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“That’s fine. I understand.” The last thing the man needs to be worrying about is transporting us.
I am two steps outside the office when he calls out, “And Ryan? Thanks for working with Alex. Cassandra, her parents passed early on in our marriage. She doesn’t have a big family. Alex may not realize it, but she and her dad, in the ways that matter, were her family. She’d want them to be involved.” He folds his arms across his chest. His gaze falls to some point on the floor. “Alex would be her first call. Cassandra believes she’s brilliant. So, thank you.”
The present tense associated with his dead ex-wife isn’t lost on me, but it’s not the type of thing one corrects. Especially on a day like today.
Frustration seeps out of every pore as I clomp up the stairs. Leaving with no clues feels like ringing the god damn bell. I made it through BUD/S, the SEAL training nightmare, without ringing it. And yet here I am. But it isn’t the same.
We have a dozen agents working the case around the clock. Going home doesn’t mean giving up. It just means regrouping. Back in the guest suite, I fling the bedroom door open and freeze.
Alex stands at the end of the bed. She’s wearing a sheer crimson bra and matching lace thong.Christ. Her dark hair skims her shoulders, and those dark eyes lock on me. Mere seconds tick past, yet I memorize every single curve, her flat, smooth stomach, the shadow of her belly button, and those long, lean, sensational legs. I have always been a leg guy, and this woman defines legs for miles. The sheer bra hints at the darker shade of her areolas, and the fabric lifts her breasts, breasts I had dismissed as small, but before me, dressed in red lace, I ache to taste.
Feminine, graceful fingers stroke her clavicle, and the movement breaks my frozen trance.
“Ah, sorry…wrong room.”
One arm crosses over her breasts and one knee bends over the other, demurely covering herself, the same sexy move she pulled this morning. The slope of her hip and thigh draw attention to the juncture between those lengthy thighs.
“I was just changing. For the flight.”
“Right.”Move. Back out of the room.
“You saw me in my bathing suit earlier today. This isn’t much different.” A timid smile flickers.
“Right.”
She looked sexy as fuck in that one piece too, but red lingerie is an entirely different scenario. She lifts a pair of jeans from the bed and shakes them out.
“Are you going to watch me get dressed?” She glances over her shoulder, sending her silky hair cascading down her back.
“No. Sorry.” My gaze drops to the floor, but her exposed curves remain singed in my mind.
As I pull the door closed, I take stock. There’s no need to check my pulse. I am fully aware I have an elevated heartrate. And the semi I am sporting needs adjusting. Fuck. I’d known she was good looking, but holy mother. Fire engine red lingerie.
And Jack seemed shocked when I asked him if he was dating her. What did he say?She’s not my type. I’d call bullshit, except for his explanation of knowing her as an awkward kid. Plus, Victoria’s Secret models could parade through Jack’s home and he wouldn’t notice. Hell, a runway-worthy knockout stayed in his home last night and he remained oblivious.
But I already asked her to dinner. She said no. I’m not a fucking horny teen. We are working a case. Our mutual friend’s daughter is missing.
Fuck.I wish I hadn’t opened the wrong bedroom door. I do not need to be thinking about what her lingerie looks like from here on out. And I wish she’d been timid. I wish she had ducked down instead of standing there and letting me soak her into my subconscious. But of course, like she said, lingerie is like her bathing suit. A bathing suit that sent me into a cold shower. I need to get a grip.
My phone vibrates as I zip up my duffel.
“Erik.” Work is exactly what I need to get my mind back on track.
“She slipped out of the house at ten forty-five on Monday night. Just texted you a video clip from the side of the house video cam.”
“You’re positive it’s Sophia?”
“No markings of a deep fake, if that’s what you’re asking,” Erik answers.
Deep-fake technology has improved to the degree that sometimes even film executives can be duped.
“Hold. Let me watch it.”
I flick over and play the video he texted. The feed is grainy. The angle is from high above and covers the side path and the side door. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a small black leather backpack, a short-sleeve shirt, and shorts. She’s dressed to meet someone, not to go paddleboarding or surfing. And she’s alone.
Damn. I’d prefer a ransom.
“Have we learned anything from her electronics?”
