Chapter One
London
April
Melinda Cheng stepped off the Tube at Baker Street station and resisted the urge to quicken her steps.
With her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, she kept her pace measured and calm, the prickle on her neck not diminishing as she made her way up to the street.
She was being paranoid. It was a coincidence.
The events of the last three months had her on edge, seeing things that weren’t there.
Or maybe not. She’d learned to trust her instincts a long time ago, and they’d never let her down.
The familiar facade of her building loomed, but Melinda kept walking. The last thing she wanted, if she were being followed, was to reveal where she lived. If she hadn’t already.
At a boutique clothing store, with its display of the latest spring fashions, she stopped and stared at the large window.
That she wouldn’t be caught dead in any of this year’s newest fashions was irrelevant.
She ignored the clothing, focusing on the reflection of the street.
Clichéd, but effective. Shoppers strolled or rushed past. A half-full open-topped tourist bus momentarily blocked her view of the opposite side of the street, but he wasn’t there. He hadn’t followed her off the train?
She ambled past a few more shop windows and stopped again. Nope. Still couldn’t see him. Maybe she had been imagining things. But… London was home to millions of people. What were the chances of running into the same man three times in one day?
She casually spun around, as though trying to decide which shop might interest her.
Still no sign of him. If he hadn’t looked like he’d stepped off the pages of some magazine, or a billboard advertisement for Calvin Klein, she might not have noticed him.
No. She would’ve noticed him. There was a sense of danger about him that couldn’t be ignored, no matter how handsome he was.
She would’ve picked him out of a crowd of one hundred thousand or more.
Her radar to dangerous men had been tuned since childhood.
As though on impulse, Melinda stepped into a bakery.
With a quick glance at the patrons to make sure he wasn’t one, she placed an order to go and waited by the counter, keeping a close eye on the people walking past. With how she earned her money, there was always a risk.
Some of her clients weren’t the altruistic kind.
But she was certain this was about one in particular.
One who had more in common with the women she helped than those she used for income.
Username—MysticMage. Based on the photo sent to Melinda, she was an octogenarian.
On the dark web. That was a first. For her, at least. Most of the clients she helped were much younger.
MysticMage hadn’t said it was a husband she was running from, but Melinda had recognized the signs.
She’d read between the lines. Four times she’d created a new identity for her, only to have someone crack it wide open.
For goodness’ sake, the woman was in her eighties.
Couldn’t her husband let her live out the last few years of her life in peace?
Obviously not, because when they’d hacked Melinda’s fifth attempt at creating her a new identity, the hacker had done something else.
He’d sent malware through her IDS alerts.
She’d been out of her chair, ripping out the router cable and shutting the computer down within seconds.
Her kill switch would have activated, but if the hacker was good—and the past few months told her he was—he would try for the SSH, her network communication protocol.
Pulling the plug was the only way to completely cut off access.
Had she been fast enough? Had he got enough information to track her location?
For there could be no other reason for the malware. She’d been jittery ever since.
Maybe she should take a holiday. Tell MysticMage she’d need to find another hacker and go somewhere warm and sunny, with white beaches and blue water. Where no one would think to look for her. Somewhere like the Greek Islands. She’d always wanted to go.
No. She’d promised she’d keep her client safe, and she was going to damn well do her job. She’d need to take extra precautions, that’s all. And back trace that malware without giving up more than she already had. Then she’d send him a nasty little virus of her own for his trouble.
She accepted her tea, turned to leave, and froze.
At the counter was the guy. There was no mistaking him.
Black Henley stretched across a broad chest, snug jeans hugging muscular thighs, the bronzed skin, the dark hair curling at his nape.
Like a Spanish sex god. Or a celebrity. As he perused the cake display, the young female server grinned at Melinda and winked, mistaking her open-mouthed stare for interest.
She snapped out of her trance and waggled her eyebrows at the server, giving the Spanish sex god the once over.
Not because she was admiring the taut, rounded globes of his ass, but because she was looking for something that might give her a hint to his identity.
A gang tattoo, or…or a leather cuff about his wrist with the silver motif of a… Was that a wolf or a dog?
Okay, maybe she lingered a little on his ass. Before he noticed her staring, she smiled again at the server and walked past the Spanish hottie as though he were nothing more than a momentary distraction.
She dumped her tea in the trash and hurried across the street to a bookstore, browsing the recent releases, her attention fixed not on any book, but on the bakery entrance.
The guy with the perfect ass exited, coffee and a paper bag in hand, and turned down the street away from her building.
