Chapter 5
I’ve been stalking the target for weeks, finally tracking him down in the middle of Palermo—the largest and most populated city in Sicily.
He’s walking through the market with his two main bodyguards.
Others trail him, not bothering to conceal their guns as they keep their eyes alert to any threat.
I can’t see them, but I expect more guards are stationed ahead. There are likely ten of them.
Ten against one.
“Nova.” The communication comes through my headphones from my new partner.
I slink behind a rack of beautifully colored summer dresses. “What do you have for me, Gray?”
“It’s too crowded. You can’t take him out here. Too many witnesses.”
“I’ve been tracking this guy for years, Gray, and now that I have eyes on him, I’m not going to let him go.” I can’t help the frustration in my voice.
I hear Gray let out a long breath as I stick my head out to make sure I haven’t lost my target.
“Wait until he’s past the market, but don’t miss the escape location we agreed on,” he says at last.
“Copy.”
I slink out from behind the dresses, and that’s when everything goes to shit.
I wake, shaking and soaked in sweat. Throwing the soft, satin sheets off my body, I stand. I pace around the room for a few minutes, my bare feet pounding against the cool, wooden floors. It takes me that long to stop hyperventilating.
Looking at the clock, which reads 4:45 am, I realize there is no way I’m going back to sleep, so instead, I dress in workout gear and pack my work clothes in a garment bag, slinging it over my shoulder. My stomach is in knots, making me feel queasy, so I don’t bother with breakfast or coffee.
I decide to take up Owen on his offer to use the equipment in his office before he gets there. The CIA gym is too far away from the apartment and the office anyway. Plus, I plan to do some snooping while I clean the disgustingly dirty space.
The streets are mostly silent as I make my way to the thirty-story office building that serves as the headquarters for Regenerative Industries. I pull out my newly-made keycard and enter the silent building, slowly making my way up to the top floor, and slip into his office.
It’s dark and quiet inside. Switching on the lights, I notice everything is as it was when I left the evening before.
After depositing my garment bag across the back of my desk chair, I start by cleaning up the empty cups and glasses on the bar.
I move to the laundry in the corner next, depositing it in a clothes basket and placing it by the door.
I gather up the papers, quickly scanning each one and organizing them into piles based on what's on them. None have any of the information I’m looking for, not that I expected them to.
I suspect Owen is smarter than he looks. In that, we have something in common.
Moving to Owen’s desk, I start with the empty coffee cups, bringing them to the sink to wash before organizing the papers on his desk like I did with the others.
Sweeping the last of them off, my gaze catches on a small Post-it note beside his keyboard.
On it is only one name: Peyton Radd. No other information.
I quickly snap a photo of the Post-it, and then I look around at my clean-up job.
When I’m satisfied, I make my way to the gym equipment.
Instinct instantly takes over, and the movement is calming. I move through the familiar motions, lifting weights until my muscles feel like Jello. I finish with the punching bag in the corner. It’s covered with white leather and looks as though it’s hardly been used.
This is where I truly lose myself, working out every inch of pure rage that lives in my body, always at risk of exploding.
I don’t know how long I pommel the bag, but I feel the rawness of my knuckles when a familiar voice breaks the silence. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Miss Riley.”
Instantly dropping my arms, I swing around to face him. Stray strands of blonde hair cling to my face, and I brush them away, finally noticing the blood.
Shit. I tore my knuckles.
Owen looks past me at the bag, and I follow his gaze to find blood spattered on the white leather. I groan. Who buys a white punching bag anyway?
“I’ll wash it,” I say and turn to meet his gaze.
He’s watching me as though he’s trying to piece together some puzzle. “You need to get that looked at?” His eyes drop to my bloody knuckles.
I cover them as best I can. “No. I’ll wrap them.”
“I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve beaten a bag until your knuckles bled?”
I shake my head.
Owen’s eyes drift from my face to the rest of me, and suddenly I’m all too aware that I’m standing in front of him in only a sports bra and a pair of tight-fitting leggings, and I’m dripping with sweat.
