Within These Walls

Chapter Three: The Collision

Dante Richard Hawke

I check my watch. 6:55 PM. The steering wheel of my SUV feels like a f*****g toy in my hands. I’m a big man, and this goddamn custom-tailored tuxedo feels like it’s one deep breath away from ripping across my shoulders.

I’m idling at the curb of a high-end loft in Brickell, and I’m pissed. I shouldn't be playing chauffeur for some "professional" Lena dug up. I should be at the precinct, or better yet, putting a bullet in the back of the bastard who ruined my life. But the Captain is on my d**k about "humanizing my image."

The glass doors of the loft swing open.

"f*****g hell," I mutter.

A woman walks out, and she is a goddamn problem. She’s tall—strikingly tall—moving with a grace that isn't soft; it’s predatory. She’s wearing a midnight-blue gown that looks like it was painted onto her dark skin. Her hair is a long, black river with streaks of blonde that look like fire.

I step out of the car, standing at my full height to loom over her. She doesn't flinch. She looks at me with ocean-blue eyes that are colder than a morgue slab.

"Dante?" she asks. Her voice is like velvet over gravel.

"Nova," I growl. "You’re late. Get in the f*****g car."

She stops, her eyes raking over me like I’m a piece of s**t she found on her shoe. "Don't bark at me, Detective. I’m doing you a favor. You look like a bouncer in that suit."

"And you look like you’re about to rob the place," I snap back, opening the door. "Watch the dress. I don't want your glitter on my leather."

She climbs in, her heels clicking like a countdown. As she brushes past me, I catch the scent of musk and something metallic. I see the small cross tattoo on her cheek. My heart gives a hard, annoying thud.

I get in and pull away from the curb, my jaw tight. "The rules are simple. We walk in, we play the happy couple for the cameras, and then you stay the f**k out of my way. I have someone to find."

"Funny," she says, leaning back and looking out the window. "I was going to say the same thing. Don’t get in my head, Dante. I’m not here to hold your hand while you play hero cop."

"I'm nobody's hero, sweetheart. Just drive."

Nova Starling Quinn

Dante is a prick. A giant, muscular, golden-haired prick who thinks because he has a badge, he can tell me what to do. He’s a big man, his presence filling the SUV until I feel like I can’t breathe, but I’d rather die than let him see me sweat.

"You're a detective," I say, my voice flat.

"Is that a question or an observation?" he rumbles, not looking at me.

"Observation. You’re carrying a Glock 19 under that jacket. It’s a service weapon. You drive like you’re expecting an IED. And you have that 'I hate everyone' vibe that only cops have."

"I don't like civilians with attitudes," he snaps. "Especially ones who think they’re smarter than they are."

"I'm smart enough to know you’re hiding something," I counter. "But whatever. Just get me to the InterContinental. I have a job to do, and it doesn't involve you."

We pull up to the hotel. The red carpet is a circus of flashbulbs and fake smiles. Dante shifts the car into park and looks at me. His dark eyes are intense, almost violent.

"Wait," he says. He reaches over and grabs my arm. His hand is huge, his grip firm. "If we go in there, we have to look like we’re f*****g obsessed with each other. The Captain is watching. The press is watching. If you look like you want to kill me—which I know you do—we both lose our cover."

"Then put your hand on my waist, Detective," I hiss, leaning closer until our faces are inches apart. "And try to look like you're capable of feeling something other than rage. It’s called acting. Try it."

He gets out and walks around to my side. He opens the door and offers a hand. I take it, my fingers digging into his palm. As I step out, the cameras go off. He slides his arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He is solid, a wall of heat and muscle, and for a second, my brain glitches.

"Stay close," he growls into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "And try not to stab anyone for five minutes."

"Go to hell, Dante," I whisper back, flashing a brilliant, fake smile for the photographers.

We walk into the ballroom, the most beautiful, pissed-off couple in Miami. I’m scanned the room, looking for Marcus Thorne. I have no idea that the man whose waist I’m gripping is looking for the exact same bastard.

Nova Starling Quinn

The ballroom is blinding. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen explosions, and the air smells like expensive perfume and fake sincerity. I keep my smile plastered on my face, but my hand is digging into Dante’s side. I can feel the hard muscle of his oblique through his jacket.

"Stop gripping me like you’re trying to find a kidney, Nova," Dante mutters through a forced, charming smile. He nods at a passing judge like we’re actually enjoying ourselves.

"Then stop walking so fast, you giant oaf," I hiss back, my voice barely a whisper. "I’m in five-inch heels. If I trip and face-plant on this marble, I’m stabbing you with a cocktail fork."

"You’re a pain in the ass," he rumbles.

"And you’re a prick. Where is he?" I scan the room, my blue eyes darting past the socialites. My heart is thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Thorne. Where are you, you piece of s**t?

Dante Richard Hawke

My jaw is so tight I’m surprised my teeth haven't cracked. Every time Nova shifts, her leg brushes against mine through that ridiculous slit in her dress. It’s distracting as hell. I need to focus. I need to find Marcus Thorne and figure out which of these high-society scumbags he’s meeting with tonight.

"Smile, Detective," Nova whispers, her fingers tightening on my waist. "The Captain is at ten o'clock. He’s looking right at us."

I look over and see my boss, Captain Miller, raising a glass of scotch in our direction. He looks pleased. I want to flip him off, but instead, I lean down and press my face close to Nova’s, pretending to whisper something sweet.

"If you don't stop talking, I’m going to drag you to the dance floor and step on your toes," I growl.

"Try it, and I’ll tell your Captain you’re a closeted musical theater fan," she snaps back.

Suddenly, the crowd parts near the bar. My blood turns to ice. There he is. Marcus Thorne. He’s wearing a silver suit that probably costs more than my car, laughing with a group of investors. The sight of him makes the old anger—the hot, black smoke from the fire—choke me up.

I feel Nova stiffen beside me. Her entire body goes rigid. She stops bickering. She stops breathing.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice dropping the fake charm. I look down at her and see she’s staring at Thorne with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Nothing," she says, her voice trembling just a tiny bit before she hardens it back into a blade. "I just realized I need a drink. Stay here, Dante. Don't move."

She rips herself away from me and starts heading straight for the bar—straight for Thorne.

"Hey! Get back here!" I half-shout, but she’s already gone. Dammit. I can't let her blow my cover. I start after her, my long strides eating up the floor.

I don't realize she’s hunting the same man. I just think she’s about to start a scene that will get me fired. Or worse.