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“Yes, sir.” She shimmied and almost tripped over her untied shoelaces.
Now, this sounded like a James Bond adventure—at least compared to the stalk-the-cheating-spouse shit she normally got assigned to as low chick on the totem pole. Add to that the fact that her family always treated her like she was still a ten-year-old tomboy in uneven pigtails and torn jeans, and it was enough to make her slam her head against the metal locker door. But this case could be her chance to prove them wrong and make them see her as she really was.
Forty-five quick minutes later, Ryder paused outside of George Dylan’s office, her hand curled around the brass doorknob, eavesdropping on the very impassioned discussion happening on the other side of the thick oak doors. As the youngest of five kids, she’d perfected the skill while still in diapers. How else would she have gathered enough intel to blackmail her siblings into doing her chores? Lucky for Tony, she only used her powers for good these days.
Mostly.
The door muffled most of the conversation, but she managed to pluck a few phrases from the murmur.
“Don’t need…” Something about the growly voice tugged on her memory.
“…A lid on it…” George Dylan’s signature, two-pack-a-day wheeze identified the second speaker.
“Ruin everything…” Oh, mystery man was not thrilled about bringing in professional help.
It wasn’t the first time Maltese Security had run into client resistance on a case. Just like lawyers, no one wanted a private security expert until they were neck-deep in quicksand and needed one. And then they really, really wanted one.
“Can you hear anything good?”
Ryder jumped a mile high and whirled around in the same move. A petite woman in her early sixties with her ebony hair pulled back into a tight bun and no-nonsense, orthopedic granny shoes on her feet eyeballed Ryder with unblinking eyes.
Damn, she was so busted. Heat burned her cheeks. “George’s secretary wasn’t in and—”
“I’m Sarah Molina, Mr. Dylan’s executive assistant. I apologize that my trip to the ladies’ room was not timed for your convenience.” She settled behind her desk and paused with her hands hovering above the keyboard. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Ryder bristled. She was eavesdropping, not stealing the crown jewels. “I’m here to see George. I have an appointment.”
“Your name?”
“Ryder Falcon.”
Sarah picked up the phone receiver and spoke quietly into it. “Mr. Dylan, there is a Ms. Falcon here to see you. She says she has an appointment.” After half a minute of listening, she pursed her lips together in obvious displeasure and put the receiver down with an emphatic click. “You may go right in.”
“Thanks.” Ryder nodded, flicked her wrist, and turned the knob, pushing the door open. “Sorry to interrupt…”
The mystery man talking to the Dylan’s Department Store CEO spun around to face her, and the rest of her spiel died on her tongue.
There were men she’d slept with and never thought much about again. Then, there was a handful whose memory always put her in a good mood, like a cool beer on a warm night. Standing before her was the one man who’d bypassed the pleasant-buzz setting and had zoomed straight into the hardcore, make-your-panties-wet, two-shots-of-Tequilla-too-many danger zone.
An inch shy of six feet, Devin Harris had the body of a professional mixed martial arts fighter—complete with heavily inked skin—wrapped in a dark navy, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit. He topped it off with short-clipped hair, model-worthy cheekbones, and a square jaw that would make Superman weep with jealousy. The combination of badass brawler and smooth corporate wolf sucked the smart-ass right out of her.
He was just her type, which was about as big of an indictment against him as there could be.
In a moment of epic bad judgment a few weeks ago, she’d ignored the quiet accountant types at the bar and had gone after the man she’d really wanted. Confident bordering on cocky. Sexy as hell. Too tempting for words. After their one night together and too many orgasms to count, she’d woken up wrapped in his arms, never wanting to leave even as she hated herself for falling back into old bad habits.
After Heath—after the hospital—she’d sworn never again.
So she’d snuck out of Mr. Temptation’s bed, gone home, deleted his number from her phone, and blocked him. But that hadn’t stopped her from thinking about him—and wondering foolishly if maybe he was different. If her guy radar wasn’t completely for shit. But in the end she knew it was.
Recognition flickered in his latte-colored eyes, and her stomach did the loop-de-loop.
His mouth flattened into a straight line, and he crossed his arms. “George, tell me this is not the crack security professional you’ve been trying to sell me on.”
Ryder’s spine straightened like a whip snapping. The pompous prick.
“You forget yourself, Devin,” George wheezed. “You work for me. I don’t have to sell you on a damn thing.”
…
