Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Damien

I pride myself on my ability to read people. There's no way I'd have survived the cutthroat world of business if I couldn't. But something is up with Francesca.

She's hiding the fact that something is bothering her, but not good enough to fool me. I know her. I know the exact sound she makes after her first sip of coffee. The way her eyes light up when she sees me. The way she worries her bottom lip when she's deep in thought.

Something is definitely going on with her. But tonight is all about us. It's another night of romance and I don't want to ruin it by flat out asking her what's going on. "You look beautiful tonight, Francesca."

Her eyes refocus as if she was a million miles away from the upscale seaside restaurant in Malibu. A beautiful smile lights up her face, but it doesn't quite make it up to her eyes. "Thanks. You always look great."

"It's still nice to hear." I run a playful hand down one side of hair, smiling and batting my eyelashes.

The move draws a laugh from her, but it doesn't stay for long. "You look very handsome tonight, Damien."

Our wine arrives and her mood is fucking up my plans to move things forward. On my terms. "Is something on your mind, Francesca?" I shouldn't ask but dammit how can I sit here and pretend as if I can't see that something is clearly bothering her?

"What?" Her brows dip and she shakes her head. "Nothing."

I reach for my wineglass and take a slow sip, giving her enough time to reconsider. "Nothing," I repeat the word, and it's bitter on my tongue. "I didn't realize we've reached the stage in our relationship where we lie to each other."

"I'm not lying," she snaps.

"You are. Tell me you don't want to talk about it. Tell me to mind my business. Do not tell me it's nothing when I can clearly see it's something."

Her wide-eyed gaze fixes on mine for a long minute and I brace myself for her to make a scene. Frankie opens her mouth and then closes it. Twice.

"I'm sorry, you're right. My mind is on the case," Frankie says, shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to talk about it when I'm here with a gorgeous man, wonderful wine, and what smells like an amazing dinner."

"Lobster and crab cakes. I really hope you enjoy fresh seafood," I reply, watching her smile brighten a fraction.

"I do, Damien. I enjoy all meals with you."

She's deflecting. I sense her thoughts drifting, like she's trying to escape something pressing. Is she the one digging into my past? She won't find anything. I made damn sure of that.

"You mentioned you're working on a big project, and it sounds like it's gaining traction?" she asks, her tone shifting back to curiosity.

I nod as I explain. "This groundbreaking technology will help individuals who haven't communicated for years finally connect. It's designed for those affected by trauma, PTSD—maybe even children on the spectrum."

As I speak, I study her. I need to know what's really behind her eyes.

"Wow." Her eyes widen. "That's amazing, Damien. So, what sparked your interest in helping humanity?"

I shrug. I've rarely hidden this part of my life from her, but for some reason, I give the same rehearsed answer. "It's the future. Technology will help lessen the stigma and impact of a lot of disabilities and disorders."

"Sounds like you're more than a tech billionaire," she teases, a playful glint in her eyes. "Careful, Damien, or people will find out your secret."

My brows knit together. "What secret?"

"That you're a good man who wants to save the world."

I laugh, the sound coming out hollower than I intended. "Hardly." It's the one thing no one could ever accuse me of being. "I'm motivated by being the best, by beating my competitors and making a lot of money."

"Hmm," is her only response. The starters arrive, and the silence between us isn't as tense as before. "This is delicious," she coos, holding up a bacon-wrapped scallop for me to taste.

I don't miss the flash of heat in her eyes when I grab her wrist and wrap my lips around her fingers before taking the scallop. "Delicious."

Next, a platter of lobster and crab cakes arrives, perfectly golden and garnished with a vibrant citrus aioli. She seems more at ease, which eases my tension. "I feel like we spend so much time together, but we've stopped getting to know each other. Tell me about your parents."

That's unexpected. I pause, taken aback. Why is she asking about my parents? "Not much to tell," I answer automatically. "They died when I was young."

"Right. Did you have a family friend like Jay to take you in?"

"What does that matter?" Her question puts me on edge, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickle. What's she getting at?

