“When it comes to women, I’ve found it’s best to lead with confidence, follow with comedy, and close with red-hot sex. I could give you some pointers.”
“I’m sorry.” Christian kept one hand on the wheel but used the other to cup his ear. “What language are you going on in? It sounds quite a lot like bullshit, but since I don’t speak it, I can’t be certain.”
“I’ll release the Kraken and prove it.” Ozzie pretended to reach for his fly. “Prepare yourself to behold the majesty of the ol’ Ozzie meatsicle. But fair warning, it’s been known to make folks faint.”
“From despair?”
“Nah. From its overwhelming size and majesty.”
Christian lost it. As he exited the highway and laid on the gas to close the distance to Samantha’s Mustang, he couldn’t stop laughing. Having a war of wits with Ozzie was always fun, despite Christian usually losing the final battle. But since Ozzie’s jocularity had dimmed of late, seeming pressured and somehow less, this bout felt particularly good. It was as though, after the bombing in Malaysia, all the Ozzie had been scooped out of him, leaving behind a dry husk.
“You keep your iPad back here, don’t you?” Ozzie reached into the backseat, foraging around inside Christian’s rucksack.
“Yeah, so?”
“Do you pay for Internet service for it?”
“I…” Christian frowned. “No. I connect to Wi-Fi and… What are you on about?”
“I’m going to use your iPad to hack into the police databases to bring up the CCTV and POD footage as we go. That way, if we lose Samantha, we can still track her through the city’s cameras. But since you don’t pay for Internet service, I’ll have to use my iPhone as a hot spot.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Christian had stopped being amazed at Ozzie’s ability to make magic with all things electronic and geeky years ago. The bloke was a mad genius. He could hack anything, program everything, and always make it look easier than tea cakes and scones on a Sunday.
“I think she’s turning.” Ozzie’s head whipped around just as he settled the iPad in his lap. “And the Basilisk just peeled off in the opposite direction. Why did he—”
But that’s all Ozzie managed when they saw Samantha’s destination. It was a police station, lit up like a Roman candle against the dark, rainy night.
“This should be interesting,” Christian muttered as he pulled into the station’s car park and chose a space three over from the one Samantha slammed into with a squeal of brakes that sent twin fans of water kicking away from her tires.
“While I figure out what the hell is going on, you call back to the shop, or ring back to the shop, as you like to say, and let them know we’re okay.” Ozzie’s hand was already on the Porsche’s door handle, despite Christian having yet to put the vehicle in park. “I’m sure Delilah called them as soon as we left the bar. No doubt they’re worried.”
Christian scowled as he switched off the engine. Ever since the BKI women had descended on the shop, he’d been made to feel like a teenager instead of the trained agent he was. “You realize those three sentences made my willy invert,” he grumbled.
“Oh, poor you.” Ozzie feigned a pout. “It’s so hard having a handful of beautiful women care about you, isn’t it?” He opened the door and jumped out, tossing Christian’s iPad into the passenger seat. The sound of the rain crashing onto the car park’s pavement was relentless before the door closed with a perfunctory thunk.
And the most beautiful of them all is…her, Christian thought grumpily.
Her was Emily Scott, Black Knights Inc.’s new secretary, den mother, and all-around girl Friday. She was a former CIA office manager, a born-and-bred Chicagoan—which meant a tough, take-no-prisoners kind of bird—and though she had only worked for BKI a little over a month, she already ran the place like she owned it. With long, brown hair that always looked a bit messy, as if she had just returned from the beach, and a beauty mark high up on her cheek, physically, she was just his type.
But for reasons unknown to him, she had decided to make him her personal punching bag. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing if he could punch back. But one look from her twinkling brown eyes, one word uttered from her pursed, disapproving lips, and he found himself tongue-tied. Speechless. Mute as a turnip.
Smitten.
Such a benevolent-sounding word. Rhymed with kitten and mitten, which were both fairly pleasant things. But now that he found himself suffering the affliction, Christian could say with authority that being smitten was anything but nice.
It made him forget which way was up and which way was down. Caused him to break out in hot sweats at night and slink around the shop like a shadow during the day, hoping to snatch a glimpse of her unobserved. Because when she did observe him, she gave him loads of tosh with that sharp tongue of hers.
And what really cheesed him off was he…liked it.
Which proves you’re a sick shite.
With a groan, he pulled his mobile from his hip pocket and thumbed through his contacts until he found the one titled Shop. Holding the phone to his ear, he was dismayed to discover his heart thundering right along with the clouds overhead. Then, sure enough, Emily answered. And what were the first words out of her mouth? They weren’t How are you two getting on with the reporter? Or even Is everything okay? Oh no.
“Hey, Fancy Pants.” Her accent was pure Chicago. Her A sounded long and somewhat drawn out. But her voice? Oh, it reminded him of actresses in old movies. Low and smoky and full of sexual innuendo. “Are you pissing in your Post Toasties about your pretty car getting all wet? And speaking of… How are those six-hundred-dollar shoes faring in this weather?”
Chapter 4
