Chapter 8
LUKE
Between the stress of Fallon’s visit and the spy planted right outside of my office, watching me, I haven’t been sleeping much at all.
My mood is sour on Wednesday morning.
“Miss Dawson,” I bark from the door of my office.
Her blonde head pops up, blue eyes landing on my face. “Yes, sir?”
I try not to like it when she calls me sir, but she did it that night at my penthouse, and I can’t control the reel of memories rushing through my head.
Short pink dress. Full pink lips. Bright blue eyes. Enthusiastic about every little move I made . . .
“Did you need something?” Her voice cuts into my head.
I realize I was staring off into space like a lunatic as I replayed the events of last weekend. I need to remind myself that this woman can’t be trusted and is very likely only here to extract intel and kill me. Even so, I’m going to make her work for it.
“Yes, I need you to make me an appointment with Angelo.”
“Okay . . . who’s Angelo?”
“My tailor. I need a new tux.”
She stares at me for a full five seconds before slowly nodding. Her expression is unreadable, big eyes sucking me into their ocean-deep pool.
Why did they have to send one who’s so damn pretty?
I’ve literally survived freezing temperatures while soaking wet, near starvation, mortal wounds with deep infections, and torture that could have ended in death.
Surely, I can survive working with a beautiful woman who I can’t stop picturing naked and writhing underneath me.
She slowly walks back to her desk, picking up the phone, presumably to call Angelo. I need to get out of this office and away from her if I want to think clearly.
I go back to grab my coat, keys, and phones, and I send a text to my driver.
“I’m gone for the day.” I strut past her desk.
She doesn’t respond, and I force myself not to look her way.
The gym in my penthouse has a stereo system that rivals the speakers at a concert. The downstairs neighbors used to complain, so I bought the apartments underneath me. Now, I can blast my music and work out in peace.
I’m shirtless, my fists taped up, as I pound on the worn bag of sand. The ritual calms my nerves.
Kate was the first woman I ever took home from a bar.
I’d been approached before, but I’d never given in to the temptation.
I’m paranoid as hell about getting targeted by a disgruntled diplomat whose son or business partner I might have killed when I was working for the US government.
Female mercenaries can be just as deadly—if not more so—than males.
It’s just my luck that I decided to forget myself for a night with a woman I thought was an innocent civilian.
She approached you, idiot. You have no one to blame but yourself. How could I have been so fucking stupid and gullible?
It’s those damn blue eyes and her doe-like expression. She has that fun and innocent personality with an alluring body to go with it. She looks and acts like the kind of girl I would have dated before I was a SEAL, before I knew so much pain and lived in constant survival mode.
My life as a CEO billionaire for my late father’s corporation is nothing compared to the stress of living to kill or be killed. I’ve dealt with some seriously evil pricks. I’ve seen and done things that I pray to forget every day.
But I never can.
My fists and shoulders are aching from my assault on the heavy bag, and I finally cease the workout to go get some water from the kitchen.
I walk barefoot into the oversize space, where my chef should be arriving in the next half hour to prepare my dinner.
I grab a glass to fill it up as I hear the elevator ping.
Eloise must be early.
The only person that comes to my apartment regularly is my chef. I turn the glass up to take a long drink of water.
A crash makes me jolt, and I lunge for the kitchen drawer holding my 9 millimeter.
I have the handgun trained toward the entrance as I cautiously approach the corner, peering around to search for the source of the noise.
My personal assistant is bending over to pick up the shards of pottery from a priceless Egyptian artifact shattered on the floor. I won it in a bidding war for over ten million US dollars the last time I was in Egypt.
“Oh shit, shit. I cannot believe how freaking clumsy I am,” she murmurs, clearly distressed.
I let out a sigh of relief, the adrenaline spike in my veins beginning to crash back down.
She screams as her head jerks up, her finger slicing open and forming a line of red that begins to drip on the white marble floor.
