Page 72 of Missile Strike

She glanced up.

Her pulse thudded once.

Hard.

Then took off at a gallop.

The dark-haired, bearded man she’d passed at The Waverly on Friday.

He wore the same banker’s uniform as every other man in the building—a crisp white dress shirt and gray trousers with an oxblood belt and dress shoes in the same burgundy-brown shade.

“Ms. Strickland, I must speak with you.”

The intensity of the man’s gaze rasped across her skin like sandpaper.

“Who are you?”

“My name isn’t important.” He grabbed her arm, hard fingers digging into her skin. “You have to listen to me.”

She yanked her arm from his grip. “Get away from me.”

Danny wasn’t here. Neither was Talia.

Her gaze darted to the security desk.

The guard who’d been watching her had a cluster of visitors in front of him, blocking his view.

“You’re in danger,” the stranger hissed, the glint of anger in his dark eyes seeming at odds with his message. “You think you’re safe because you have security?” He gave a humorless laugh. “Not when you’re trusting the wrong person.”

A flicker of doubt brushed her mind.

He couldn’t mean Danny.

She took a step back, and he followed.

“What do you want from me?” Her gaze flicked to his hands.

No weapons that she could see. If he reached for her again, she’d smash the heel of her palm into his nose the way Danny taught her and scream bloody murder.

The man’s eyes narrowed at something over her shoulder before returning to her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “You think what happened eighteen years ago ended when my father went to prison? It didn’t. My family was destroyed, and yours will follow if you aren’t careful.”

A deep voice came from behind her. “Ma’am, is everything okay here?”

Isabella whirled. The security guard stood at her back, his stare fixed on the man in front of her.

“Izzy!” Talia’s hail was sharp, echoing off marble as she rushed toward Isabella.

The stranger muttered a curse. He retreated, disappearing through glass doors into the August afternoon.

Talia reached her side. “Are you okay? Who was that man?”

Isabella locked her knees together to stop the trembling. “I don’t know.”

She took the paper cup of ice cream Talia offered, then turned back to the security guard, her pulse still pounding a violent rhythm at the base of her throat.

“Thank you.”

He frowned down at her, the concern in his gaze evident. “I can call Mr. Mayhew. He left me his number.”