Her teammates would make sure to pass her text on to the Black Knights in Chicago, then they would pack their belongings for a fast retreat across the pond.
I did it! I really did it! Chelsea Duvall, master spy!She liked the sound of that.Now, to get the heck out of Dodge…
She was halfway across the room when Morrison called her name. Her spine snapped to attention one vertebra at a time. Slowly turning to him, she ignored the ice water running through her veins and donned a pleasant smile. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, sir.” She adjusted her glasses. “I just came in to check on you. That must have been one heck of a party last night, huh?”
“Come here, Chelsea.” He beckoned her with a flick of his bony fingers.
Despite every instinct telling her to run, she continued to play the part of the dutiful and long-suffering PA. Walking to the edge of the sofa, she gritted her teeth when Morrison’s hot, clammy hand curled around her bare calf.
Sheknewshe should have worn slacks today instead of the pencil skirt that ended just below her knees. “Can I get something for you, sir? Some aspirin? A glass of water, maybe?”
“A little fur from the cat that scratched me.” His voice sounded rusty, but he grinned up at her, waggling his eyebrows. She was convinced the hair on his head had migrated south. His brows were thick and bushy and seemed to march across his forehead like two gray caterpillars. “There’s a bottle of bourbon in my top drawer. Fetch it for me, would you, darling?”
She smiled down at him, despite her clenched jaw. When Christian saiddahlingin his English accent it was downright swoon-worthy. When Morrison said it? Yup. She had to fight the urge to retch.
“Of course,” she told him, happy for any excuse to escape his marauding hand. His fingers had slowly inched up her leg until they were behind her knee, caressing softly.
Gag a maggot.
Roper Morrison was the lowest, most vulgar man the good Lord ever strung a gut through, and as she hustled over to his desk, Chelsea thought she could still feel his hot, sweaty fingers on her skin. However, a quick glance at his laptop reminded her that all the indignities she’d suffered in his employ were worth it. She’d planted the virus, and Morrison…er…Spiderwas going down.Booyah!
On second thought, sheshouldhave added that to her text message. Who cared if it would have made Dagan point and say,See? What kind of trained field agent texts something like that?
Her.That’s who. The impulse to shoot a fist in the air and indulge in a hip shake was strong. Instead, she satisfied herself with grabbing the bourbon. Her eyes caught on the myriad cheap phones in the drawer.Burnerphones. If she didn’t already know that Morrison was a slimy, criminal piece of dog shit, that would have been enough to convince her. He probably had a different phone for every awful venture he was involved in.
Shutting the drawer, she walked back to the sofa and handed him the bottle. The old man reclined against the leather cushions like some sort of over-pampered sultan.
Which makes me what? One of his harem girls?She’d sooner swallow a bag full of rusty nails, thank you very much.
“You really should eat or drink something to restore your electrolytes, sir.” One thing she’d learned was that Morrison liked to be fussed over.
Fussing was an easy enough thing to fake. All she had to do was ask herself,WWMD?What would Mom do? Because her mother, bless her sweet soul, was the queen of doting and fussing.
Morrison waved her off, then twisted the cap on the bottle of booze.
“I’m going to run and fetch something for you anyway,” she lied.
Turning on her heel, she padded out of his office, stopping to toe into her shoes before making her way through the massive penthouse toward the front door. The opulence of the place still got to her. Vintage Limoges vases, gold-leaf detailing on picture frames, the Picasso painting hanging on the dining room wall… Just a few of those pieces sold on the black market would net her a sum bigger than the debts that had made her backstory so believable.
Her daddy would have said that Morrison was shittin’ in high cotton.Shesaid he had more money than any one man should. And oooh, the temptation to grab a few pieces of wealth on her way out was strong. But she was no thief. And besides, the twenty G’s Morrison had already paid her for her first month’s work would go a long way toward reducing her remaining student loans. Once those were paid off, she would useeveryextra cent she made to pay off the mortgages. And then…thenshe would finally be able to rest easy, knowing her parents’ house had been saved, knowing theirhomehad been saved.
She made a left at the half bath with its antique marble pedestal sink and passed the kitchen where Juanita was busy making Morrison’s breakfast. “Bye, Juanita!” she called cheerily. “I’m off to run some errands for Mr. Morrison!”
Juanita absently waved her hand, and Chelsea felt a little kick of excitement. She was almost home free. She’d done it! She’d really done it!
Scurrying across the foyer, she pulled her favorite trench coat from the hall tree. Her hand was on the knob of the front door when it turned inside her grip.
Steven Surry, Morrison’s head of security, burst in so quickly, she stumbled back, dropping her coat. He caught her arm before she could ass-plant, and the expression he wore was the facial equivalent of a thunderstorm. Every hair on her body lifted in warning of a potential lightning strike.
“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re off to, huh?” he demanded.
“I…” Chelsea’s throat was as dry as the fruitcake her father had always made for Christmas. She had to swallow to gather enough spit to try again. “I was going to run some errands, and—”
“What errands would those be?” he cut her off, cocking his head and eyeing her suspiciously.
“M-Mr. Morrison is nursing a hangover. I’m going to buy him some coconut water. It’s packed with electrolytes and—”
Surry held up a hand and she gulped.Audibly.When he heard the noise, his gaze narrowed further. Steven Surry had eyes as dark as the pits of hell and ebony hair that seemed to absorb all light. In another life, one where he wasn’t working for Morrison, Chelsea might have considered him handsome.