I hadn’t expected to still be like this when he walked through the door, but I lost track of time.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say hastily, trying to cover the scar on my shoulder and hoping he hasn’t already noticed.
He turns and scans the rest of the room, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He regards me with curiosity. “Let me know if you ever need a real sparring partner. I used to box.”
I raise a brow. “Your bag looks brand new.”
“It is. I killed the last one,” he says as he strolls to his desk and drops a gym bag next to his chair, also placing a coffee cup near to his keyboard. His eyes drop to the sticky note, widening almost imperceptibly before his features return to neutrality, and he looks back at me.
Interesting.
“I haven’t had a true opponent in a while Miss Riley. I’d be honored to train with you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Getting close to him is part of the job, and I do want to punch the smirk off his face, but it isn’t exactly professional. I haven’t even officially gotten the position.
My curiosity overpowers my common sense. “Love to, Mr. Mills. Name the date and time.”
He smiles, that damn dimple appearing. “As it seems we both cannot sleep, how about I meet you here at 5:30 tomorrow morning.”
I nod, not thinking too hard about it. I’m supposed to earn his trust. What better way than beating the shit out of him?
“Let me get out of your way. I’ll shower and be back to work in a few minutes,” I say, heading for his personal bathroom next to the bar.
He observes my retreat with a look I cannot read. The sound of weights being moved and dropped pierces the silence as I slip through the door and close it firmly.
Well, I have a name on a Post-it: Peyton Radd. It’s not much to go on in terms of evidence, but it’s a start. What I don’t have is my sanity, and I will my heart to stop beating so fast.
Coming out of the bathroom, I find Owen still working out—shirtless now. I brush my hands through my wet hair, unsuccessful in locating a hairdryer. Not that I expected one.
Owen stops for a moment, his expression veiled but his eyes on me, before he resumes his workout without a word.
Switching on my computer, I get straight to work, going over the names and compiling a list of the patrons who should get invitations for the gala.
“You have a venue yet?” Owen calls from across the room.
“Yes,” I reply, not looking up from my work.
“And?”
“And it’s a surprise, Mr. Mills.”
“Once again, Miss Riley, you are making me feel a bit afraid for my life.”
My gaze shoots to his, but instead of seriousness, his eyes sparkle with mirth.
“Once again, Mr. Mills, I didn’t kidnap you yesterday. You can trust me.”
I inwardly cringe at the lie. Everything about this situation is a lie. Everything I do is bringing him one step closer to a lifetime in prison. I’m the last person he should trust.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice he crossed the room until he’s sitting on my desk, trying to steal a peek at my computer screen.
I swat at his head, and he ducks, chuckling. “So violent, Miss Riley.”
“What do you not understand about the word surprise?” I ask, trying to sound stern.
“I don’t like surprises.”
Cocking my head to the side, I study him. “You’ll like this one.”
He snorts. “I don’t doubt it, Miss Riley.”
We stare at each other for a moment before I return my attention to the screen, wanting to get the gala details out of the way so I can continue with my real purpose.
Owen doesn’t move from my desk, but he doesn’t try to look at my computer screen.
“Is there something else you need from me?” I ask, not pulling my eyes from the work in front of me.
He shifts his weight as though he’s going to stand but thinks better of it. “Did you eat, Miss Riley?”
The question has me snapping my attention to him. He notices my wrapped knuckles hovering above the keyboard.
“No,” I say.
That’s when his eyes find mine.
“Come.” He stands, grabbing a shirt and throwing it on before heading out of the office not bothering to see if I’m following.
We make our way to the cafe in the lobby, once again in companionable silence. Owen orders two coffees and two chocolate croissants and places one of each in front of me at a small, two-person cafe table by the front office windows that look out onto the busy sidewalk.
I thank him, and he nods in response.