Huh. Maybe she was being overly suspicious of him.
Seeing him four times in one day could be a coincidence.
If he lived in the neighborhood. She’d never seen him before, though.
She shook her head. This business with the malware had her spooked.
After a few more turns down the street and no further sighting of the hottie, Melinda entered her building.
In the empty lift, she leaned against the back wall, letting the tension ease from her shoulders.
It’d been a tough day all round. She had a mind to whip up some comfort food—a quick stir-fried egg with tomato. Mm, yeah. Her stomach rumbled.
The door was almost closed when a hand and wrist, with a leather cuff and silver motif, shoved between them and the door bounced back open. Melinda stiffened.
Get the hell outta here.
Six-foot something of black Henley and snug jeans smiled perfect white teeth at her. “Thought I was going to miss it.”
A thick accent… Not Spanish, though she could have sworn he had at least some Spanish or Latino heritage.
French, maybe? He glanced at his watch as he and a waft of spicy aftershave joined her in the lift.
She resisted the temptation to breathe him in.
A man who was potentially stalking her shouldn’t smell that good.
Melinda smiled back, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag.
She adjusted her glasses, partially hiding her face as her gaze skimmed over him.
Had his hair been a smidge longer? The shadow of a stubble on his chin darker?
Numbers glowed from the control panel, but it was the watch on his wrist when he leaned over to punch the button to close the doors that held her attention.
A platinum Roger Dubuis Excalibur. She hadn’t noticed that in the bakery. Strange.
The doors slid shut before she could will her feet to move.
“What floor?” he asked.
He raked a hand through his hair. The action, the stretching of his shirt, the tautening of biceps… Is it hot in here? She wanted to fan her super-heated face. Her attention snagged again on that watch.
She cleared her throat. “Um, eight,” she lied. “Thank you.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “Are you sure?” His hand hovered over the control panel.
She lifted her chin. “Yes. Sorry, long day.”
With a shrug, he punched floor eight and floor nine. Nine. Her real floor.
He leaned against the elevator wall, hazel eyes framed by long lashes no man deserved to be born with, giving her the once over. Bedroom eyes. Cute. Smoldering. An image of him, naked, tangled in her sheets, rose unbidden.
What the hell, Melinda?
They stood in silence, Melinda staring at the numbers lighting up as the lift rose, the weight of his stare burning holes in the side of her face.
Why is the lift so damn slow today?
She risked another peek. The man could be a bodyguard, with all that muscle. Or a bouncer. Or an underwear model. He’d look good in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. That bronze skin, the dark shadow on his jaw. Would he have a happy trail?
Or… He could be a private investigator, or a thug sent to intimidate the location of her client out of her.
Or not. Those jeans were snug, and there was no evidence he was concealing a weapon. Her gaze dipped to his crotch. She doubted he’d be hiding a gun there. At least, not the type of gun she was imagin— She cut the thought off, sucking in a deep breath of aftershave.
He pushed himself off the wall, and her gaze followed the flex of muscles across his abdomen up his chest and… Oops. Busted. Heat crept up her neck, and she turned away, but not before she caught the flare of his nostrils, and… Was that a…growl?
The lift dinged, lurched to a halt, and the door slid open.
Melinda dipped her head at him, escaped the confined space and strode down the corridor as if she did, truly, live on this floor.
As soon as the lift doors slid shut, she raced for the stairs.
Above her, a door closed, then she was alone in the cool stairwell.
With her laptop on the top step and the click of a few commands, Melinda logged into her secure wireless router and pulled up the security feed from the ninth floor.
There he is.
Without a glance at her door, he continued down the corridor to one at the end. Huh. Old Mrs. Bellamy had moved out last week. Her kids must have finally put her into that care home they’d been pushing for. He wasn’t following her? He was her new neighbor?
On the grainy security feed, he shifted his coffee and his pastry bag to one hand and retrieved his key.
Wait. What?
Melinda froze the image. He held a takeaway coffee cup and a pastry bag. And there, as obvious as the bulge in his pants had been, was a naked wrist. This wasn’t the guy in the lift. He wasn’t wearing an Excalibur watch.
What the hell?
She tapped a few keys and unfroze the image.
Mr. No-Watch was gone—the door to Mrs. Bellamy’s flat closed—but striding down the hall was the guy from the lift.
Mr. Excalibur. She heaved out a sigh. Twins.
Her new neighbors, they were twins. But the question remained—what was a man doing living in this building when he could afford to spend two hundred and fifty thousand pounds on a watch?