Glorious Rivals(99)

The only real proof that Rohan had of Zella’s involvement was tattooed onto Brady’s arm.

Rohan continued walking backward, willing Savannah to follow—and finally, she did. Not done with me quite yet, love?

“You gave me your dice.” Savannah said those words like an accusation.

Rohan spun again and took up position at the railing on the front of the yacht, fixing his gaze straight ahead. “It was,” he said, “the strategic thing to do.”

“You took me at my word,” Savannah replied.

She really was going to make him say it. Vicious, winter girl. “What choice did I have?” Rohan kept his tone light, and then, despite himself, he turned his head to look at her. “Right from the start, what choice did I have with you?” He added the nickname solely to annoy her. “Savvy.”

“I despise that name, British, so here is my final deal for you.” Savannah Grayson was made for moonlight—that platinum hair, those pale gray eyes, which narrowed at him in the most delightful fashion. “You may call me Savannah, and I will call you Rohan.”

The sound of his name on her tongue really was something else.

“Very well.” Rohan lifted a hand to her jaw—a strong jaw for a merciless woman. “Savannah.”

“Ask me what my plan is now,” she ordered.

“What…” Rohan anticipated the moment that her hand would grab his hair, and she did not disappoint. “… is your plan now?”

Savannah brought her lips very nearly to Rohan’s. “My plan,” she whispered, making certain he could feel that whisper on his lips, “is none of your damn business.” She brought her mouth just a little closer, her lips parting—but she did not kiss him. Instead, Savannah Grayson let Rohan feel all the ways she might have kissed him, and then she pushed him back against the railing.

Ruthless.

Those lips of hers parted once more. “Good-bye, Rohan.”

And soon enough, he was alone.

Chapter 86

ROHAN

Power came, always, at a cost. The only question was what the price was—and who was going to pay it. Fortunately for Rohan, there was clarity in pain.

And even more fortunately for Rohan, Jameson Hawthorne was a desperate man. He tracked Rohan down, the way Rohan had very much hoped that he would.

“I have an offer for you,” Jameson said, his jaw hard.

The human body told stories, if you knew how to listen. Rohan assessed Jameson for a moment. The muscles in Jameson’s jaw were just the beginning. And there’s my safety net. Rohan had not pieced together exactly what was going on here—yet.

But he would.

“I need ten million pounds, and I need it in the next seven weeks,” he told Jameson. “You appear to be down an heiress. You should have taken me up on my offer sooner.”

Like power, Rohan’s assistance would come at a price.

“I have money of my own.” The story that Jameson Hawthorne’s body was telling right now was a story of a dangerous, brutal, almost inhuman thing barely leashed. The man was broken. And Rohan had always had a certain fascination for broken things.

Putting them back together—or scavenging them for parts.

“Help me find Avery,” Jameson said fiercely, “and the money is yours—what you need and more, every dime I have, no strings attached.”

Yes, Rohan thought, the words a low, vibrating hum in his mind. Yes. That will do.

“And how precisely do you believe that I can be of assistance?” Rohan asked. Information, in times like these, was priceless.

“The duchess.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Zella. She knows something.”

Of course she does, Rohan thought. His rival was a master of the long game—in all likelihood, more than one.

Taking her down would be a pleasure. His pleasure.

“I’ll need the money before I can go back to London,” Rohan told Jameson. “Technicalities. You understand.”

“You’ll get the money when I get Avery back.”

Well, that could be a problem—but then, Rohan had always excelled at taking care of problems.

Without waiting for Rohan’s assent, Jameson turned, walking away—stalking, really, like a desperate, broken, dangerous man with somewhere to be.

“Where are you going?” Rohan called. “Where will I find you, once I have the information you need?”

Jameson’s stride never even broke. “Prague.”

Chapter 87

GIGI

In the time it took Gigi’s beloved-against-his-will former teammate to deliver her to Alisa Ortega on what appeared to be a yacht the size of a sprawling sportsball field, Gigi ascertained three things from He of the Grumpiest and Most Inscrutable of Pants.

One: Knox had looked for her. He’d been looking for her for more than a day.

Two: He’d been paid to do it.

And three: Even though Knox had heard every word Gigi had told Jameson and Alisa about the Woman in Red, even though Knox was the one who’d placed the call to Alisa in the first place, he clearly wasn’t going to ask.

About Calla.

Gigi just kept thinking about the scar at the base of Knox’s neck, the one he’d called a Calla Thorp good-bye. She kept thinking about the way the Woman in Red had insisted there was no Calla Thorp anymore.