Now I’m eating my words.
This can’t be true, can it? That can’t possibly be Tobias’s daughter walking into a sub-branch of the Bureau at Ravenshoe—surely.
I heard Isabelle had graduated from the academy a few months back, but with Alex’s work schedule worse than Theresa’s, I’ve not had the chance to check what she’s up to. I got her on the straight and narrow as Tobias and Grayson did for me, then I walked away according to Tobias’s request. But this, this changes everything, doesn’t it? She’s walking into my life, not the other way around, so Tobias’s wishes no longer count, right?
Right.
Then why the fuck does it feel wrong to act like I have no clue who she is when her pretty brown eyes drift my way? I’m quick to divert my eyes like I did when keeping an eye on her from afar the months following Tobias’s death, but the academy didn’t just double her receptiveness. Maturity did as well.
“Hello,” Isabelle greets, stopping at my desk.
She sounds the same as I remember, so I rake my eyes down her body to ensure she still looks the same.
Awareness of her surroundings isn’t the only thing that has matured.
So did her body.
Jesus.
I should not be looking at her as I am, but before I can remind myself that anyone associated with the Bureau is off-limits, not to mention she’s the equivalent of Tobias’s daughter, Alex’s grumpy baritone booms across the room. “I need that document now, Brandon.”
Eager to move before my sweaty top lip gives away the fact we’ve met previously, I find the flight manifest that reveals our target, Isaac Holt—suspected mob associate, businessman, and somewhat ladies’ man—flew home commercially this weekend instead of utilizing one of his many private jets. That’s so unlike him, Alex is convinced it’s the beginning of the end for Isaac. I’m inclined to agree with him. Isaac hasn’t made a single mistake since we’ve been watching him. Although a trip home in a commercial plane seems innocent enough, usually there’s more to unplanned actions than there are intended ones.
Alex has barely snatched the document from my hand when Isabelle joins us in the middle of the bustling office. “Hi, I’m Isabelle Brahn, your new agent.” Her hand thrust directed at Alex reveals she has recognized him but not me.
I’m okay with that.
The last thing I want is a stalker charge added to the thick file the Bureau already has on me.
“Michelle,” Alex roars a few seconds later, startling Isabelle. “I thought I ordered a blonde?”
When Michelle, a mid-forties techie who’s obsessed with the head of our division, magically appears at Alex’s side, Alex returns his slit-gaze to Isabelle. If the narrowed squint of Isabelle’s eyes is anything to go by, she didn’t appreciate his gawk of her body as much as she did mine.
I’m okay with that as well.
“Does she look brunette to you?”
Michelle bats her lashes, pleased Alex seems to have noticed a flaw in Isabelle. Just like our target, Alex has a fascination with blondes. The only difference is Alex was only seen with one blonde whereas Isaac has been seen with many the past eight months. “Umm, yes, she does appear to be a brunette.”
Her reply irritates Alex more. “In the past two months, have you ever seen him with a brunette?”
I’m confused by Alex’s line of interrogation, and I’m not the only one. Isabelle is as stumped as me. “What does my hair color have to do with my placement?”
Alex replicates nothing of the man I once knew when he snarls, “Isaac Holt fucks blondes. You’re a brunette.” He’s had a hard few months, but he’s taking it out on the wrong person.
Fortunately, Isabelle seems more than capable of holding her own. “Excuse me,” she growls on a hiss. “I wasn’t brought here to sleep with Isaac Holt, I was brought here to help with your investigation.”
My chance to slap her back and say ‘attagirl’ is lost when Alex rebuts, “You were brought here as eye candy.”
Finally recognizing Alex’s game plan, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “We could bleach her hair.”
I’m not a fan of degrading women, Mr. Gregg ensured that would never be a strong point of mine, but if switching Isabelle’s locks from chocolate brown to blonde keeps her in Ravenshoe long enough I can work out why I was pleased to see her before I was worried, I’m open to offering up some suggestions.
“Not happening,” Isabelle says with a snarl.
Tell me one man over the age of sixteen whose eyes don’t lower when a woman crosses her arms. You can’t think of one, can you? So don’t blame me when my eyes instinctively lower from Isabelle folding her arms under her chest.
I’m a guy.
