All the Josies are right here in front of me.
So close I could reach out and touch her.
I load the pictures onto my three massive computer screens and let myself be surrounded from every angle. I try to stay objective—I am evaluating a SynthoTech product, not gazing at a lass I can’t deny I have very strong feelings for.
But it’s bullshit, isn’t it?
I like Josie. More than I should. I want to protect her. I want to spend more time with her. Every time I touch myself, she’s right there. Right at the center of my mind.
But that’s as far as I can or will go. She’s my employee. Not only would I be setting myself up for a lawsuit, but I only do casual, and Josie doesn’t seem the type for casual.
A sharp knock on the door makes me damn near jump. Perched high above the street, my loft—once an old grain warehouse—nowoffers sweeping views of the city skyline. It’s sleek. Modern. Divided into sections: bedroom, office, kitchen, dining room, library.
The library’s where I’ve got my massive custom fireplace, my only nod to Scotland. Even with that small concession, the loft’s a far cry from some ancient castle; it’s more like a big contemporary studio.
Which is just the way I like it.
“Axe! It’s me!” Strike lets himself in, and I immediately regret giving him a key, which was meant for emergencies only.
As in, if I got arrested. Not for random pop-ins.
I scramble to close all the Josies on my screens, but I’m not fast enough. He comes up behind me, takes one look, and bursts out laughing. “Dude, and I thoughtIhad it bad.”
“I’m working. This is for work. They’re the first mock-ups from Theo.”
“Sure,” he says. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“Also, next time, use the fucking doorbell. Why are you here?” I ask. Strike walks over to the bar set up in the corner and pours himself a drink.
“Want one?” he asks, and I shake my head. And then I change my mind.
“Throw me a beer,” I say. Strike’s the one person I trust to get into my Scotch or raid the mini-fridge. Aside from the staff—who I keep as scarce as possible—he’s the only one who’s ever set foot in here.
Strike sinks into the cracked brown leather couch, pops his feet up on the coffee table, and tosses me a bottle of Imperial Stag lager.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say, and lift an eyebrow.
“So I walk in, and you’re staring at three different pictures of Josie. One of which was zoomed in.”
“Nope. Not happening. We are not discussing this,” I say, because we are not. “It is literally my job to look at pictures of Josie.”
“Can I see your notepad? Did you write her name and draw little hearts around it? Did you writeMrs. Josie MacKenzieover and over again?”
“Fuck off and give me my fucking key and get the fuck out of my house and stop drinking my best fucking scotch.”
“It is delicious.”
“I’m going to ask you one more time: Why are you here? Book club isn’t till next week.”
“Couldn’t wait to discussThe Adventures of Captain Underpants.”
“Motherfucker, get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. I looked through those von Graf files you gave me.” Last week, I cracked into Primogen Capital’s indoor server and pulled ledgers that were hidden behind one hell of an impressive firewall in the Botox Baron’s system. Handed them straight over to Strike—he’s better with the money trail, while I handle the tech. We’re both deadly-as-hell assassins, and a damn good team when he’s not too busy taking the piss.
“And…” I get to my feet. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Confirmation that von Graffenplastique is, in fact, a sex trafficker. That I can finally take him down. My fingers are itchy to grab a knife right now.
