Chapter Ten
Ten
Axe
The rejection stings.
More than I thought it would. I want Josie to know how many years of research have gone into this project, how many prior iterations we’ve created, how many women we’ve analyzed and data-mapped, and how none of them pop like Josie.
How She’s the One is so much more than some half-baked fantasy for lonely blokes.
All the platforms we want to build off it.
How we want to meet the needs of all sorts, not just men.
The business side of me is shouting to take my private express elevator and meet Josie in the lobby.
Not let her leave until she says yes. More than that, I want to make sure I can put out that blaze in her eyes.
She looked at me like I was some kind of heartless bastard.
I’ve hurt her. Disappointed her, too. The very last things I wanted to do.
What an eejit, mentioning Bryan! I don’t know why or how, but Josie has this way of stripping me of every last bit of sense I’ve got.
I spent years in the CIA learning to pick my words like they were bullets.
Around her, all that training goes straight to shite.
I end up on the express elevator, but instead of heading for the lobby, I shoot straight down to the underground parking, where I keep my fleet of motorbikes.
Among them is my pride and joy, my custom-made Ducati Apollo—a feckin’ marvel of engineering, if I do say so myself.
It’s as smooth and easy driving through the city as it is tearing up the hills, with a 170-horsepower V4 engine and a design that could make grown men weep.
The Apollo’s the crown jewel of my collection and worth every penny, especially when I need to get out of town and let off some steam.
Like now. Before I do something daft like beg Josie to come back and listen to my pitch again. Boxing and the gym are grand when I’m raging at someone else. Biking, though…biking is best when I’m furious with myself.
I exit the city and head up to the ridge, pushing the beast hard, taking the sharp twists and feeling the burn on the steep climbs.
When I hit the long stretches, with the snowcapped mountains rising on one side and the bone-dry meadow stretching out on the other, my mind wanders back to that gorgeous lass…
and how I always manage to fuck it up with her.
Long ago, I figured out how to numb myself to my surroundings, go ice-cold whenever I needed to stay on high alert.
That skill not only got me through a rough childhood (Philip Larkin had it right; they fuck you up, your mum and dad), but it also carried me through the CIA and into private contracting without a single close call.
Strike used to say it was both terrifying and impressive, the way I could just shut down every emotion and become a warrior robot.
Which is why turning into some tongue-tied, spotty lad with a hard-on every time I’m around Josie is especially confusing. And not exactly ideal, seeing as I need her help with this bloody project.
My meeting with Niles von Grafenhagen is set for Friday.
I need to have a legitimate AI prototype in place before presenting.
If I’m going to mix business with pleasure—though pleasure may not be the right word; purpose is more accurate—then I’m going in with guns blazing.
Metaphorically. I’ll save the literal ones for later.
I press the pedal, take the turn a bit fast, and hear the tires squeal. No fear, only thrill.
I’m edging over 110 miles an hour when I hear the sirens. Fuck. I pull to the side of the road, stomp my boot down on the dusty ground.
At least I’m not in my car.
The last thing I need is for the officer to see what’s in the boot.