Chapter Three
One Hour Earlier...
Idon’t have time to mess around with an extensive disguise. Besides, there’s really no point. Since Ryder is going to be traveling with me, he’s going to see what I really look like at some point. But it feels weird going out without some sort of veil over the real me.
I throw my hair in a low ponytail, pop in a pair of gray contacts and pull the hood on my sweatshirt up.
That’ll work well enough. I also grab my stun gun and handcuffs.
Zip ties make me nervous. They can snap far too easily, especially if someone is trained to get out of them.
Considering who he works for, I would imagine Ryder is.
And once I have him where I want him, I can’t risk Ryder escaping.
Tossing my duffel bag into the boot of my Vanquish, I slip behind the wheel and decide to head over to A-Squared where Ryder works. I have no idea where he lives and figure I might be able to catch him there.
I’m in luck, and I immediately spot his ride in the car park. A jet-black Lamborghini Aventador. Sleek and utterly mouthwatering. Just like its owner. There’s something about a fast car that excites me. I mean, how can I not appreciate a man who has excellent taste and drives that beautiful beast?
Like his flashy ride, mine also draws attention.
And as my plan relies on surprise, I need to ensure he can’t see me.
Parking across the street and behind an SUV, I settle down in my seat, keeping an eye on the building’s entrance.
Eventually, my stakeout pays off, and he walks out with a mountain of a man, better known as Lincoln Decker.
I’ve done my research and know who comprises Ryder’s crew because there’s always the possibility I’ll run up against them in the field.
And I’m the kind of woman who likes being prepared as much as possible.
They exchange a few words and then split off, each going to his own vehicle.
I can hear the roar of the Lambo’s engine all the way across the street, and I can’t help but smile.
Such a pretty growl. I get the feeling Ryder and I both have a penchant for nice things.
It’s hard not to notice how well he dresses—whether it’s a bespoke suit or a pair of designer jeans—because they fit him with precise perfection.
Tapping my index finger on the wheel, I watch and wait.
If I pull out and start following him right away, he’ll most likely see me.
But I also don’t want to lose him. I force myself to wait five more seconds then pull out and follow him.
Drive casual, I tell myself. I can’t help but snort out a laugh since it occurs to me I rarely do anything casually.
Both he and Decker head to a nearby gym. It’s the nicest one in Denver, and I can’t say I’m surprised. After all, even a surface level internet dive on Mr. McKay offers all sorts of tidbits, including how his family has billions of dollars.
Billions! I can’t even begin to imagine how much that money would’ve helped my dad. It might’ve even saved him.
The what-ifs will always haunt me. What if we would’ve discovered he was sick sooner? What if his insurance company hadn’t dropped him? What if I would’ve had enough money to make sure he got the best and fastest possible treatment?
Would he still be alive and now in remission?
No. I shake my head hard. Don’t go there.
Imagining my dad still here with me only hurts. It’s living in an alternate reality, a dream world that doesn’t truly exist. A distraction. All I have is the here and now. Just me.
Bella Diamond against the world.
Loneliness creeps in. Sometimes I remember what it was like having friends.
Growing up in Manningtree, me and my best mate Vicky always hung out when I wasn’t on a dig with Dad.
We walked to school together then spent our free time exploring and pretending to go on grand adventures.
Last I heard, Vicky is happily divorced, has a fantastic job and lives in Mistley with her mother and daughter.
I shake my head, pushing yet another distraction to the back of my mind, and focus on the present.
Once Ryder and Decker stroll into the gym together, I pull into the alley behind the building.
There are several doors back here, a few unlabeled, but one has a big sign identifying it as belonging to Leaf & Seed, the cute restaurant attached to the gym.
Since I don’t have a membership to Denver’s swankiest sweat club, I’ll be sneaking in through there.
I pull my Aston Martin into the loading zone, flip on the hazard lights, and park like she belongs there as a plan begins to form in my head. I can’t help but smirk. If all goes off without a hitch, I’ll be catching Mr. McKay with his pants down. Er, off.
Grabbing the stun gun and cuffs, I slip them into the hoodie’s pocket and climb out.
