Four
Lukas
“We have a fucking problem.”
“Bastien,” I reply, “if the problem wasn’t a fucking problem, you wouldn’t be bothering me with it.”
“Very droll,” he says curtly. “What do you know of Origin Engineering?”
“One of Marco DeLuca’s deals, right?” I lean back in my exec chair, propping my feet up on the glass desk and gazing out at Park Avenue, forty stories below. “What should I know about it?”
“It’s an acquisition with a one-fifty million payoff. They’re a hell of a lot dirtier than we thought.”
“How’s that a problem? More leverage.”
“It’s not so simple. Origin is building mining infrastructure in Africa, at the expense of whole communities. Slave labor, heavy-metal poisoning—if we take these guys over and it comes back to bite us, it’s a world of pain.”
I grimace. “So we shut that shit down, and take the rest of the company.”
“That’s my thinking. I’ll send you the file. Have a chat with one of their execs, find out how exposed we are.”
“Leave it with me.”
“Good. If there’s nothing else?” Bastien prompts, leaving it open.
That’s not like him. Abruptly hanging up is more his style.
I turn, cocking an eyebrow at the desk phone. “Am I supposed to have said something I haven’t?”
“You usually bitch and whine when I send you to corporate events.”
Ah. The gala last night.
Yes, he’s right; normally, I would’ve. But I didn’t mention it because I… enjoyed myself.
Or enjoyed someone else, more accurately.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about that woman since.
“Did you even attend?” Bastien asks.
“Oh, yes. I was there. Very dull.” Mostly. But I’m not ready to discuss her with anyone, even my boss and closest friend. Instead, I redirect. “You were right about Serranto: he’s small fry.”
“How small?”
“He’s a shestvorka, a hanger-on. The Volkovs use him for money-laundering through high-value art. They own him, courtesy of his gambling debts. His influence is limited.”
“Damn Russian mafia,” Bastien mutters. “We don’t need that kind of distraction. Do some digging. Find out what we’re up against before we’re up against it.”
“How do you want me to—”
But I’m talking to a dead line. Bastien’s gone, just like that, the status quo restored.
Nice of him to drop two problems in my lap at once.
But that’s what makes it fun.
Fun?
The thought makes me pause. That thrill has long been absent, and I’m damn sure it’s not the latest challenge that’s brought it back.
I text Haynes while I mull it over. His reply is immediate, and he’s in the city, half an hour away.
While I wait, I pace around the office, thinking.
There’s nothing to fidget with here, the sole cabinet empty, the meeting table and chairs neatly arranged and never disturbed.
I pull my karambit from my pocket, flicking the blade open and closed, and looping it on my finger by virtue of the ring in the hilt.
It’s comforting and familiar, in the way this office is not. But then, I don’t belong to Northbridge Capital, whatever my official employment says. I go wherever Bastien wants me to, do whatever Bastien tells me to. I’m his man, through and through, out of loyalty. And he pays me very well.
Yet of late, I’ve only been going through the motions, every day a trudge. My heart hasn’t been in it, like a piece of me died along with Juliette. No enjoyment in anything, just getting the job done.
But now that spark has reawakened, and I know why.
Last night, I felt alive for the first time in… too long.
I may have fucked her over a table on the terrace, but I was halfway home before I could recall her name.
Amelia.
Her pale complexion, raven hair, a quietly striking combination. That intelligent face, high cheekbones, her firm jaw.
Who is she?
My pulse picks up and my cock twitches, images assailing me, never far from my thoughts.
The vulnerability and heat in her expressive, green eyes.
The reluctance that she tried so hard to cling to.
Her whimpers of pain and pleasure. The way she came around my cock, back arching, breasts gleaming in the night.
The feel of her ass beneath my hand.
I went too far. I know I did.
All I intended to do was chastise her, but there she stood pinned against the wall, her arousal obvious even as she fought it, and the next thing I know, I’m giving her ultimatums and slicing open her dress.
Because she responded.
I couldn’t help myself, and that’s not like me at all.
She tested my control like no one ever has.
She’s the reason the world has more color this morning. She’s the reason I find myself caring again.
A knock on my door announces the arrival of Haynes. Was that half an hour already?
She’s taking over my thoughts, too. A distraction I can’t afford.
I sit back down. “Enter.”
The man who walks in is in his late twenties with an athletic build, and crosses the room with the grace of a killer.
I may have been the one to recruit him, but I’ve never liked him.
His gaze is flat and totally empty of emotion, save when he’s indulging in his particular pleasure: torture. Edward Haynes is a consummate sadist.
He is, however, very effective at his job.
“I have a few tasks for you,” I tell him, as he crosses to the window and leans nonchalantly against it.
“Shoot.”
“Liaise with Richard Cross. He’s running a job for Sentinel Risk and I want you to take over.”
“I’m not surprised,” Haynes drawls. He sounds American, most of the time, but hints of his clipped British accent occasionally leak through. “Cross is an imbecile. Who do I need to kill?”
“I’ll handle that myself,” I say, ignoring the way his thin lips press thinner with disappointment. “Get me a progress report on Origin Engineering.”
“Anything else?”
“Get that done fast, because next we have to go probe the Volkovs.”
Haynes’s interest sharpens. “Russian mafia? Have they started something, or are we planning to?”
“Our job is to make sure neither happens, and to be prepared in case it does.”
“A bit more challenging than usual. Good.” He gives me a shrewd look. “Why do I get the impression there’s something else?”
I pause, rocking back in my chair, wondering at myself. Then ask the question anyway. “The girl last night. I assume you now know where she lives?”
“I do.” Haynes’s reply is carefully bland.
I make my decision. “I want a profile on her, too.”
“Who is she?”
“Amelia.”
“People usually have a surname.”
I clench my jaw. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
Haynes arches one eyebrow, which for him is akin to wild surprise.
“You don’t know who she is,” he goads. “How interesting.”
“Your point?” I bite out.
“The girl goes out on the terrace with you and comes back in looking like she had a very good time. You didn’t know her name, and now you want a full profile. This sounds like a personal request.”
“I’m not asking for your opinion,” I growl. “I want everything about her. Who she knows, who her friends are, favorite restaurants, her financial position—everything.” My fingers grip the edge of the table. “If she has a… boyfriend.”
“And if she does?” Haynes asks, a little too quickly. “Want me to dissuade him?”
“No.” If she has one, that’s for me to deal with. “While you’re at it, get some cameras in there, wired for audio.”
“Every room?”
“Obviously every room. Route the feeds to my personal drive.” I give him a pointed look. “Ensure I have the only access.”
He holds his hands up. “I won’t peek, not my jam.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Haynes pushes himself straight. “It’s good to see you taking an interest in something again, Lukas.”
“Just get it done.”
He gives me a nod and heads for the door.
Irritating that he’d picked up on my apathy. But I suppose it doesn’t matter; it’s in the past.
I have a new lease on life, and it’s all from this girl.
Hell, am I obsessed?
I recollect the feel of her bare ass beneath my hand, the noises she made as she came, and my laugh echoes in the empty office.