“I need that back and you need to leave,” she says coolly.
The iciness in her voice makes me second-guess everything. I straighten to my full height, handing back the lipstick. “I’m sorry. You just look... familiar?”
“Do I? Must be my chin.”
Her chin? I glance at it automatically—yeah, it’s a nice chin—but that’s not what’s pulling at some deep, frayed memory inside me. It’sher.
And if itisCybil, she doesn’t recognize me.
Rather than feeling grateful or relieved that my cover and the last eighteen months of undercover aren’t blown, I feel...offended? Insecurity buzzes under my skin. Sure, I’m older. I’ve let my facial hair grow a little. But—
“This part of the museum is closed off to guests.”
Leave.The smart move would be to walk away. She doesn’t know who I am. Or maybe I’m wrong. It’s been, what—ten, twelve years? I could be mistaken, but I know I’m not. There’s a familiar tension thrumming in my chest that has only ever occurred around one woman.
I don’t walk away. I belong here. She does not.
“I’m sorry?”
It takes me a second to realize I spoke the thought out loud. “You said this area is closed to guests. Butyou’rehere.”
She arches a single brow. “I’m working.”
I lift an eyebrow right back. “Here? In this hallway? By this door?”
“You really need to leave.” She pulls out her phone and gives me a dismissive look, twisting away.
Unfortunately, my foot’s on the hem of her dress.
There’s a rip.
Annndshe’s falling.
My timing is good. My execution? Not so much. I lunge for her but misjudge the distance. My hands land at her hips just as we both collide into the door. My shoulder hits first with a thud, but her head lands safely against my chest.
I’m still trying to rebalance our tangled bodies when the door swings open under our weight. We stumble forward—a graceless, flailing mess. My gaze drops to the hem of her dress, now ripped past anything PG-13 and heading north.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. I look up into the chiseled, scowling face of a man who looks like he was carved from anger and gym memberships. And judging by the bulging tension in his jaw, he’s two seconds from knocking me out cold.
He snarls. An actual snarl. And it makes me the tiniest bit jealous I’ve never been in a snarling situation myself. When I track his gaze downward, realization slams into me. My hand is still resting on Cybil’s hip, fingers grazing the exposed skin where her dress tore.
I jerk my hand away fast and straighten, stepping clear of the man’s bruising grip. My gaze slides down the length of the table—to the older man seated at the end of it. Across from him, Ramirez’s laptop sits, practically glowing like the Holy Grail of incriminating evidence.
Behind me, the elevator dings—and the stakes grow. Lorenzo Ramirez steps into the room, Rook at his side. Everyone is eyeing us with suspicion. I need an excuse. Fast.
“Cybil?” the older man at the table says, his voice low and curious.
My attention swings to the woman at my side. She’s glaring at me. Oh, it’sabsolutelyher.
“I’m sorry for the interruption, sir,” she says smoothly, stepping around me and tugging at her hem with impressive dignity. “I was coming to see if there was anything you needed before your meeting.”
His meeting?
Her earlier words—“I’m working”—echo in my brain as I watch her move into place beside the older man, all composed professionalism. Meanwhile, my heart is hammering against my ribs, trying to processwhyCybil Langford is working for anyone associated with Lorenzo Ramirez.
The snarling man looks at me and growls, “Who are you?”
“No one,” Cybil answers crisply, before I can even open my mouth. The conviction in her voice stings worse than it should. “Just some guy I bumped into in the hallway.”
