AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER ONE
Imogen
If Stalkers Anonymous were a real organization, I’d be standing at the front of the room staring out over the assembly as they reply to my confession with, “Hi, Imogen.”
Although maybe stalker is too strong a word. I like to consider myself more of an observer. A student, really, of life. Or more specifically, of other people’s lives. Just because they have no idea I’m watching them is beside the point. I lean back in my gaming chair while my fingers pluck at the torn leather of the arm rest. I should probably upgrade to something less tattered, but this one has the perfect imprint of my ass and it’s comfortable. It’s a pain breaking in a new one.
My gaze drifts to the giant computer monitor on my desk. One of many that fill my small inner sanctum I keep cut off from the outside world. On the screen are four video feeds separated into quadrants. Each square displays different angles of two different locations. And four different people I might have developed an unhealthy obsession with. I’ve tried breaking myself of it, but it doesn’t last more than two or three days before I’m logging back in and stalk—observing—them again.
“Jesus, Imogen, you really need to get a life.” I shake my head and force myself to turn off the feed.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since—I tap my phone screen to check the time—late last night. Since a significant number of my clients are American, my work hours are fucked. I grab my messenger bag, shove my laptop in it, snatch up my keys, and head for the door. Once I secure the lock and engage the security system, I gallop down the stairs at the end of the hall and slam open the exit.
Dawn hangs over the city, the sky a palette of pinks, purples, and blues. I breathe in the scent of fresh-baked scones and the citrus fragrance of my favorite tea from the bakery two storefronts down. The sidewalk is empty and only a delivery van is parked on the street. The brisk air sends a cold shiver across the back of my neck and down my spine. I should have snagged my scarf off the hook before I left.
Picking up my pace, I hurry toward the bakery and tug on the door handle. Warmth and delicious smells bombard me.
“Morning, Imogen,” James calls out.
“Morning.”
“The usual?”
I get to my regular table and plop down onto the seat. “You know it.”
While he’s making my tea and warming my scone, I bring out my laptop and set the bag on the chair next to me. I open the computer, unlock it with my fingerprint, and log in to check any messages left in my encrypted inbox. There’s one from a client in Dubai. This young and reckless prince I’ve done a couple things for needs video wiped of him at a club with a woman who’s not his wife. There’s another from a spoiled heiress who wants a virus planted in her cheating boyfriend’s computer. All boring stuff that, while the pay is decent, takes less than two minutes of my time. I’m in a rut and have been for a few months. Ever since Mum died and I discovered she’s been lying to me for twenty-seven years.
“Order’s ready, Imogen.”
After closing my computer, I grab my breakfast with a “thanks” and return to my seat. For a moment, I savor my tea, the warmth of the cup heating my palms wrapped around it. I slather the jam and clotted cream onto my scone and take a few bites before brushing off my hands and the crumbs from my shirt and opening my laptop back up.
The bakery door opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air that quickly dissipates as the door closes again locking in the warmth, but I don’t bother looking up. My focus is on my screen. I quickly take care of the two tasks waiting for me and have another bite of scone. With that done, I need to search for something else that will occupy my time. A few keystrokes later, I’m scouring the dark web for jobs.
A chair scrapes the floor, far too close to me, and finally, I glance up from the screen and blink. Then stare. Well, more like glare.
“Can I help you?” It comes out a bit snippy, but how else should I react to finding some bloke—albeit a fucking gorgeous one—sitting in the chair directly across from me when there are ten other tables he could have sat at?
“Perhaps.” That single word is a deep rumble that makes my lady parts suddenly pay attention. His full lips—the kind that would make any woman envious—curl up almost cruelly and then quickly flatten. There’s a hardness in his bright blue eyes that sears into me.
I’ve never quite gotten rid of the toxic trait I have of being attracted to men who radiate danger. This man is screaming it. But I also hate men who play games—no matter how breathtaking they are—and there’s a little voice whispering inside me that says he’s most definitely playing one. I’m just not sure what the rules are. Considering I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, I don’t have the time or energy to find out, either.
“Well, get on with it. I’m kind of busy here.”
His gaze drops to my laptop, no doubt judging my “F*ck the Patriarchy” and death metal logo stickers. He raises his eyes to meet mine again. “Yes, I see that.”
I keep my mouth shut and continue staring, my fingers tapping an impatient beat on the table top. That cruel smirk comes to those lips again and my belly flutters. He takes a drink from the cup in front of him, sets it back on the table, and stands. He buttons his perfectly tailored, pin-striped suit jacket while his gaze never leaves mine. I try not to squirm under the intensity of those sapphire eyes.
“Enjoy your scone.” He turns and strides toward the exit, his steps confident and measured. The broad shoulders that fill out his jacket perfectly block some of the light coming through the glass as he stops in front of it. His hand is on the door and he pivots to glance back at me. “I’ll see you again soon, Imogen.”
It takes far too long for his words to register. By the time they do and I make it to my feet and across the length of the bakery, he’s gone. I head to the counter.
“Hey, have you ever seen that guy before?” I ask James. “The one that just left.”
“Yeah, over the last couple months he’s been in a few times in the mornings. Usually comes in right after you do.”
Creepy, much?
“Do you know his name?” It will make searching for him that much easier.
