I stand near the main warehouse with my sleeves rolled up, and the clipboard balanced in one hand. Dima and a half-dozen men move methodically through the shipment, checking seals, recording manifests, cross-referencing with the digital logs.
“What’s this?” I ask, glancing toward Dima, Paul’s replacement. He’s so much younger; in his early thirties, just a child to me, but one of the most competent men I’ve ever met. Paul chose his successor well.
He looks up from the clipboard. “Visitor, Boss. Lauren sent her for an interview.”
“Interview?” My brow lifts.
“Something about the position for your assistant?” Dima shrugs.
I didn’t approve any interviews today. And, as I’ve been telling Lauren for weeks, I don’tneedan assistant. Though maybe the dark bags under my eyes say otherwise. Business never sleeps.
The car parks awkwardly near the trucks, clearly in the wrong place. For a moment, no one moves. Then the door opens, and she steps out.
Tall. Curvy. A dark blue blouse tucked into a black skirt that doesn’t quite belong on this gravel road. The breeze blows through her hair revealing a deep auburn shade that flashes copper in the light. She straightens, squares her shoulders, and surveys the activity around her like she’s walked into a cage of wolves and refuses to flinch.
There’s something familiar about the way she moves. Something that hits in the chest before I can name it. I watch her for a long moment, longer than I should, before setting the clipboard down.
Dima catches me looking and murmurs gruffly, “She’s already been cleared. Name is Roxanne Adler.”
The name doesn’t help, but there is something strangely familiar about her, and I say, “bring her to the office.”
She’s escorted through the warehouse by one of the guards, though she doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she looks impatient.
When the door opens and she steps inside, the first thing that strikes me is her eyes; gray and steady. Her posture is careful and proud, but there’s a spark under it. She crosses her armsover her chest. At least a part of her knows that she’s stepped into dangerous territory.
“Mr. Medvedev.” Her voice is smooth, but there’s grit underneath. “Thank you for seeing me.”
I take a moment to let my eyes drag from her head to her feet, letting her know that I’ll answer in my own time. What I don’t expect is the distraction that looking at her causes, the little things I get caught on; the way her skirt clings to her luscious thighs. The way her brows knit together, untrusting, yet unafraid.
“You came through the working side of the property,” I note. “Most people don’t make that mistake twice.”
“Then I’ll count myself lucky for surviving the first time. Your business does what, exactly?”
There’s that edge again. Light sarcasm, but deliberate. She’s testing how far she can push.
“Have a seat,” I tell her.
She sits. I don’t.
From my desk, I pull the folder the gate security sent up. Her application, credentials, and background check. Notes Lauren made during what I’m assuming was a phone interview, since her place of residence is listed as Boston. Quite a drive from here. It’s all clean. Too clean. No criminal history, no known affiliates, no debts. What was Lauren thinking?
Roxanne Adler, thirty-two. A BS in Energy Resource Management and Development, a four-year past with the DEEP. No money there, I’m sure. Single.
One more line catches my attention:Dependent: Andi Adler, age 5.
Andi. A son, and no sign of a father in the paperwork. It lodges somewhere in my mind before I move on.
I flip the file shut. “You understand Ursa Arcane isn’t exactly an ordinary company, Miss Adler.”
Her eyes narrow. “Of course.”
“What do you think we do here?”
She hesitates just long enough for me to see the flicker of calculation. “You specialize in luxury adventure and tourism. Heli-skiing, high-end hunting expeditions.”
Her eyes sweep quickly to the warehouse window and away.
“And?”