Chewing the croissant, I think of all I know about the man in front of me. My research came up with only basic information, which isn’t surprising given that big names usually have a good PR team to keep them mostly anonymous.
He’s an only child. His mother doesn't appear to be in the picture, though I couldn’t figure out what happened to her.
His father used to own the company but signed it over to Owen a few years ago, giving him complete control of the company and the finances.
He’s been labeled the richest man under forty by Forbes magazine, as well as the hottest billionaire under forty.
And he won hottest man alive by People magazine last year.
I almost roll my eyes but remember my company and smile instead.
“Do you have any siblings, Mr. Mills?” I ask as people pass and stare at us with curiosity. Owen greets most of them with a cheery smile.
“One,” he replies, taking a sip of his second coffee of the day. “Half-brother, technically.”
I wasn’t expecting that. My research didn’t mention any siblings.
“He runs one of the charities. You’ll meet him before the gala.”
“So, I’m hired?” I ask, the corner of my mouth turning up.
He halts, slowly dropping the cup from his mouth, and his lips quirk. “Yes, Miss Riley. You have the job.”
Resisting the girlish desire to squeal, I bite my lower lip. He watches my mouth as I do.
“Thank you, Owen, really.”
His eyes travel to my eyes and hold. “You called me Owen.”
“Isn’t that what you told me to call you?”
He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a sultry voice. “Owen Mills. I’ve been looking for you.”
I don’t miss the slight flinch and widening of his eyes. He eyes the woman approaching from behind me. I don’t turn, waiting until she comes into my line of sight to assess her.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says cheerily.
“Noell, what can I do for you?” Owen’s tone is oddly low, with a hint of anger. Or maybe annoyance? Something else? I don’t miss his use of her first name, though.
She finally pretends to notice me. “Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, staring at me as though I’m an inconvenience.
Owen goes to introduce me, but I meet her challenge and interrupt. “I’m Nora Riley, Mr. Mills’ new personal assistant.” I extend my hand, smiling. At least I think I’m smiling. I could be scowling.
Noell gives me a fake smile, weakly clutching my hand for a split second before dropping it and returning her attention to Owen. The reality is: I’m used to people dismissing me the second they look at me. All I’ve ever been good for is my looks.
“Finally caved and hired a new assistant? Interesting choice, I must say,” Noell drawls.
I scoff, but she acts like I’m not even there.
“The work was getting overwhelming. What can I do for you, Noell?” Owen glances at me, offering an apologetic look as Noell goes off on a tangent.
“The integration of the new companies is starting to become a problem, Owen. We have to do a restructure. The company can’t be profitable if we keep every employee.”
I raise a brow, suddenly much more interested in what this woman has to say.
“Restructure isn’t necessary,” he replies curtly.
“But—”
Owen cuts her off. “Are you not paid enough, Noell? Are you out of a job? This company pays all employees more than they are worth, according to the market.”
“But this company can’t keep affording to do so.”
“Perhaps not. But for now, we have no problem.” Owen acts as if that’s the end of the conversation, returning his attention to his coffee and taking another large sip in a clear dismissal.
Noell huffs in frustration. “Your father was right. You’re going to run this company into the ground.”
With that, she storms off, and I’m left staring at her retreating form, wondering what their relationship is. She’s clearly close to the family, but she also works for them. There's a familiarity that doesn’t exist with the rest of Owen’s employees. And what she said…
Owen pulls me out of my thoughts when he sighs. “Sorry you had to witness that,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand through his black hair, the muscle in his arm tensing.
I pretend not to notice and shrug. “Accounting isn’t my thing.”
He finally turns his gaze on me. “No. I suspect your skill set is much less black and white.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but before I can ask, he stands, taking my empty plate and depositing it on the cafe counter. He thanks the baristas, who smile at him, before leading me back to the office.
I ask only one question before finishing up the gala invitations. “What’s your brother's name?”
“Parker Mills.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “The famous Calvin Klein underwear model?”
Owen smirks from across the room. “That’s the one.”