chapter 22

I groan, my head reminding me of how big of an idiot I was last night. Drinking so much whiskey, the constant lift of my glass to my lips was the only thing keeping me from saying something that would later lead to regrets, or worse yet, using my mouth for other things. The end result? I was hammered when I fell asleep. Too drunk to pop some painkillers or drink a couple bottles of water to stave off the hangover, my head is now pounding like a snare drum.

Climbing off the sofa that's too swanky and small to fit my frame, I hit the bathroom first, then grab a couple bottles of water out of the fridge. I should be running out of here like my ass is on fire, but instead of turning right, out of the kitchen, I make a left and slowly open the door to the bedroom.

As I look into the dim room, I tell myself that I'm doing the courteous thing by making sure she didn't choke on her own vomit last night, but when I hear her soft snores before my eyes adjust to the lack of light, I don't turn away.

I become that creep again. The one standing too far into the room to be gentlemanly, looking down at her sleeping. In my experience, most women curl up under the covers and bury their faces, making sure no draft in the room can touch an inch of exposed skin.

Anna doesn't sleep like that. Anna, apparently, also doesn't sleep in many clothes either, but I don't slither out when I see her dress from last night tangled on the floor alongside her bra. God, did she really have the red lace on under that blue dress. Who knew she was so patriotic? I smile when a flash of fantasy invades my head of her smiling over her shoulder only wrapped in an American flag.

"Jesus," I mumble when the sight of her lying on the bed shoves that half-cocked image from my brain.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, could be better than reality. Although she's mostly covered, the long line of her back is open to the air, one thigh pulled up and showing inches and inches of bare skin. Her arm is curled under her chin, tucked in close to her body, preventing any real indecency, but sweet Uncle Sam is she enticing.

I snap back when she grumbles and begins to move. As much as I want to see her turn over—

I'm shocked at how hard it is to walk away and not crawl into bed with her right now. Fuck, just the feel of her warm skin against mine would probably be enough to make me blow in my damn jeans like a teenager.

I bite my lip, at first with regret of backing away and then as punishment because I clearly have a serious problem and I get the fuck out of there. I don't know that I'd be able to resist her if she woke up and looked at me all sleep-tousled. I'd be a damn goner, and the last thing I'll ever need is getting tangled up with this woman.

When I make it across town, I get off on the tenth floor instead of the ninth, needing a shower and something in my stomach to soak up all the liquor I drank last night more than anything else. My apartment seems almost foreign even though it's only been a couple of days since I've been here.

I take my time in a cold shower and scarf down food that has no taste before heading down to the office. For the first time in days, none of my guys are hanging out in the break area. I almost miss those idiots as I make my way to Wren's office.

"Come give Daddy a kiss," Puff Daddy says as soon as I shove the door open.

For some reason I grin when he starts making smooching noises instead of wanting to wrap my hands around his little gray neck.

"Aww, don't be an asshole about it," he squawks when I ignore him.

Wren is smiling when I take the chair beside him.

"You look tired," he says when I run my hands over my face. I agree that I am with a low murmur.

See? That's how normal people handle being told that. I didn't give him a dirty look and run away, unlike some people I know.

"We have a little more information, but I don't know how helpful it will be."

Instead of handing me another file, Wren pulls up information on the huge screen directly in front of us.

"Dona," he must've gotten the memo from Flynn not to use her full name, "went to West Africa with Petrovich last month."

When images flash on the screen, I realize this must be the beach Dona told Anna she was going to vacation at.

Other than obtaining intel, I don't have any other emotions to seeing my ex-wife, in a white bikini, wrapped around a tall man. He's frowning down at her, but it isn't real anger I see in his eyes. He's protective over her, and I can only imagine the hell he gave her for wearing her barely there bikini to the beach where other men could see what he's so clearly possessive over.

"See that look on his face?" I ask.

"The one that says he's seen her naked?"

"The one that says this is more complicated than just a man missing a bag of rocks."

"I wouldn't call millions of dollars in diamonds a bag of rocks, but okay. Yeah. I guess."

"Bling bling, motherfucker."

We both huff a laugh at the stupid bird but keep our attention on the screen.

"I know you don't get out much past your online hookups, but that," I point to Nikolay's face, "is a man in love."

"Twitter pussy!" Puff Daddy squawks before laughing at himself.

I glare over my shoulder before looking back at the image on the screen. Dona's familiar devious smile makes my skin crawl, partly because she looked that way around me often but mostly because it only means trouble for her. Life is a fucking game to that woman, and so far, she's been lucky. I'm pretty sure that if her luck were to run out, it's going to be with the man in the picture with her.