Marrying my secret admirer after my husband's fake death novel Chapter 85

“Who are you calling?”

Beckett’s face tightened with anxiety. The moment he snatched Edith’s

phone, someone began pounding on the car door so hard it sounded like thunder.

His hands shook so badly he almost dropped the phone.

Looking up, he saw the same man he’d spotted outside the villa in the suburbs not long ago.

Edith heard the furious banging, too. She shifted her gaze, and the instant she saw Justin, a rush of relief swept over her–like she’d just been pulled back from the edge.

Beckett’s jaw clenched, his face twisted in frustration at having his plans so rudely interrupted.

The car doors were still locked.

Since things had already gone this far, Beckett thought, why not just go the whole way tonight? With a reckless resolve, he decided to drive off–anywhere, as long as no one could interfere. Tonight, Edith would be his, no matter what.

But as soon as he started the engine, the growl of the motor tipped off Justin outside.

Justin knew exactly what this bastard was trying to do.

There was no time to think. Justin sprinted in front of the car and planted himself firmly, blocking Beckett’s escape.

Although Beckett slammed on the brakes, the momentum sent the hood bumping right into Justin’s knees.

Justin barely registered the pain. Bracing his hands on the hot metal, he glared through the windshield, his eyes burning with fury as he locked eyes with Beckett.

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Chapter 85

That stare was so fierce that Beckett’s breath caught in his throat.

Panic–raw, animal panic–raced through his mind.

Justin’s eyes sent a clear message: If you want to take Edith, you’ll have to run me over first.

Beckett felt his bravado crumble. He sucked in a sharp breath and finally unlocked the doors.

But Justin didn’t budge. He stood his ground, unmovable, silently demanding that Beckett hand Edith over himself.

Beckett seemed to get the message. Cursing under his breath, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel, then reluctantly climbed out and yanked open the passenger door.

Only then did Justin rush forward and pull Edith out of Beckett’s grasp.

The fresh night air hit her face, clearing her head. Realizing she was safe at last, Edith went limp in Justin’s arms, a wave of terror and relief washing over her.

Thank God Justin picked up the phone, she thought. But how did he get to the Sumner estate so quickly?

Justin held her tightly, his gaze thunderous as he stared Beckett down. “How could you stoop this low? What kind of man does something like this?”

Beckett, flustered and humiliated, scrambled to the driver’s side, desperate to save face. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything–1 was just giving her a ride home!”

Suddenly, Edith remembered something important in the back seat. Rising on her toes, she whispered urgently in Justin’s ear, “The painting–the painting, in the back seat.”

Still holding her close, Justin strode to the rear door and yanked it open–so hard it was a miracle the hinges held.

He leaned in and, with one arm, pulled out the oil painting. The muscles

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