Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

*

His dad’s oldest friend shook his head, thumbing through a deck of cards at his table at the Golden Nugget—empty for the moment, since it was early in the morning. “He never mentioned anything about someone named T.J. coming by, not that I can recall,” Donald said.

“Shit,” Michael hissed. “I’ve got to figure this out. You sure? Not a word?”

Donald held up his hands. “We talked about lots of stuff, but I don’t remember him mentioning it. ’Bout the only thing he said was that he was trying to get the new job, and he thought he might have a lead on it when he found something that was missing at the company.”

Something that was missing. If so, was that what T.J. had come to talk to him about at work? Michael narrowed his eyes. “And he never said what that something was?”

Donald shook his head. “Sorry, kid. I barely remember what I had for breakfast some days. I hardly remember the specifics of a conversation that didn’t stand out from two decades ago.”

“Do you think Sanders knows? Since he worked there?”

Donald shrugged. “S’possible.”

“Do you trust Sanders?” Michael asked pointedly, because the question had been gnawing at him.

“With my life.” Donald tilted his head, studying the younger man. “But why would you ask? Is there some reason you think you can’t trust him?”

Yes. Because he’s avoiding me. Because he’s avoiding everyone. Because something is up. “No reason. Except I honestly don’t know who to trust anymore.”

Donald shot him a faint smile and nodded, then stepped around from behind the table and gripped his shoulder. “I hear ya, kid. All I can tell you is this—keep on digging; keep on asking. Your dad was like that, too. He was focused and driven. You got that from him. Stay on it, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Focused and driven. His dad had used those words, too, to describe him—only his father had been talking about Michael’s quest to keep Annalise in his life. They were also fitting adjectives for how determined Michael had been to follow his dad’s wishes about her. Those words were spelled out in the note he’d found from his dad’s wallet, scattered across the driveway with credit cards and photos the night he’d died.

Annalise was his dream, his one-time reality, and his end game.

Then she was gone, reduced to a memory that haunted him. Now, she’d become real again, and he needed to go meet her at the airport.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


“We will begin boarding Flight Twenty-Three to New York shortly.”

Annalise turned in the direction of the gate agent, checking her watch as she talked to her sister in Paris, nine hours ahead of her.

“How is Mom doing today? How was the doctor’s appointment?” She paced the boarding area, scanning it for Michael, nerves skating across her skin. It was so weird to be traveling with him. This was what they had dreamed about when they were younger—this sort of freedom, including the freedom to change her flight. She’d been slated for a later one to New York, but had pushed earlier so they could fly together.

She stopped in her tracks, wondering what sort of traveling companion he was, like whether he slept on planes, his head bobbing up and down then crashing on her shoulder? It was an odd image—Michael Sloan dozing on a flight. Did he prefer the window or the aisle? Would he be chatty, or want to watch TV, or work the whole time? Would she want to do the things she normally did on planes—devour magazines like Discovery, National Geographic, and Vanity Fair, which were stashed in the outside pocket of her carry-on—or would they watch some lame straight-to-video release together on the mini-screen? All these details were unknown to her, even though many years ago she’d often imagined traveling with him.