I lean against a counter, watching the screens as Quinn murmurs to herself.After she finishes her sweep, I’ll ask her about anomalies—any feed not looping back to this room could point to our mole.
“Do you ever have outside contractors?”I ask.“HVAC, pest control, maintenance?”
“Occasionally,” Adrien says.
“Can we see service records?”
“Of course.But we don’t let technicians in unescorted.”
“That’s the rule,” I say.“Rules bend.”
He glances at me—something close to approval flickers in his expression.“You’re more thorough than my own security experts.”
“It’s the situation,” I reply, though the warmth in his tone lingers longer than it should.
“Would you care to come to my office?”
“Your office is here?”
“Across the street,” he says, a faint smirk curving his mouth.The expression jolts a memory—how he’d looked at me the night we met after a drink and a dare.I keep my face neutral.
“Do you have floor plans?”Quinn asks, still bent under the console.“Electrical schematics?”
“Yes.When I bought the business, I received all physical plans—no electronic copies.They’re in my office.”He turns to me.“Come with me?”
“You go ahead,” Noah says, eyes on the ceiling.“I’ll start mapping hidden camera angles.”
If Noah were looking at me, I’d shoot him a glare.He still assumes Adrien’s presence rattles me because of my CIA cover, an assumption I haven’t corrected.
Adrien gestures toward the hall.“Shall we?”
The deep breath I take shouldn’t be necessary.I’ve been alone with arms dealers, double agents, and men far more dangerous than a club owner.But he’s not just a businessman.Adrien d’Avricourt is the only one who’s ever made me question the choices that built my life.
ChapterSeven
Adrien
“No photographs.”
She says it like an accusation, eyes scanning my office as if she’s judging the man through his décor.
“But the room does look like you.”
“You mean dark and moody?My sister calls this my ‘brooding billionaire lair.’”
“I didn’t choose those words,” but I take the twitch of her lips to mean she’s humored by my comment.“Is that an original Clyfford Still?”
She knows her art.Of course she does.
“I have a few of his pieces.”Only one is displayed prominently in the office, a darker abstract that flavored the mood and prevented the deep green walls from slipping into smoking-jacket cliché.“Most people see chaos.What do you see?”
“It’s never about what I see—it’s about what I feel.”Her answer shows she’s studied art.
“And what do you feel?”I ask, though what I really want to know is who she is.How much of that weekend was truth and how much was cover?
“Craven need.”Her lips purse, her eyelids lower.“Vulnerability.”For an instant, honesty flickers—then defense.Shoulders squared, chin lifted.“Did I pass?”
“There’s no test.I only want to get to know you.”More than I should.“Do you have an office?”As I ask the question, I attempt to envision her space.