My sweatshirt and leggings will allow me to blend right in with the other gym rats.
I’m actually very good at blending in when I want.
It’s a bit like an artform. Just look like you belong, and people usually assume you do.
The back door to the restaurant opens easily, and I send a silent message of gratitude to the slacker employee who left it unlocked.
Quickly taking in my surroundings, it looks like I’m in a storage area.
Lots of boxes holding supplies. Napkins, cups, utensils, condiments.
Moving forward on light feet, I pass a kitchen with several people bustling around and, in the other direction, there’s a short hallway that leads to the gym.
In less than five seconds I’ve reached the athletic club entrance where—surprise, surprise—no one is waiting to check my membership card. Whoever’s job is to keep riff-raff out must be on break. It’s like an epidemic of incompetence in this place.
Since I have no card to slide anyway, I make sure the coast is clear then send up another silent message of thanks to yet another invisible employee as I duck under the barrier with ease.
The place isn’t too busy, but it’s big. I have no idea where Ryder might be. Luckily, there are enough people around that I don’t draw any attention as I wander through. Besides, everyone wears earbuds, completely focused on their music and reps. No one even looks up as I pass.
Reaching the saunas, I pause, wondering if they could be inside.
My instinct tells me to keep moving, and my gut is rarely wrong.
I walk by racquetball courts, a weight-lifting area, endless machines, a rock-climbing room…
Damn, this place is much bigger than it appears on the outside.
I’m getting a workout just wandering through it.
There’s a sign pointing the way to an Olympic-sized pool, but I keep going straight and aim in on the area with ten boxing rings.
He came here with Lincoln Decker, and I’m pretty confident that’s an important element in finding Ryder.
Three of the rings have fighters sparring, but my attention zeroes straight in on the corner one just as a shirtless Ryder throws a punch at Lincoln.
Whoa. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but my feet stop moving. Completely transfixed, and possibly gaping, I’m unable to look away from a smorgasbord of glistening male muscles. For a moment too long, I watch the two men sparring in the ring. Talk about eye candy. Bloody hell!
Close your mouth, I scold myself, ducking behind a large, potted Ficus tree.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s naked chest and torso before.
Not even the first one I’ve seen gleaming with sweat and muscles flexing.
Jesus. Did I just drool? You’d think I was a hard-up virgin with the way I’m responding.
Okay, well, maybe the hard-up part is true.
Sex is difficult for me, though. I hate being vulnerable.
Opening myself up to someone who may have different expectations makes it impossible for me to be completely uninhibited.
Especially after the two encounters I had ended before they really began.
No build-up, zero pleasure, no orgasm—at least for me, anyway.
Just a fast fuck in the dark, and then I left as quickly as possible.
Allowing someone inside my body and then…
just exposing everything to him? No, thank you. So not worth it.
Maybe it would be different if I were in a real relationship.
Loved up on someone who wasn’t all about himself.
But that’s a very dangerous train of thought, and I shut it down fast. Instead, I lean forward, peering through the leaves like a damn creeper and trying not to drool at the half-naked men moving around the ring.
Okay, I can see how some women might be more drawn to the huge, muscled wall who used to be an MMA champ. But I am definitely not one of those women. Apparently, I have a type. And by type, I mean Ryder McKay.
I can’t seem to pry my eyes off him. His physique is sublime.
A couple of inches over six feet tall with smooth, tanned skin and toned muscles.
Not too much, but definitely not too little either.
I admire his firm pecs, six-pack abs, and the way he moves, so lithe and agile.
His brown hair is a little longer on top and kind of wild looking.
An adorable mop of waves falls over his eyes as he dances back out of Lincoln’s way, barely avoiding a meaty fist.
A couple of things quickly become apparent—Ryder is fast and strong.
Much more so than I anticipated. I was prepared for a spoiled-rotten techy gemologist who hides behind his keyboard all day when he isn’t shmoozing it up with other billionaires.
But that isn’t what I’m seeing. Apparently, a bespoke suit can hide more than I thought.
So, I need to be extremely careful. I can’t risk him escaping from me. Thank goodness I brought the cuffs.