North Wainright. She sure as shit wasn’t seventeen any longer. I remembered the long, blonde hair. The high cheekbones. Full lips. Blue eyes.

But the grown version of North Wainright in the flesh and a black dress that hugged her lush womanly curves… not to mention fuck me stilettos that did exceptional things for her legs—

Fuck me.

Right. I was supposed to do just that. Get her to fuck me.

If one of her brothers had inherited the CEO position of Wainright Holdings at Macon’s death, I doubted Marshall would expect me to fuck one of them for information. I didn’t swing that way. But since Marshall was a sexist fuck, he figured the only way he’d get what he wanted from a woman was if she’d been well satisfied by some D.

My staring made me miss half of what Marshall was saying. “...need to know if she’s keeping the deal.”

“I know,” I replied. “I’m here. I see her.”

I hung up, shoved my cell back in my pocket. The guy wanted a job done. I’d do it, but I wasn’t going to give him a play-by-play.

She approached her brother, nodded to him. Didn’t smile. Didn’t offer him a hug or a pat on the shoulder. She didn’t hold a tissue in her elegant hand. Her eyes weren’t red from crying.

East—yeah, they all had fucked up compass names—leaned toward her, whispered something in her ear. He was two years younger and looked nothing like her. Dark hair but ridiculously pale eyes. He was big and built like a fucking tank.

She glanced at the casket. Nodded in reply to whatever he said.

When I’d first gone undercover with Marshall, I’d learned the family’s stats. While I was going to bring down Marshall, he was collateral. My prime target was Macon Wainright.

Except now he was dead. Massive heart attack while fucking his mistress. I glanced once again at the body, then turned away. The case on him would close along with the lid on his casket.

Since a dead guy couldn’t go to jail, the prime target with the FBI now was North Wainright. She was thirty. Oldest of four kids to Macon Wainright and Kitty Southforth Wainright. Kitty’d been dead for twenty-five years. Macon for five days. Undergrad at Harvard. MBA from Wharton. Second-in-command at Wainright Holdings.

Well, in command now and had all the answers.

When a minister, reverend or whatever hell the guy’s religious title was, sidled up to them and set his hand at North’s elbow and she shifted away, I practically growled.