“Are these Jett’s?” My hand traces the mountains and sunset done entirely on a white paper napkin, in what looks like black pen. Another shows flowers wrapped around a woman’s leg, almost climbing onto her, using nothing but crayon and white paper, folded up. Sketch after sketch, I view each one, my head spinning. Who did these? They’re not signed. They have to be his, right?

I’m obsessed. If these are his, the man has a true gift. I look up at the giant oil painting wondering if that one’s his also. Like is this his true passion, and he’s only a lawyer to pay the bills?

“Ms. Stewart?” I scream and bolt up, spilling a ton of drawings on the floor, and stare at Patty.

“Oh my God, you scared me.” Sinking to my knees, I try to pick up the sketches so she doesn’t see them, which is absurd. It’s obvious I’m checking them out. That doesn’t mean she can.

“Here.” She hands me a cell phone.

“Oh.” I blow some hair out of my face. “Um, thank you. I was just…” My voice trails off because, again, this woman is not stupid. Clearly, she sees a lot of things in this house, so hopefully she doesn’t say anything to Jett. Should I ask her not to? Would that make me sound guilty?

“Raven.” Her voice makes me jump. “The phone.” She wiggles it at me. I try to stand, holding his treasures, doing my best to act casual and still not bend them. It doesn’t matter that seventy percent of them are on cheap paper, folded and ripped already.

“Thank you, Patty.” My voice sounds curt. Nodding, I take the phone. She nods back, a small smile on her lips as she walks out and shuts the door.

“Hello?” I brace myself for my mother’s voice.

“Are you a snoop?” And I almost drop everything, phone, drawings, my stomach…

Because it’s not my mother.

It’s Mr. Powers.

Chapter Twelve

JETT

Seated in my guest house, which is actually for my security team, I watch one of the screens intently. I have at least one bodyguard on my property, twenty-four-seven. They take care of everything, all the shit that comes with making enemies.

I’ve had plenty of death threats. I’m not the kind of man who plays. I pay my team a fortune, and in return I sleep better at night. My guest house is a two-story, 2,300-square-foot, four-bedroom, three-bath house, and one of the rooms is nothing but top-of-the-line security monitors and computers, allowing them, and me, to keep an eye on everything.

There are five men on my security team. I’ve handpicked either ex-CIA or Navy SEALs. They’re on a schedule, so one is here every day.