Midnight’s Queen (Stroke of Midnight #3)

Chapter 8

Aleks stared at the email from his bosses, the one demanding to know how much progress he’d made with “the Tremaine situation.”

“Progress? I’ve been here one damn day.” After verifying the speech-to-text function was off, he dropped his phone onto the couch cushion next to him and rested his head against the back.

He closed his eyes and rubbed at the space between his brows. His pulse throbbed behind his eyes. A headache was threatening. Dammit. He didn’t have time for this.

The Solveigs were riding his ass, demanding to see their granddaughter as soon as possible. They didn’t care that the situation was out of his hands. If she didn’t want to see them, there was nothing he could do about it.

Not that they would accept no as an answer. Not after all this time.

And short of kidnapping her, how was he supposed to make that happen?

Unbidden, his brain latched onto the question and started working on an answer. “Stop it,” he muttered. Reluctantly pushing off the couch, he headed for the bathroom and his meds. They would hopefully stop the headache before it fully emerged.

If he could focus past the pain, he might be able to rein in his brain and regain his focus. Otherwise, this whole night was going to be a waste.

Tapping the pills into his hand, his gaze shifted to the barely visible bed in the next room.

“Oh, Portia,” he whispered. Meeting her was the best thing to come out of this entire visit to Seattle. And also the worst. His employers were gunning for Phillip Tremaine and the Tremaine Corporation and they wouldn’t let anyone or anything stop them from bringing it all tumbling down.

“Focus, Aleks. You’ve got work to do.” He swallowed the pills dry and returned to the couch. The throbbing had lessened and he was able to think a little clearer.

Trading his phone for his computer, he pondered his response.

A dozen possible replies whirled through his thoughts. Some were profane, but the rest were more measured. He chose one of the more professional responses and transformed it into a message. The email included a quick summary of his meeting with Portia—the one in her office, not the one in his bed—and what he perceived as the next steps. Which at this point involved more meetings.

He read it over quickly. When he was satisfied that none of his frustration or infatuation had seeped into his words, he hit send.

Now what?

Shutting the computer down, he stood slowly. The pain in his head had died down to a low simmer, but he knew if he didn’t find something to quiet his thoughts, it would flare back up again.

It wasn’t just the headache tonight, though. His body felt as out of sorts as his brain. Jittery, uncomfortable in his skin. Was that a result of meeting Portia or did this whole assignment have him off his game?

He shoved his hands through his hair and growled in frustration.

After the implant surgery, he would have said the swings from lack of focus to hyperfocus were the worst side effect. But after years of living with the implant, he knew that the headaches were the true killer. He could manage the rest. Fighting or fucking were how he’d coped the first couple years. Now he’d learned other, less destructive tricks to maintain his equilibrium.

Clubs were one. Loud music, flashing lights, writhing bodies. Too many options for his brain to keep track of caused it to just sort of... chill out.

Aleks grimaced. No. A room full of hot sweaty strangers was not what he needed tonight. The other option was the fully stocked hotel gym. A completely different version of hot sweaty strangers.

The throbbing between his brows worsened.

Fuck. He had to make a move soon.

The sudden knock on the door was a shock to his overstimulated senses.

He frowned and approached slowly. Who was it? The only people who knew his location were back home. And he hadn’t ordered room service. Although now that he thought about it, he should probably eat.

At the second knock, Aleks stalked to the door, intending to direct whoever it was—probably some drunken business traveler—that they had the wrong room.

He pulled it open and his words dried up. “What?—”

He’d never seen the woman standing outside his door and yet he still knew her immediately. Hot and sweaty, high-tech workout clothes, dark hair and all, even angled away like she was about to leave, he knew her.

“Portia? What are you doing here?”