“Mr. Bradshaw! You—” She cuts off abruptly as her eyes widen at me. She stares at my chest, mouth open.
A few beats pass before I realize I’m still holding a handgun, aimed straight at her head. I lower it to point at the ground.
“Miss Dawson, the crash startled me.”
I tuck the steel into the back of my shorts waistband as I slowly walk up to her. I notice the discarded clear bags of my dry cleaning on the floor.
She’s gaping at me as I walk up to help her with the cut on her finger. She starts to stand, taking a small step back from me.
“I—”
“You—” I begin at the same time she tries to speak.
We both halt, the silence filling the space between us.
“You’re bleeding.” I look down at her hand, the blood forming a small pool of red on the floor.
“Oh!” She gasps, eyes finally jerking away from me as she sprints through my open bedroom door behind her.
Where the hell is she going?
She runs right back out, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I’m looking for the guest bathroom! The one you have for guests!” she shouts, and I have no clue why.
What kind of agent is squeamish around blood?
Her acting ability is out of this world. I’ve got to get more evidence to either clear her name or turn her over to the FBI.
“It’s this way.” I grip her elbow, guiding her toward the half-bath near the elevator.
I go in with her, but the space is only meant for one. The air suddenly feels thick. Her citrus and mint scent wafts toward me as she spins around, dragging me back to the night she was in bed writhing from her orgasm.
I grab the wrist of her bleeding hand, and she inhales sharply.
“I’m just going to rinse it, okay?” I say gently.
She nods, not looking up at me. I turn on the faucet, moving her hand underneath the stream. She’s still breathing rather heavily, but I can’t determine why. The act is a little bit of an overkill. My eyes roam over the rest of her to see if she got cut anywhere that I didn’t notice at first.
I look up in the mirror to see her pale blue eyes lasered in on my sweaty chest and stomach. Her chest is rising and falling a little too quickly. She looks away as her cheeks redden.
My skin heats up at the realization of what she’s thinking.
This is not good.
We’re alone in my penthouse again, and now that I know where her head is, mine goes straight into the gutter with it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, my voice unintentionally deepening.
She shakes her head.
She’s a spy. She’s here to exploit you for information. Her mission is to literally get you to trust and confide in her by whatever means necessary. She was probably planning to snoop through your house while you were gone.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, turning the water off and using the hand towel to wrap around the slow, continual trickle of red.
“I was bringing your shirts over from the dry cleaner,” she says defensively.
My eyes move on their own to stare at her sensual rosy lips that I never got to taste. A few tense moments pass with our breaths mingling between us.
On pure instinct, my head starts to slowly descend toward her, but she pulls back from me.
She juts her chin out, spinning around to leave me alone in the cramped space.
You’re a weak-minded idiot.
I need to shower anyway . . . alone. I follow her out into the foyer.
She starts to pick up the shards of broken pottery.
“Let me take care of that.”
I would get a broom, but I have no idea where my housekeeper stores it. I grab a trash bag from under the sink and bring it over.
“I, uh, I can pay for it. Could you just have them take it out of my check?” She stands up after reaching for the shirts.
I doubt she realizes it would be quite a while before she’d see any profit if I deducted this from her pay. It was an artifact from the tomb of Nefertari, the queen of Egypt, born in 1300 BC.
“Don’t worry about it. I hated it anyway.”
She looks up at me with a question in her gaze, clearly not believing me. She walks to the kitchen island, laying the shirts over the countertop.
She doesn’t push it; she simply watches as I place the rest of the pieces inside the bag.
“The housekeeper can sweep the rest up.”
I look back up at her to see her eyes rimmed with moisture. She quickly turns away, walking toward the elevator.
“Ka—Miss Dawson.”
She stops, still facing away from me as she pushes the down arrow.
“Are you okay?”
Her head nods right before she disappears into the elevator.
She’s the most unorthodox agent I’ve ever encountered. Is she baiting me?
I’ve got to find out more about Kate Dawson and who she’s working for.