition, and the limo rolls away—away from the mansion, away from the beach where I found refuge for a few days. Where I thought I might be safe for a while.
“Now…” He puts the gun on the seat beside him and rakes a hand through his messy hair. “How about some wine?”
Wine? Is he serious? “How about some answers?” We roll down a long street, flanked by mansions and more mansions. It’s cool inside the limo, and a shiver runs over my skin, raising goosebumps. “Why would anyone be hanging around the house, taking photos? Does it belong to Hawk? Who the hell is he?”
“I said this isn’t about Hawk.” He presses a button on the partition and a door slides back. Lit blue, a cooler appears, filled with wine bottles. “Champagne?”
What is he playing at? I just stare at him, his warm blue eyes, the face I’ve caressed and kissed, and don’t know what to think. He lifts two fluted glasses from the cooler, lowers my table and places them there. Then he grabs a bottle and unscrews the wire, then pops the cork with a soft crack. He fills the glasses with bubbly wine, spilling some outside.
It’s not the movement of the car, which is smooth as if it runs on air. No, for the first time today his hands are shaking. His expression is guarded, closed off.
“I don’t want any,” I whisper, the cold inside me turning to ice.
He gulps his down, then shrugs and lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks some more. “I wish he’d stocked up on some Scotch.”
Christ, I can’t take this anymore. “Say it. Whatever it is.”
He lowers the bottle, which I can’t help noticing is considerably emptier, and grunts. He leans back and scratches at his cheek.
This is bad, I can tell.
“Ray… I haven’t told you everything. I don’t think it changes anything, but you may disagree.”
Really? “You said you’re not a criminal.”
“I’m not.”
Okay. Good. “Then what is it? Did you lie to me about those accidents? Were you the one behind the wheel? The one who hit the other car? Was it—?”
“Whoa, whoa.” His eyes widen. “No. I haven’t lied to you. I just haven’t told you everything.”
“About what?”
“About me.” He rubs his eyes with his fist. “About who I am.”
“Who you are.” What. The. Hell. I wish I could pace around. Instead I grip my hands together. “Your name isn’t Storm, is it? I just knew it. You lied to me all along.”
“Dammit, Ray. I told you, I haven’t lied. This is what everyone calls me. My real name is Troy, but nobody has used it since my parents died.”
“Troy.” I try to contain my anger. I fail. I’m so disappointed—and I set myself up for it. How many times have I told myself I was insane to believe this was true? “Well, nice to meet you, Troy. So awesome that you trust me enough to tell me. I mean, we’ve only been fucking for, what, four days now? Or is it five?”
“Raylin—”
“No.” I’m so done with this. And here I was, thinking I could trust him. I tap on the glass. “Stop the car.”
He grabs my arm. “Hear me out, dammit. My name is Storm. Has been since I was six. But yeah. I was born
Troy. Troy Jordan.”
I jerk my arm free and he lets go, his mouth twisting in a grimace.
Troy Jordan. “And why couldn’t you tell me this earlier? Anything special about your name I should know? What’s the frigging big deal?”
His eyes widen again, and it’d be funny if I wasn’t so pissed.
Then it hits me. Like, square in the chest. A roundhouse kick. “Jordan. You said the Jordans own the house.”
