Prologue
South Riverside Plaza, Chicago, Illinois
Britt Rollins was a stalker.
That’s right—astalker.
He hadn’t set out to be anything of the sort. It had started by happenstance.
You see, a month earlier, he’d made a trip to the Beverly neighborhood in the farthest reaches of South Chicago to buy King Curve Rhino handlebars from a mustachioed dude selling them cheap on Facebook Marketplace.
As was his tendency, Britt had arrived at the rendezvous point early. And since he’d needed something strong and black and packed with caffeine to take the edge off the sharp hangover he’d been sporting thanks to an engagement celebration from the night before—the celebration was for some friends, not for him—he’d stepped into the coffee shop on the corner.
And there she’d been.
The ineffable Julia O’Toole. All five towering feet of her.
Give or take an inch or two.
He’d known she had a bangin’ little bod under her standard-issue pantsuits and crisp, button-down shirts. But he’d been unprepared for…perfection.
As The Commodores sang…Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six. What a winnin’ hand!
Her cutoff jean shorts had passionately hugged her round butt and emphasized her muscular legs. Her ribbed, blue tank top had molded to her breasts and followed the lovely dip of her waist. And her casual plastic flip-flops had highlighted the arches of her dainty feet and the charm of her unpainted toenails.
He’d only ever seen her with her hair pulled back into a ponytail or twisted up into a tight bun. But that day she’d left it loose to hang down her back in a silky sheet.
“Old money blonde.”
That’s how Eliza, the Black Knights’ den mother, on-site chef, and all-around Girl Friday, had described Julia’s hair…that warm, honeyed color somewhere between light brown and dark blond. Considering Elizacamefrom old money, who was Britt to argue with her assessment?
Anywho…let’s return to the moment I took on the title of Creepy McCreeperson.
Julia had popped the top on her cup of coffee the instant the barista handed it to her. He’d thought she might stroll over to the condiments station to fill her drink with cream and sugar, and he’d been eager to watch the sway of her hips in those Daisy Dukes. But to his disappointment, she’d simply shuffled to the side to allow the next person in line to order before pursing her lips and blowing across the surface of the steaming black liquid like she couldn’t wait to get the contents inside her mouth.
Seeing her lips in that perfect moue had done things to him.
If he’d been one of those cartoon dogs, his eyes would have bulged from his head, and his tongue would have unfurled from his mouth to hit the floor. But since he was just a man, he’d stood there stunned. Jaw agape. Heart pounding. Dick…well…doing decidedly dickish things.
When she had turned in his direction, he could have lifted a hand and said,“Fancy meeting you here, Agent O’Toole.”He could have bobbed his chin and offered her a knowing smile. Hell, he could have shot her a one-finger salute followed by a friendly wink.
All of those things would’ve been normal. Natural.Notstalker-y.
Instead, he’d gone with door number four.
Stepping quickly behind the wide concrete support beam in the center of the room, he’d held his breath as she breezed by him on her way to the front door. He’d felt the air shift as she passed. And his nostrils had flared unwillingly when her perfume's sweet, warm scent wafted over to him.
Thinking back now, he told himself he’d avoided letting her see him because he was a man of secrets—loads of them. And since she was a woman paid by Uncle Sam to uncover secrets, avoiding a run-in with her was instinctual.
Fourteen years of conducting covert operations worldwide had taught him many things. The most important was to trust his gut.
If things had ended there, everything would have been fine.Hewould have been fine and not have become…well…what he’d become.
Things had not ended there.
Before he’d known what they were doing, his biker boots had followed her out the door. Before he could stop them, his eyes had searched the sidewalk and spotted her hopping into her cherry-red Jeep Wrangler. Before he’d thought to convince them otherwise, his legs had carried him to his tricked-out, custom-made Harley chopper.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
