Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lyra
“You’re persistent.” But not enough for me to say a word. “Really, Stryker, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Allie…”
I rinse my plate and turn back to face him.
“You can trust me.”
His eyes are deep, honest, in a way that mine aren’t.
For a moment—a wild, wicked moment—I’m tempted. Since Dad died, I’ve had no one to lean on. Always looking over my shoulder, trying to watch my back.
What the hell was he even thinking when he stashed the stuff in my bag?
Yeah. I know. That he finally hit the big one.
He didn’t have the chance to tell me much, just that his score would net him a hundred million or more. We were going to move the Maldives, relax, sip something cool, enjoy the rest of our lives in luxury, without running, without a real fear of extradition.
After a lifetime of hiding, that sounded perfect to me.
But now…?
“I’m just frustrated.” I’m desperate to change the conversation, and I hope I’m giving him enough information to sound believable.
“I hate being late on projects, and I have several clients with urgent requests. The holidays will be here before you know it, and they’re planning their Black Friday campaigns, and Christmas specials.
” I offer a half shrug. “And there’s just not much I can do on my phone. ”
“If you can access your files from the cloud,” he says, “I’ve got a backup notebook you can borrow.”
“Really? That would be amazing.” And give me something to do while I plan my getaway.
After we’ve worked together to clear the meal and load the dishwasher, he disappears briefly before returning with a laptop that he sets on the island that I’ve just wiped down.
Whoa. I’m more than a little impressed.
The sleek, matte-black machine is a Bonds, something I’ve always wanted because of its spectacular graphic capabilities.
Stryker’s backup computer costs more than I can afford to spend on my primary one.
“You’re going to spoil me. Maybe I shouldn’t because I’m not sure how I’ll ever work on anything else after this. ”
He glances at me, hard. “Maybe I can trade you the machine for your secrets.”
“Not a chance.”
“Worth a try.” With that, he goes back to work.
Stryker finishes activating guest mode, then steps back from the counter and indicates that it’s all mine. “Feel free to work anywhere you want.”
“This…” Means a lot.
I’m not accustomed to anyone helping me in any way. If I’m honest, I have no idea how to respond.
He’s waiting for me to go on.
Suddenly I’m hyperaware of the heat radiating off his body, and the darkly masculine, spicy scent of him.
Overwhelmed, I settle for saying, “Thank you.”
“Allie…”
My breath catches when his fingers brush my hair back from my face.
His touch isn’t rushed, isn’t possessive. Just deliberate enough to unravel me.
His knuckles graze my cheekbone, lingering for a second too long, and I swear it sparks something low in my belly. A tremor of heat. Of longing. Of betrayal—because how dare my body react to him?
I meet his eyes and instantly regret it. His gaze is focused and unreadable. Intense.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart stumbles as if it’s suddenly forgotten how to beat.
He’s not touching me anymore, not really—but it feels like he is. The space between us evaporates, the air dense with everything unsaid.
How long has it been since I’ve been kissed?
Too long.
And never by someone like him.
Not a cop. Not a criminal. Just a man who operates in shadows and would notice if I flinched.
The pull between us arcs like static.
His gaze drops to my mouth, making it impossible to breathe.
He moves in just a little closer. I feel it before I see it—his body heat pressing into my space, his presence folding around me like a secret.
Gently he lifts one hand to cup my jaw. Then he brushes over my cheek like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
“Allie…”
With purposeful intent, Stryker kisses me.
His mouth slants over mine, warm and firm, and the contact is so startlingly intimate that I make a sound—half gasp, half surrender.
Not tentative. Not rushed. But sure and decisive.
Helpless, I curl my fingers into his massive biceps, seeking anchor, but it’s useless.
When he deepens his kiss, everything inside me short-circuits. My nipples harden, sending a rush of heat spiraling down through my belly.
Still kissing me, he slides his hand from my cheek to the base of my throat. His touch is featherlight against the hollow there, making me shiver.
Then he trails downward, impossibly slow, until his fingertips hover between my breasts. He doesn’t continue, doesn’t grope—he just lingers, like a promise, like a dare.
And I’m helpless. Lost in him.
I kiss him back like I’m starving. Like I’ve forgotten why I shouldn’t. Like I don’t care.
And then—the doorbell chimes, breaking the spell.
“Oh, Allie…” He brushes a fingertip across my lower lip.
Every part of me is desperate to grab him, hold on, pull him closer.
The doorbell chimes a second time.
“This isn’t finished between us.”
As he steps back, I blink, disoriented by the sudden distance.
My skin tingles in the places he touched me. My heart’s still racing like I barely survived something. And a longing I’ve never experienced before pangs through me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I close my eyes again, in silent prayer, thankful for the interruption.
If it hadn’t happened, there’s no saying how far I would have let things go.
With force, I remind myself I’m not here to make a connection. I can’t afford one. Especially not with a man like Stryker. He will burn my carefully constructed life to the ground—if I let him close enough to see the cracks.
Despite what he said, this is definitely over between us. He’s a risk I can’t afford to take, and more so than ever, I have to make my escape as quickly as possible.
After checking his phone, he answers the door.
He carries in the groceries and refuses my offer of help.
I’m astounded by the number of things he purchased. And despite my insistence that I didn’t need anything, he bought a carton of my favorite chai. How he guessed the brand I liked, I have no idea.
He also stocked up on protein bars, more ready-to-heat soups, and bakery items I’m guessing he’ll never touch.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
As he moves through the living area to the room he’d retrieved the computer from, I let out an unsettled breath.
