“Holy … Simon … don’t stop.” Her words were breathy, and my dick pulsed in my jeans. I ignored my hard-on and continued devouring the sweetest pussy I’d ever tasted. Jesus Christ. This woman would own me.

She bucked against my mouth, and I flicked her piercing again. When she screamed my name, I’m pretty sure everyone in a four-block radius heard it. I fucking loved it. Her hips jerked and she sank deeper into the mattress, pulling away from my mouth. She pushed my head away, and I looked up at her. Her features were languid, sated. I wanted to make her look like that every day for the rest of my life.

The thought slammed into me with the subtly of a two-by-four to the face. I knew I wanted to see where this could go between us, but I hadn’t stopped to consider exactly what that could mean.

As she reclined against the bed, I considered what I knew about her: she had attitude and ink in spades and constantly kept me guessing. I knew her name, where she worked, where she lived, that she had only a few friends, and she loved her dog. That was the sum total of my factual knowledge of Charlie Stone. Before I let myself get any deeper into whatever this was becoming, I needed to know more.

She propped herself upon her elbows, eyes raking over me. “Are you going to let me return the favor?”

All coherent thought fled my brain except for hell yes.

I locked the door behind Simon and sagged against the wood. Sweet baby Jesus. The man had rocked my world. Both in bed and out. Because of him, I was going to potentially put my safe and anonymous existence at risk. I crossed into my bedroom and punched in the code to the small, hotel-type safe bolted into my closet. Harriet’s last tenant had left it behind, and I used it to hoard my cash and the reminders of my past. My license, passport, and old credit cards were stacked inside. It was strange to see my real name again. Only Harriet knew it, and I was confident she’d never reveal my secret. I’d stopped thinking of myself as Charlotte Agoston about three months after I’d left Manhattan. By that time I’d embraced my new identity. All it took was 1,300 miles and a fake name to finally discover the real me.

Under the false bottom built into the safe, there was a nondescript composition book. It was deceiving in its simplicity, but the pages were filled with a gibberish mess of letters and numbers. It was the one thing of my father’s I had taken from the penthouse, although I probably shouldn’t have. But I’d run across it by chance and taken it as a sign. I didn’t know what it contained, but I did know that my father wouldn’t go to the trouble to encode something unless it was pretty damn important. It was my insurance policy. Although, it could just as easily be my ticket to facing an obstruction of justice charge. Either way, I’d known that my disappearance wouldn’t go over well, and there was a chance the Department of Justice might still decide I belonged in prison with my father. If that happened, information would be my only bargaining chip. I just didn’t know what kind of information I had. I hadn’t touched the book since the day I’d stashed it in the safe. And I didn’t want to be touching it now. It was an irrational fear—that my father’s evil would somehow seep under my skin if I handled his dirty secrets. Honestly, I’d planned to do nothing with it unless and until I needed to use it as a defensive weapon. But Simon had unknowingly convinced me to be proactive. The only way I’d ever be able to stop looking over my shoulder was to find the money.

The FBI had all of the computers, servers, files, and records from Agoston Investments, and with all that information and the resources at their disposal, I assumed they would have found something by now. Tens of thousands of people were counting on them. But nothing in the news mentioned even a dollar being located. If I could decipher the notebook, and it actually contained information that would prove useful in the search, I could feed the feds anonymous tips while retaining my ace in the hole. Once all of the money had been recovered, I could emerge from hiding on my own terms. It was an idealistic plan, but it might be my only shot at exploring something real with Simon.

That was, if Simon could stand to be near me after he knew the truth. My hopes deflated at the thought, but I wouldn’t let it deter me. It was a long shot on both fronts, but it was the only shot I had. So I’d take it.

I thought about tonight. Simon was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. He seemed to just want me … for me. That was a novel experience. As the daughter of a billionaire, I’d always questioned people’s motives for befriending me. As a child, parents had encouraged their kids to get close to me in order to be invited into my parents’ social circle. Imagine being fourteen years old and being grilled for investment advice by a friend’s dad. Seriously.

I know, poor little rich girl syndrome. But you could never know what someone else’s life was like until you’d walked that metaphorical mile in her designer pumps. Pre-scandal Charlotte Agoston would have been the perfect match for someone like Simon. Well-bred, poised, not to mention wealthy and well-connected. But he seemed to like the simple, rough-around-the-edges, poor, loner version of me just fine. His political ambitions and upcoming campaign were the biggest wildcards right now. He’d never discussed them with me.

Would Simon still want to be with me when I refused to accompany him to fundraisers and public events? Or would he grow frustrated and lose interest? At this point, there was nothing to do but wait and see. The most startling realization was that I wanted to find some way to fit into his life.

I flipped open the notebook and delved into the wily depths of my father’s twisted mind. I stared at the words, letters, and numbers for hours, hoping a pattern would emerge.

It was his own shorthand encrypted with some sort of code—that much was clear. But without the key to the cipher, I could stare it for years and never break it.

The boldly scrawled numbers and letters were blurring together when I flipped the book shut hours later. The sun was already shining through my skylight, and I was no closer to figuring it out than I had been when I started.

The book went back into the safe, and I took a quick shower before dressing and heading out for coffee and my Saturday morning beignet. I had to be at the Dirty Dog by nine to help Yve sort through a new shipment of inventory she’d bought online. I opted to leave my bike at home and walked up Dauphine to St. Philip and my favorite café. A hotspot frequented by locals more than tourists, it was already jam-packed with the early crowd. While I waited in line, I noticed The New York Times on one of the tables.