She shrugs, clearly disappointed in my answer. "I'm just trying to get to know you better. I feel as if I'm always going on and on about my life, but you're so tight-lipped about yours."

"Because I don't like to talk about it," I growl, suddenly angry.

"Damn. Okay." Her vulnerability vanishes as she reaches for her wineglass, filling it up and taking another sip before she returns her attention to the food on the table. Only the food on the table.

I wait her out. Women love to talk about anything and everything. Except my Frankie isn't like other women. She's tougher. More determined than most. I know what I have to do. A half-truth is better than a lie. "We were raised by a middle-aged couple who took us in."

"Really." She says in a tone that indicates it's not a question.

"What's going on Francesca?"

She sighs heavily before shaking her head. "This is what's going on, Damien. Look at this and tell me about the middle-aged couple who took you in and raised you."

Frankie slides a photo across the table, and the sight of it knocks the wind from my chest. I do my damnedest to hide my reaction, but the shock is there.

How the hell did she find this?

She's close. Closer than I ever allowed her to get. I've underestimated her, and that's a mistake I don't intend to repeat.

"What's this?" I ask, feigning nonchalance, though my voice is tight.

"It's a photo of you. At Hope House."

I lean in, studying the yellowing image of me as a teen, dressed in the ratty clothes of the group home, my eyes hollow even then. The photo is damning, but I can't let her see that.

"Where?" I ask in a complete lie, my voice laced with irritation.

"Hope House. A group home for children that has since closed down."

I meet her gaze, my irritation growing. "What makes you think I was ever in a group home?"

But Frankie doesn't back down. Her brown eyes, usually so warm, are now sharp, calculating. She's not here for a simple conversation. She's here to challenge me.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out another photo, sliding it across the table with deliberate slowness. My heart skips a beat as I look down at the image. It's of a young boy, his face half in shadow, but I know exactly who he is.

Connor Donovan.

He was found dead a few months ago. By me.

"Do you know who this is?" she asks, her voice soft, almost gentle, but there's an edge to it I can't ignore.

I look back up at her. "Should I?" My mind races, searching for the right words to deflect her, to turn this around.

"I've been piecing together details about Hope House," she says, her voice steady. "These photos are just a part of the puzzle."

Shit.

"I don't know what you think you've found, Frankie," I say. "But whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me. I have no idea what Hope House is, nor do I know who these children are."

"Alrighty then. Can we get back to dinner?"

I lean forward and take her hands in mine, giving them both a supportive squeeze. "I'm sorry, Francesca. I know you've been working long and hard on this serial killer case and maybe you thought you had a lead. But I have no idea what any of this is."

Her eyes go soft, and she nods slowly. "Okay, I just thought?—"

"It's okay. Maybe the case is getting to your head. Maybe we need to have another weekend getaway to help you recharge your batteries. One where we both sleep at night."

She shakes her head quickly. "No, I can't. There's too much work to be done and we're getting closer to ID'ing this guy. I can feel it."

"Fine," I sigh and scrub my hand over my face. "I can't make you do something you don't want to do, Francesca. But how will you feel if you miss something, and this guy kills again?" It's a low blow and the look of betrayal on her face tells me she thinks so, too. Perfect. "I just hope you can live with yourself."

Slowly, she frees her hands from mine and her gaze turns to the entrée in front of her. "You ask what's bothering me and then you turn it around on me? That's low. Damien."

"Maybe so but I know how badly you want to catch this guy, and you said yourself that you're close. Why not reset your mind for the last leg of the race? We'll spend a weekend away and if another murder happens, I'll charter a helicopter and get you back to the city." I have a plan, and this situation is the only sign I need that this is exactly what must happen next.

"You have a place in mind?" she asks easily.

I shrug and return to her charming billionaire boyfriend. "Let's just say that I've been thinking a lot about you in a bikini."

When the corners of her mouth twitch, I know I've won. "I'll talk to the captain."

"Three-day weekend coming up, right? Let's do it then, no permission necessary."