Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

“Hey, there. Sorry about that, sir. I was going a little too fast,” Sanders said, opting for patent honesty, hoping it might do the trick.

“Yeah, I’d say,” the officer remarked, humorless. The young man studied him from behind his sunglasses, then whipped them off. Sanders felt naked and exposed, and he blinked several times, unsure of why he was under such scrutiny. The trooper scrubbed a hand over his chin as Sanders reached for his wallet in the center console. It slipped from his fingers, and he gripped it more steadily, shaking his head. Damn, he needed to get some sleep.

He fished in his wallet, and handed the cop his ID.

The cop raised his chin. His mouth curved up, and his eyes narrowed as he glanced from the ID to Sanders, then back again.

“Funny thing, Mr. Foxton,” the cop began in a drawl. He clucked his tongue and tapped his finger to the ID. “Your eyes don’t look so bloodshot in this photo.”

He sat bolt upright. “Come again?”

The cop cocked his head. “You been drinking? Smoking, maybe? You look like you might be enjoying some substances.”

Sanders’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head, fear prickling along his skin. “No, sir.” He’d never done that, never would. But when the cop’s eyes roamed the car, spotting his bag on the backseat, the man arched an eyebrow. “What have you got in there?”

“Just my stuff.”

“What were you up to? Where have you been?”

“Visiting my sister. In California.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

“What are you looking for, may I ask?” His voice was etched with worry.

“Whatever you’re on,” the cop said smugly.

Sanders held up his hands. “I’m not on anything. I swear.”

Doubtful eyes stared back at him. “You were swerving in the lanes like you’re drunk or high. Your eyes are bloodshot.”

“I’m just tired. Been driving a lot. Trying to get home and sleep in my own bed.”

“If you’re just tired, you won’t mind if I have a look around.”

Oh shit. His stomach plummeted. “Go ahead,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t terrified.

Five minutes later, the cop gave him a sharp, knowing stare. “You want to start talking about what you’re transporting across state lines?”

For more than eighteen years, Sanders had been making these runs. He’d been fucking flawless. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t wanted to know. He’d simply taken the packages and brought them to the addresses he’d been given.

He’d never been pulled over, never gotten questioned. And now, four months from retirement, he was nabbed.

This was just his luck.

For the first time, he felt the cold grip of fear that the authorities would find out all he’d done.





CHAPTER THIRTY


The grocery store. The piano shop. His house.

That was what the private detective had said Luke Carlton’s daily life consisted of. The day Michael returned from New York, he shoved aside all thoughts of Annalise.

Narrowing his focus on the investigation, he conducted some recon of his own.

He pulled into the parking lot at Luke’s regular grocery store on his usual evening to shop. Maybe it was an act of desperation. But hell, this guy was slippery. And Michael didn’t like slippery. He wanted the man to be caught. Put behind bars. Locked the fuck up.

Maybe he could find a clue. The detail that would tip the cards in the favor of justice. He sat in his car and waited, like he was the private eye.

And hell, if this job didn’t suck.

But Luke was clockwork, and at six p.m., he walked through the front doors of the store. Michael got out of his car and kept a decent pace behind him, clenching his fists.

How could that man—that Royal Sinner—have such an ordinary, average life?

Luke pushed a cart through the aisles, buying bananas, a whole chicken, some cereal, toilet paper, potato chips, orange juice, and a can of white beans.

Each aisle Luke wandered down, Michael was tempted to confront the fucker. To grab him by the collar of his short-sleeve button-down shirt, slam him against the canned peas, and ask him what the fuck he had done eighteen years ago. How he’d gotten away with it. How he was still getting away with everything, including buying bananas.

Michael hated bananas.

But somewhere between the bathroom supplies and the salty snacks, he slowed his pursuit and tamped down the treacherous ball of anger inside him. Talking to Luke, confronting Luke, spitting on the man’s face—none of that would help solve the crime. Those would only serve to mess with the investigation. To tip him off.

Michael turned around, marched to his car, and yanked open the door. Once inside, he dropped his head to the steering wheel and cursed up a blue streak.