Page 40 of Saving Grace

I pushed back my chair and threw some cash on the table. “I’ll head back to the loft and pack.”

“Foster’s gonna be pissed to find you gone,” Roger said.

“I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye,” I said. “I’m grateful for all he has done for me. I don’t think it’s healthy for either of us if I stayed with him any longer.” I just hoped he wouldn’t bring Kyra back to the loft this evening. I didn’t think I could take it if I stood there, saying goodbye with that woman wrapped around him or vice-versa. My gut clenched painfully at the thought. But what if he didn’t come back to the loft tonight. What would that tell me?

“Wait for me,” Roger ordered. “Let me finish my beer, and I’ll accompany you. Matt left strict instructions that you were never to be left alone until Troy arrived.”

Interesting. He still cared.

“Relax and finish your beer,” I said. “You said Axe was there, right?”

“Yes, he is.”

“I’ll be fine. Troy is arriving in forty-five minutes. I want to freshen up and pack before then.”

I might have a long night ahead of me.

The garage was quiet when I let myself in. All the lights were on, but I didn’t hear any sound except the radio, which was really loud.

“Axe!” I called out. “It’s Grace. I’m heading up to the loft, okay?”

No answer.

Oh, well, he probably had his headphones on. The guys had different tastes in music, and sometimes not everyone agreed on the station. Whoever got to the shop in the morning first got dibs on the channel.

I made my way up the spiral staircase. Matt’s office was off the right at the top of the stairs, and on the left, a hallway led to the living area above the garage. There was a staircase that led directly to the loft from the outside, but it was gated and a pain to go through there.

The door to the loft was ajar, but no lights were on. I felt a prickle of unease at the back of my neck. I gave in to the sudden urge to flee just as movement from Matt’s office caught my eye.

A man wearing a black three-hole ski mask stood there. He was blocking my way to freedom.

“Gotcha,” he murmured.

I ran toward the loft, letting instinct guide my way. My hope was getting inside and shutting the intruder out. Just when I thought I was going to make it, he tackled me from behind and brought me to the floor.

He rolled me on my back, straddled me, grabbed both wrists, and slammed them on the floor.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Grace,” he purred in an accent.

“Who are you?” I croaked. I hated that my voice shook and my insides were crawling with fear.

“You know who I am.”

“The Reaper?”

He didn’t say anything, but his silence was confirmation enough. He dragged me from the floor, twisted my hands behind my back, and pushed me into the loft. He didn’t switch on the lights in the living room or the kitchen area but marched me straight into the guest bathroom by the hallway.

He turned on the lights then, pushed me against the sink, and pressed his body intimately against mine.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated. This was the most feared assassin of the Carillo Cartel. Matt had described to me what he did to his victims. The eyes behind the ski mask were dark, almost obsidian. His lips were well-formed and firm. “I know you have amnesia.”

“Who told you?”

“Doesn’t matter, but you have something I want.”

“If you know I don’t remember then why come after me?”

“I needed to see you.”