“Not so far. Tyler is still trying to clean up the video image enough to give us something. But it’s not looking good.”
“Keep me posted.”
“I will. You need anything?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll let you get back to your show then.”
He pauses a moment. “Take care of yourself, Junior.”
“You too, Pops.”
I open up my laptop to work and put on the TV for background noise. I’m in the middle of writing a client proposal on enhancing their cybersecurity when my phone rings. I glance over to seeJ. Sinclairacross the top of the screen. I pull in a breath, put on my professional veneer, and answer.
“Stiles here.”
“Hi, Jasper.” Her raspy voice strikes past my guard with a hard, swift kick to the left side of my chest. “Sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“You’re not.” I mute the TV. “You all right?”
“No, I’m pissed. I’ve had it with Talon and his passive-aggressive behavior—sabotaging my presentation, sending me dead flowers, and now a card. I mean, how stupid and childish, as if I’m not going to know it’s him after what he said today. But maybe that’s the point. He wants me to know so he can watch me, helpless to do anything about it without proof. It’s the ultimate revenge.”
I think over everything I just heard and home in on the first point of concern. “What does the card say?”
“YOU’RE GOING TO PAY BITCH! All caps, in red marker, like something out of a bad movie.”
I force aside my personal rage and alarm to keep my wits about me and suss out the facts. “What did he say today that makes you think it’s him?”
“Our firm is up for a prestigious design award. Athena credited everyone for the nomination, but she singled out my contributions. Talon approached me after, all surly and jealous, to warn that the eventual fall off my pedestal might break me.” She laughs in disgust. “I mean, really, I’m shaking, Talon.”
Her annoyed sarcasm disturbs me. She still doesn’t take the threat seriously. “Where was the card sent?”
“Here. My house. I just found it in the mailbox.”
“Lock up, and don’t open your door to anyone but me.”
Man, oh, man, the effect of Stiles is like finding a stream of water after four long days of walking through the desert. Yearning overwhelms me. I have to dig my fingernails into my palms, using the painful sensation to keep myself grounded, to keep from leaping into his arms.
Stiles, in full Robocop mode, appears to have no such struggle whatsoever. “Where’s the card?”
“On the bar.”
He strides past me to the kitchen island in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, smelling like heaven and looking so damn fine, I want to hit rewind and play it back in slow motion. Reaching the envelope, he studies it a moment before pulling out the card. As he reads it, his facial muscles tense with concentration, but there’s no discernible emotion. Had he learned how to block out any human feelings in the army, or had he developed that level of remoteness from his past withher?
Stiles pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear, recounting the situation to one of his staff, Max, presumably. “Same bogus PO Box number but a different courier. Maybe we’ll get lucky with a description or better-quality tape this time.”
He continues the conversation without sparing a glance my way, referring to me as Ms. Sinclair as if I’m no more than a client.
I leave him to it, feeling out of sorts over his presence and his feigned indifference to me—unless it’s not fake at all.
In the bathroom, I strip off my running shorts and sports tank, tossing them in the hamper. While waiting for the water to heat, I rub the sweat off my face with a make-up wipe. My only goal is to smoke out Talon and hand Athena his head on a spike. Stiles is the best person to help me get proof, and with his tenacity and obsession for safety, he won’t stop until he does. That’s the only reason I called him. “It is!” I hiss at my mocking reflection.
Taking extra time under the hot spray, I emerge twenty minutes later. In pajama boxers and a faded yellow T-shirt I’ve had since college, I go in search of wine. But I’m stopped mid-way by the sight of Stiles lounging on my couch.
He’s slouched low with his head resting against the back cushion. His thick legs are stretched out in front of him with his stocking feet up on the ottoman. My eyes rove over his torso and lower. I’m reminded that he dresses to the left, not that I’d forgotten that or how he feels in my hands…in my mouth…or inside of me.
On a swallow, I lift my gaze back to where his arm is slung across his eyes. Is he asleep? Apparently not, for when I tiptoe closer with the fantasy of ripping open his shirt with enough force to tear apart the cotton, he lowers his arm and stares up at me with an alertness that belies his relaxed posture.
