When he nods, a stern cough demands the attention of my eyes. Alex has his brows furrowed, and his lips have thinned. His whole stance is projecting uncontrolled anger, and I could be mistaken, but a smidge of jealousy.
"If you have time to organize dates, I need to increase your workload.” His blue eyes shoot daggers at Brandon.
Yep, he is definitely jealous.His unexpected jealousy makes me wonder if he is a “treat them mean to keep them keen” type of guy.
“Sorry,” Brandon mumbles under his breath.
Hesitantly, I remove my hands from the computer monitor. A sense of relief washes over me when I notice my bikini photos are no longer flicking across the screen.
Barely breathing, I scroll down to the photo of Isaac’s companion I captured this morning. An impressive groan vibrates Alex’s lips at the same time a pang of remorse stabs my chest.
“Run facial recognition,” requests Alex, slapping Brandon on the shoulder three times.
Brandon nudges me with his elbow. When I move away from my desk, he pulls a black swivel chair in close and runs his fingers over the keyboard. I turn my reluctant gaze to Alex, hoping some commendation will lessen the guilt I'm feeling for spying on Isaac.
Alex's eyes scan my face, but not a word seeps from his lips. My shoulders slump and a sigh spills from my mouth.
You are just doing your job, Isabelle,I silently justify, hoping to ease my remorse.
Dropping my gaze back to the computer monitor, I watch as the facial recognition software scans potential matches for Isaac's companion. Alex shifts in close to me. He is so near I can smell what he had for breakfast. I never picked Alex as a blueberry pancake with maple syrup type of guy, but there is no denying that aroma. Sweet and sickly at the same time.
My stomach grumbles. Unfortunately, not only did I dump the coffees into the bin this morning; my blueberry muffin went right along with them.
“I bet you wish you didn’t ditch your blueberry muffin in the bin now,” Alex whispers into my ear.
My confused eyes dart up to his. I’m confident I kept my mumblings to a bare minimum this time. When he notices my perplexed expression, he smiles. Not a genuine, heart fluttering smile, but a sly grin that makes me wonder what he is concealing underneath his pretty-boy exterior. It’s dangerous and conniving.
“Bingo,” shouts Brandon, interrupting the uncomfortable stare-down between Alex and me. “Facial recognition has a match.”
My eyes scan the information displayed on the monitor in front of me. Delilah Anne Winterbottom, thirty-six years old, publicist and divorcee, spouse of Henry Theodore Gottle III before their divorce settlement was finalized eight months ago. She lives in New York City, has no siblings, no children, and no criminal history.
“Looks like another dead end,” I murmur to myself.
Well, I thought I was discreet until Alex’s firm eyes lift to mine.
“A dead end?” His eyes bore into mine as if he is a parent reprimanding a child for failing an exam.
“She is a publicist. . .” I attempt to reply before catching a glimpse of Brandon shaking his head.
With a pivot, Brandon points to something on the screen. The overhead lighting reflects on the monitor, making me unable to see what he is referencing.
“Please continue, Isabelle.” Alex spits out my name as if it is venom. “I'd love to hear your reasoning as to why this is a dead end.”
My eyes shoot to Brandon. When Alex follows the direction of my gaze, anger reddens his face. Recognizing that our ruse has been busted, Brandon's finger slips off the computer monitor as he swallows several times in a row.
"Henry Theodore Gottle III," Alex says sternly. "Son of Henry Gottle, suspected mob boss of New York City."
“Just because he is the son of a mob boss doesn’t automatically make him part of the mob.”
Alex laughs, seemingly amused by my reply. His chuckle doesn’t match his charmingly handsome looks. It is a scary, witch-like laugh that has everyone in the room stopping what they're doing to glance at him peculiarly.
It takes several long and tedious minutes for Alex’s laughter to die down. When it does, he says, “You surely can’t be that stupid, Isabelle.”
When I fail to respond to his taunt, he stops grinning and steps toward me.
“And here I was thinking you made it through the academy solely by using your brain. I guess today proves what I’d originally suspected.” He keeps his voice loud enough the agents watching his charade can hear him. “You weren’t brought here for your academic abilities.”
My arms fold in front of my chest when Alex’s squinted gaze leisurely assesses my body.
