Chapter 8 - Cleaning House
By midnight, the grand estate on Lake Ashford was quiet once again.
Local federal authorities—tipped off by Claire’s extensive dossier—had arrived quietly in unmarked vans to take Victor Cruz, Vanessa’s father, and their associates into federal custody on charges of domestic terrorism, arms trafficking, and conspiracy to commit murder.
Vanessa Carlisle was led out of the mansion in handcuffs, weeping hysterically, her white silk dress rumpled and stained with rain as she was loaded into the back of a black SUV.
The twenty-three guests had been safely escorted off the property by Leo’s team, sworn to absolute secrecy under penalty of total financial and legal ruin by the Moretti legal machine.
The grand dining room was empty. The shattered glass had been swept away, the blood cleaned from the rug, and the heavy crystal chandeliers turned down to a soft, golden glow.
Adrian sat at the head of the long mahogany table, two crystal glasses and the bottle of thirty-year-old scotch resting before him.
The heavy service door opened, and Claire walked in.
She had removed her shoulder holster and dark jacket, wearing only her crisp black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her forearms, revealing the white bandage still neatly wrapped around her right hand.
She walked to the table and sat in the chair to his right—the seat she had occupied six hours earlier when she was still bleeding under his gaze.
"The perimeter is clear," Claire reported, her voice quiet in the vast room. "Federal agents have seized Cruz’s main warehouse in Chicago. The missile shipment was recovered twenty minutes ago."
Adrian poured two fingers of scotch into her glass, sliding it across the polished wood to her hand.
"Your team’s murderer is in a federal holding cell, Claire," Adrian said softly, his dark eyes searching her face. "Your mission is complete."
Claire looked down at the amber liquid in her glass. For three years, she had lived for this single milestone. She had built her entire life around reaching the man who had ordered the strike on her convoy. Now that Cruz was behind bars, facing life in a maximum-security prison, a strange, hollow quiet settled in her chest.
"I suppose it is," Claire said softly. She looked up at Adrian. "My contract with you ended when Cruz was taken off the property."
Adrian didn't touch his glass. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the distance between them until his face was inches from hers.
"I don't remember signing a contract that said you could leave, Captain Bennett," Adrian whispered, his voice deep and velvet smooth.
Claire’s heart gave a sudden, heavy thud against her ribs. "You hired me to secure your house, Adrian. The house is secure."
"The house is secure," Adrian agreed, his hand reaching across the table to cover her bandaged right hand, his long fingers intertwining with hers. "But the man who lives in it is completely compromised."
Claire looked into his eyes—dark, intense, and filled with a raw, undeniable emotion that made her breath catch in her throat.
"Compromised how?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I spent five years surrounded by people who lied to me, used me, and planned my death behind my back," Adrian said, his thumb gently stroking the warm skin of her wrist. "And then a woman walked into my dining room with blood on her glove, holding a thirty-pound coffee tray with a cut handle, and saved my life without asking for a single dollar."
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He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her cheekbone, sending an electric shiver straight down her spine.
"I don't want a security advisor, Claire," Adrian whispered against her skin. "I want you. Stay with me. Not as a soldier. Not as a maid. As my equal."
