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God, he could make her feel, make her want, make her do anything just so long as she could be with him. No one had ever made her feel so alive, so vulnerable, and so safe.
A soft knock on the door to the penthouse interrupted her musings, and Fletch froze momentarily before standing straight and pushing her behind him as he reached for the gun in the shoulder holster he was wearing—the one that she hadn’t noticed until now. He looked through the peephole and swore under his breath before unlocking it and allowing Mia and Carter to enter.
“We distributed the goodies to the others and got them coffee, as well as getting beans and a grinder,” said Carter as he pushed past them. “Mia says Claire makes a mean French toast, and I’m starved.”
He went into the kitchen, unwrapped the bean grinder, prepared the beans and then put them in the coffee maker. Carter looked up and saw the view. He whistled. “Damn, that is some view you girls have.”
Claire looked at Fletch. “He’s not going away, is he?”
“Not unless I shoot him. Do you want me to shoot him for you, baby?”
That got Carter’s attention. He snapped his head up, and Claire laughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Claire buttoned his shirt and went into the kitchen, pushing Carter out the other side. Looking into the bag, she smiled as she pulled out lemons, holding one up to show him. “This is Mia’s ever-so-subtle way of letting me know she wants lemon ricotta French toast.”
Fletch sat down on one of the bar stools, grinning at her. “I have no idea what that is, but it sounds amazing.”
Mia snorted. “She’s dressed in your shirt and it’s obvious the two of you just got out of bed…”
“Not just…” teased Claire.
“Fine, rub it in. I’m out giving coffee and pastries to the team, and you’re in here fucking the boss’ brains out.”
“It wasn’t his brain that put this smile on my face.”
Carter choked on the bottled water he was sipping while Fletch laughed at him. No doubt about it. Fletch was always in a better mood after they fucked. Truth to tell, so was she. The world was a far bleaker place when she wasn’t with him. Claire leaned over the island to kiss him again. She liked kissing Fletch.
“How did you find us?” asked Mia, not accusing anyone of anything, but looking for where she’d left a chink in the armor of their secrecy.
“I started tracking all the money movements,” said Carter, “and when those petered out, I created an algorithm to search for your signature code.”
“Mia doesn’t have a signature code,” said Claire, defending her friend.
“Of course I do, “ corrected Mia. “Everyone does. You have to be good to figure it out, but it’s human nature to leave some kind of signature.”
“Does Carter have one?” asked Fletch.
“Yes,” Mia and Carter answered in unison.
“It’s like Mia said, it’s not easily discernible, but a skilled hacker can determine who wrote a code just by the way it’s written. It’s kind of like a fingerprint. You can try and alter it, but even then, someone who’s looking for it will find it.”
“We’re going to want you girls to pack your bags as we’re going to move you out. If Carter can find you, he assures me someone else can. I’m going to leave a couple of guys here to see if anyone makes a try for you.”
“Can’t you make it safe here? We’re already in place, and it’s comfortable. Why can’t we just stay here?” asked Mia with a little whine.
Claire hid her smile. Mia had already said they needed to move, but Claire also knew Mia loved the penthouse. Claire soaked slices of ricotta-stuffed brioche and set it on the griddle pan to cook.
“Because if I can find you, so can someone else,” said Carter, reiterating what Fletch had just told them.
“But why now?” Claire asked as she moved the bowl with the freshly squeezed lemons and egg yolks to a double boiler before removing it from the heat and whisking in the butter. “We’ve never had trouble before.”
She set the lemon curd aside, flipped the pieces of French toast and took the blueberries out of the fridge. Mia handed her four plates, and Claire removed the French toast from the griddle, setting it on the plates and topping them with a generous dollop of lemon curd and blueberries.
“No one ever tried to kill you, either. You’ve tripped somebody’s wire, and a kill order has been put in place.” Fletch took a bite. “Oh, my god, that’s amazing.”
Claire smiled. “I like to cook. I hate to clean up the kitchen.”
“I’ll make you a deal—you cook for me, and I’ll clean up the kitchen for you.”
“So, do we know who’s trying to kill us?” she asked.
