“I…I had to get to work.”
“So I see. My driver is outside.” I wait for her to respond, but she just looks confused, so I add, “Close up and come with me.”
She scoffs, but I see a blush cross her face. “Just close up? I get a lot of custom later in the afternoon. My profit margins—”
“I’ll take everything you have,” I say without hesitation. “Now you have nothing to sell.”
I see her eyes narrow. “Don’t joke.”
“No joke. I could do with freshening up the house with a few plants and flowers. I’ll buy it all, you can deliver it later. But first—”
“I might still get orders, even if I have nothing in stock.”
I can’t help but grin. Fuck, she’s beautiful when she’s being stubborn. “Fine, every new delivery you get in, I’m reserving it for myself.”
Cassandra puts a hand on her hip, huffing as she tilts her body in that sexy way women do, looking annoyed. “For how long? Because when I have no more customers and can’t get any sales I don’t think—”
“For the rest of your life.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I don’t know who’s more shocked, me or her. Did I really just promise that? Why doesn’t it feel like a mistake?
I try to remind myself that she’s really an FBI agent, and this place is just a cover that will close down as soon as she finds out she can’t get what she really wants, but my mind isn’t buying it. I want her to stay, I want her to remain in my life, and if it means she’s my personal fucking florist then so be it.
“I happen to enjoy my work,” she protests, but a little of the heat is gone from her words. “I don’t want to just be given money for doing nothing.”
“Good, because I have a large house and I expect you to fill it.”
She stares at me, and I at her.
Fuck. Fill my house.
The double meaning in my words is obvious to us both, the only question being whether they’re deliberate from my subconscious or completely coincidental. I glance down at her belly, the thought of her filling my house with more than just plants suddenly consuming me.
Yes, I want her. I want her like that.
I want to breed her, and I’ve never wanted anything more.
But she’s not real.
I growl at the intruding thought and see her stiffen, but she doesn’t draw back. She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She responds to me in ways I’ve never dreamed could be possible. And yet…
And yet how can I trust someone who’s working for my worst enemy?How can I trust that unless…
Unless I test her. Unless I show her everything and then see if she tries to take it from me. I’m not even sure if my heart will stand it, but it’s the only way. It’s that or always wonder.
“Andrew Jackson,” I say, snapping my eyes to hers, looking for something. I’m not even sure what.
She pales. “What did you just say?”
I don’t know whether to reveal everything and make all this plain and simple for her, or continue to explore what this is between us. “He’s…he killed my sister. Artemis is dead because of him.” I remind myself that she’s not supposed to know who that is, and add, “He’s an FBI agent. Deputy Assistant Director now. I think.”
She doesn’t respond for a long time, and we just stand frozen in time, until she mutters, “Why are you telling me this?”
Her words are soft, and I know what she’s asking. Not why am I telling her this, but why am I telling her this. And she’s right. Unless I know who she really is, why would I mention it?
By every law, by every rule of undercover work, she should back off right now. She should go back to her boss and tell him she’s been compromised. Have him move her to a different city, give her a different assignment. It’s over. I’ll never see her again.
“Get in the fucking car, Rose,” I murmur, then add, “Please.”
I’ve never meant that word more in my life.