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“True.” I shouldn’t have put him down. But the last thing I want to have happen is for Dustin and Marg to get the idea that I’m following their daughter. My mind immediately starts to come up with some story that would excuse it if they were to find out. Don clears his throat.
“Okay, you know the drill. I’ll send you an invoice and then a full report,” he says gruffly. “By Friday.”
“I’m counting on you,” I answer, and he clicks off the line.
I ease the Lambo into its garage and wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
As Friday flashes through my mind, I know I have.
True to his word, it’s not much longer after I pay the invoice that I have the full report on my desk at the office.
Jordan Marie Burke. 22 years.
On birth control, doctor says it’s for cramps. Never pregnant. No STDs on record.
Good.
I keep reading, and then I find out the answer that I’ve been looking for—she is planning on going to Paris, and has already booked a flight. I note the dates down for my executive assistant to flank for my private plane.
No. I will fly the same flight. First-class. I cross out the private plane reservation and note the airline. She’ll be surprised. I can see her eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. But she’s a pro. She’ll keep her mouth shut.
I start skimming when the answer I’ve been looking for as to why she seems so familiar hits me like a punch to the gut.
Of course. That’s where I’ve seen her.
I click on my computer, and wonder how the hell I didn’t realize it before. Jordan. Of course.
This complicates things. It makes her a completely different person than I had thought.
“Jordan,” I say out loud. “I want you to be mine. Mine only. I want you for my own.” My cock strains at the zipper. “For me.” I’m almost lightheaded, the blood rushing to my cock so quickly like this. I press a button under the desk and the door
to my office locks with a hearty but discreet click. I’ll never get anything done now that I know this.
But it only makes me hungrier.
Jordan, you are mine, says that voice in my head. The malevolent voice that I try to silence.
Mine.
3
Jordan
“Excusez-moi, Madame?” says the barista in her perfect, slippery, elegant French.
“Um,” I struggle to remember the words I was just practicing in my head over and over. “Café?” is all that comes out. I see a small curl form in her lip.
“What can I get you, miss? You would like a coffee? What size?”
She’s impatient.
“Medium,” I say, cheeks flaming. Goddammit. I thought that coming to France was going to help me be more brave, but instead I’m feeling stupid and helpless.
“We don’t ‘ave medium,” she says flatly.
“Large.” I have no idea what they have.
She turns and draws a couple shots of espresso out of a large silver maker, as I regard the case with all manner of pastries.
