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I hear a wrench set down under the hood of a Suburban, then see grimy hands wiped futilely on an even grimier shop towel. The suspense is killing me as the man holding the rag slowly reveals himself. On closer inspection his hands are large and strong, with healing as well as fresh scrapes on the knuckles. Thick forearms, big biceps, and finally a powerful chest with a black t-shirt stretched across it.
He moves out from behind the hood at the same time I reach the front fender, and we come face-to-face. Under a mop of shaggy, too-long dark brown hair, warm brown eyes and a wide jaw and full lips are punctuated by a strong chin and what I suspect will be dimples.
While I’ve been inspecting his face, he has been shamelessly drinking in mine. I know what he sees. Long, dark blonde hair bleached at the ends by the sun. California Girl features and expensive smile. My most striking feature is my eye color. Very light brown with gold flecks, they’ve been described as anything from honey to tiger’s eye.
I peruse his body, skating over his broad shoulders and chest, what is no doubt a hard stomach, and worn jeans, loose enough to work in but still not hiding tree-trunk legs and a generous package, which, if proportionate with rest of him, promises to… I start guiltily and look up, cheeks hot.
Fortunately, he missed my lascivious assessment, as he was busy perusing me as well. My flowy shirt hides average tits, a flat stomach, toned from swimming, surfing, and horseback riding. My hips are narrow and my legs, impossibly long. At least they no longer earn me the moniker “chicken legs” like they did when I was growing up. Strangely enough, though, his eyes aren’t pausing at the usual places: my tits, hips, or legs. Instead, they light on my toenails, painted an obnoxious coral I use for the sole reason that it pisses my mom off because it clashes with my skin. His gaze skims up my legs and lights on my hand, with matching coral polish and a polished stone bracelet. Then up my arm to my earrings, also polished stone. Jasper, I think. He skates over my hair and finally meets my eyes again. His are sparkling with intelligence and humor, but then he opens his mouth.
“Hold on, babe. I gotta take a leak.” Record-scratch. Take a leak? Ugh. Who even says that? I stand there irritated until he exits the restroom, thank God drying his hands. At least he washed after taking a leak. I feel my lip curl.
I sense an energy coming from him, and when I glance quickly at his face again I catch a flash of dimples. He quickly blanks his expression but can’t dull that sparkle. Is he fucking with me? I narrow my eyes and reply in full princess mode.
“The Town Car has blood in the trunk. The Director wants it cleaned or chopped if it’s going to mean stripping it.”
He nods for me to follow him outside, then when we stop in front of the large black vehicle he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a rolled-up t-shirt sleeve. He lights it and takes a drag, letting the smoke out without a care for where it blows. Which is right in my face, causing me to wrinkle my nose and cough. Does everyone in this fucking city smoke? Brows drawing together, he looks at me then at the cigarette.
“Does this bother you?”
“Oh good. He’s smarter than he looks.” I’m not sure why I poke the bear but I can’t help myself. Instead of getting aggravated like I expect, he shrugs and stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his boot then flicks it into a can beside the door. He pulls the pack out of his sleeve and tosses it in the can too.
I slowly shake my head. “What are you doing?”
He smiles, and his eyes hold secrets he won’t share. Shrugging, he answers casually, as though it were the easiest thing in the world. “You don’t like them, so I quit.”
Chapter Two
The look on my woman’s face was priceless when I dropped the “take a leak” line: haughty and prickly. But her wistful expression when I quit smoking on the spot revealed far more than she intended. Is quitting smoking seriously the biggest gesture anyone has made for her? That’s just not right. I’ll have to buy stock in chewing gum, but what kind of losers has she been dating? You know what—scratch that. Best not to contemplate that.
Instead, I’ll think about how she’s going to look as my bride. No doubt still haughty, but with a beautiful dress and hopefully not that hideous orange nail polish. She’s nearly perfect, but not quite. No matter. Her ugly nail polish only sets off her beauty. The stubborn tilt of her chin and a slight what my mom calls “I want” line threatening between her brows tell me I have many lively discussions in my future.
I’m getting the cart before the horse, though. I should probably introduce myself.
I know who she is. Not one Concierge on the West Coast doesn’t know who Elizabeth Brand is. Daughter of Norman Brand, the Bay Area Director. She is quickly making a name for herself on her own. A bold, strategic thinker, she did her legacy internship in “operations,” aka Assistant to the Director. She insisted on attending college and majored in psychology, which she immediately weaponized to outwit everyone around her when she came back to work for the Network.
She has spent her life training harder, working smarter, and never backing down when men try to push her behind a desk. As is the case with all the criminal organizations we provide services to, C.I. is a boys’ club. She is determined to smash that ceiling down.
When the losers who can’t handle her talk about her, it’s with a mixture of resentment and admiration. I sense her tenacity in the field, which has her on a fast track to the top of the security division if she isn’t distracted.
That’s exactly what I intend to do, distract her, but I have no intention of screwing up her career. No way she’s going to believe that, though. I’ll have to prove it to her.
If it seems like I know more about her than casual gossip would provide, I can’t deny it. I’ve been fascinated with her for a while, watching unseen from the edges of rooms, which has suited me fine until now. Now, I’ve had her within arm’s reach, and I won’t be fading into the background.
I force my voice to be casual as I introduce myself.
“I’m Owen. Owen Stone.” I hold out my hand and she looks surprised for a second before grabbing it for a brisk, firm double pump.
“Elizabeth Brand.”
The silence between us is heavy. I know why; we’re on the first step of a life of shared adventure. She doesn’t know this, and though she can feel the electricity she shrugs it off to get us back on track.
I realize now I have my work cut out for me. Elizabeth Brand isn’t just ambitious.
She’s driven.
Dropping the gory Town Car at the shop means Elizabeth needs a ride back to headquarters. I immediately volunteer, then we get in my Dodge Power Wagon. As soon as we’re in the tall brown truck, she digs around in the seat to find the seatbelt and latches it. I look at her, puzzled, until she nods for me to buckle up as well. Okay… I do, wondering about her caution and adding it to the list of things I can’t wait to learn about her.
When I turn into the street and she realizes I’m not driving toward headquarters, she puts her knee up and faces me across the bench seat. “Where are we going?”
