“There have to be some perks to the job,” she jests while shoving my overstuffed suitcase into the back of her unmarked police car.
By the time we’re two miles away from the airport, I’m grateful I didn’t forgo my seatbelt because Regina drives like she is in pursuit. When the afternoon commuter traffic becomes dense, she turns on her lights and sirens, making the backed-up traffic part like the red sea.
Once we emerge from the densely populated roads, she rummages through a bag of donuts sitting in the console. I giggle over the cliché that a well-decorated and respected police officer appreciates a good donut.
“Don’t laugh, once you try these bad boys, you won’t be able to stop,” she mumbles through a mouth full of donut.
After digging her hand back into the greasy paper bag, she thrusts a gigantic cinnamon donut toward me. My stomach grumbles when its pleasant aroma invades my nasal cavities. My mouth salivates just from looking at its deliciously rounded perfection. I inhale one long whiff of its sickly sweet scent before hesitantly shaking my head.
Regina huffs incredulously before taking a significant bite out of the donut she was offering me. A rough growl erupts from her lips as she attacks the donut with unbridled fury. Her pleasurable moans echo through the interior of her car, forcing my bottom lip to droop. Once she has devoured every last smidgen of the donut, her eyes turn to face me. She teasingly pops her thumb into her mouth, ensuring not one speck of cinnamon remains on her finger. She thoroughly cleans her other fingers in the same manner.
“Can you grab me a napkin?” Her greasy finger points to the glove compartment.
Prying my hungry eyes away from the donut-filled bag, I open the worn and battered glove compartment. Numerous manila folders and a lot of napkins plummet into my lap the instant the old hinges crank open. I grab a handful of napkins for Regina before collecting the folders so I can return them to the glove compartment.
“Keep the gray one out,” Regina instructs. “I color-coordinated that one just for him.”
After shoving the non-required folders back into the overflowing glove compartment, I flick open the gray folder and eagerly scan the extensively noted documents inside.
“Page two.” Eagerness is clear in her voice.
My heart lurches when I turn the page. Piercing gray eyes, high and defined cheekbones, soft and plump lips, and a dimple in his chin. The very definition of a man is displayed in front of me.Oh god.
“Can anyone say gorgeous?” Regina squeals, scaring the living daylights out of me.
She pulls on the steering wheel to correct her car from veering off the road since her eyes were too busy inspecting the photo in my hand.
Confident we won’t have a fender bender, she says, “That unbelievably handsome man is Isaac Holt, a twenty-seven-year-old businessman who is unmarried, has no kids, has lived in Ravenshoe the past six years and has one sibling named Nicholas Holt. He owns a handful of highly successful nightclubs within the state. His current estimated worth is forty-three million dollars.” Her brows waggle when she mentions his wealth.
My stomach rolls when I peer at the man who had me mesmerized mere minutes ago. There has to be a mistake. That incredibly captivating man can’t be the same person Regina is investigating.
“Why is law enforcement interested in him?” The tremor of my heart echoes in my voice.
“He is twenty-seven years old and already a multi-millionaire. That alone warrants an investigation,” she replies coolly.
My eyes dart back down to the documents in front of me. The more I read of the elusive Mr. Isaac Holt, the more my interests pique. Although today he wasn’t evasive, he indisputably exudes mystery and intrigue.
“He made his first million before his twentieth birthday, before he even left college,” I half-inform, half-question.
Regina’s eyes turn from the road to glance at me before nodding. “We had nothing on him the past four years, but an undercover agent has spotted him several times the past year entering an illegal underground fight ring. Normally those type of functions don’t gain the attention of law enforcement, but this particular fight ring has some very notorious members.”
I continue to peruse the documents in front of me. Isaac is in several photos with two extremely large gentlemen. One looks like he’s been recruited from the military. His hair still has the same military-issued crew cut. He is ruggedly handsome but lacks the mysteriousness that makes Isaac so intriguing. The other guy has blond hair clipped close at the sides but longer on the top. His eyes are ocean blue, and he is smiling brightly in nearly every photo. He is also handsome but in a humble, boy next door way.
“The brunette remains anonymous, but the blond is Jacob Walters,” Regina informs me when she notices the photos in my hand. “We believe the brunette is either an associate of Isaac’s or his bodyguard. Jacob is his fighter. Isaac owns him.”
My eyes lift and lock with Regina’s. She frowns and nods gently. The rapid increase in my heart rate makes my stomach churn in protest.How can you own someone in the twenty-first century?I thought slavery ended years ago?
In silence, I flick through the extensive collection of Polaroid photos displayed in the gray manila folder.
“Col Petretti and Vladimir—”
“Popov,” I interrupt.
“You’ve done your research.” Regina seems impressed by my extensive knowledge.
Vladimir Popov and Col Petretti are two names frequently exploited during FBI training. My superiors used their names during numerous exercises and case studies the past two years of my training.
“What does Isaac Holt have to do with the mob?” I question as my heart erratically pounds my ribs.