Stryker completely devastates me.
He’s gotten too close, and I can’t allow that. I have no choice but to save myself.
Riveted in place, I watch as he closes the glass door behind him.
Then, even telling myself I shouldn’t, I creep in that direction, keeping myself pressed against the wall.
I listen intently, pushing away the background noises. His deep voice is low and resonant.
“Inamorata. I’m out for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow too—got a situation here that needs handling.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Inamorata.
Even I know the woman is Hawkeye’s right-hand person.
The locket warms against my skin, a warning burn that tightens my gut.
I’m in the lion’s den, and I have no business craving a kiss from the lion himself.
A few moments later, there’s silence.
Just in case he comes back out, I hurry back to the island and login to the computer to open an image I’d been working on last night.
Since my tracks are covered, I open a secure messaging app on my phone. I’m not taking any chances that he’s logging my keystrokes.
After glancing at the door one more time to be sure it’s still closed, I turn the volume all the way down on my device and send a secure message to Remy—an old fixer from my dad’s shadowy world.
Any chatter on past scores?
Moments later, my screen lights up.
There’s a potential collector throwing money, looking for any piece of the Hollingsworth Collection. No idea who.
Then I take a deep breath. Dad made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone—even Remy—about his most recent score.
So how can I ask about it? Carefully I type in another question. Anything new going on in the world that you’ve heard about?
Everyone lying low after that spring heist in Paris.
So I have no idea what I’m up against.
With a frustrated stab at the big red X, I close the app and flip my phone screen-side down on the quartz.
When I look up, Stryker’s there, watching me.
He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.
Then another.
My heart thuds, hammering against my ribs. His gaze is locked on mine—intense, determined dangerous.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just that client saying she needs the project today, not tomorrow.” I offer a shrug. “Good thing I’m caffeinated.”
He scowls, as if he doesn’t believe me.
But instead of pressing, he nods once and heads back toward his office. The door clicks softly behind him.
In the distance, his phone rings.
Even though I tiptoe across the room, I can’t make out what’s being said. All too soon, there’s silence.
Hurriedly I return to my barstool and glance his way when he emerges from his office.
He’s scowling, phone in hand.
“Problem?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
“A thing I need to deal with. Shouldn’t take long.” He drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “You’ll be okay here?”
“Sure.”
He meets my eyes, gaze lingering. “If you need anything, call me.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another card. He drops it next to the keyboard. “I mean it.”
“Got it.” I nod, trying not to show how fast my heart’s beating. “I’ll be too busy working to even notice you’re gone.”
He snags a set of keys from a bowl on the island. “Make yourself at home. Shower, nap—whatever you need.”
Then he’s gone, the soft click of the door somehow louder than it should be.
I stay still for another thirty seconds. Maybe more. Just long enough for my pulse to steady. For the sound of his footsteps to fade.
Remembering his kiss and my terrifying reaction, I move.
Quiet. Efficient. Fast.
I ease off the barstool, sliding my phone into a pocket.
After looking out the window and seeing him pull his SUV from the underground parking lot and onto the street, I slip out the door, pulling up my hood as I go.
When I’m a few blooks away, I call my preferred rideshare company even as I keep moving.
I love this company because it’s off the grid. The kind that doesn’t track payment history and doesn’t ask questions.
The car meets me about half a mile away, a distance I cover in a matter of minutes.
I never look back.
The drive to the storage unit is uneventful.
Downtown traffic is light, the city still stretching into afternoon. The air has an even sharper bite than earlier, a fall crispness that would make my lungs burn if I breathed too deep.
The facility is just off the edge of LoDo—industrial, anonymous, nothing flashy. I set it up years ago. A cash rental under yet another alias. Unit 4C. Easy to remember. Easy to disappear from.
The keypad blinks green when I enter the code.
Inside, I flick on the single overhead bulb.
It’s just a metal shelving unit, a rolled yoga mat, an empty duffel I left for decoy purposes—and the real prize that’s hidden inside a rolled up second-hand rug.
I grab my go bag and unzip it just enough to confirm its contents. Clothing. Cash. Spare keys. Burner phone. Backup passport under yet another name. And the hard drive.
Still safe.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and double-check the lock on my way out.
I’ve hailed another rideshare from a different app. Just in case.
This driver’s chatty. I nod and murmur, but my mind’s already three steps ahead.
Remy will help me.
But I can’t leave without that one last thing from my apartment.
Going back may be stupid. Reckless, even.
But I’m already giving the driver my address.
We pull up twenty minutes later.
The building’s quiet. I scan the street for watchers. The neighboring windows. The corners. The shadows.
Nothing.
Practicing a breathing technique to slow my heart rate, I exit the car and head across the short distance to my concrete stairwell and take them two at a time.
When I’m almost at the top, I see a shadow, and I instinctively freeze, reaching for my gun.
Stryker.
Leaning against the brick wall across from the entrance, one boot braced behind him, arms folded like he’s been there a while.
Waiting.
The duffel weighs more heavily on my shoulder, suddenly conspicuous.
He pushes off the wall, his expression unreadable.
“I’m guessing you didn’t go out for a chai.”
My stomach drops.
Damn it. Damn him.
I look over my shoulder, but my car is already gone, and the new one hasn’t arrived.
My mouth dries as I calculate the odds.
How far can I get, and how fast?
“Don’t even try it.” He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t reach for me. “Time for some answers, Allie. And this time, I’ll have them.”