"Twelve years of combat operations including high-value target extraction, personnel recovery, and executive protection in active war zones." I keep my voice easy. Conversational. Like I'm not reciting a resume to a woman who could buy this entire mountain. "I've also completed advanced courses in threat assessment, close-quarters protection, and evasive driving. My medical training means I can keep you alive if you're injured, and my rescue background means I can get you out of any terrain on earth if the situation requires it."
Her expression doesn't change. Not one muscle.
"Impressive credentials," she says, and the word 'impressive' has never sounded less impressed. "I specifically requested someone with more seasoning."
"You requested someone older," I correct gently. "Those aren't the same thing."
Something flickers behind those eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation that I read the actual email instead of the diplomatic version.
"Ms. Morrison." I take a half step closer. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the distance between polite and personal. Close enough that I can see the faint freckle beneath her left ear and the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that she probably hates and I find unreasonably attractive. "I understand you're used to getting exactly what you want. That's fine. But right now, what you want and what you need are two different things. What you need is the best operator available, and that's me. I'm going to protect you whether you like me or not."
Her chin lifts. The afternoon sun catches her jaw, the line of her throat, the subtle pulse point just below her ear. I track it without meaning to. Her pupils dilate by a fraction, and I know she noticed me looking.
The silence between us lasts three full seconds. Long enough to mean something.
"Fine," she says. Clipped. Final. "Show me to my cabin, Mr. Donovan. And do try to keep up."
She walks past me without waiting for a response, heels clicking on the gravel path like she knows exactly where she's going even though she's never set foot on this property before.
I watch her walk away. The tailored navy suit. The squared shoulders. The absolute refusal to look back and check if I'm following.
Challenge accepted, sweetheart.
2
LEX
Ihave seventeen minutes before my next conference call, a corporate espionage case threatening to dismantle a decade of work, and a bodyguard who looks like he should be on the cover of an outdoor magazine instead of running a security detail.
This is not what I asked for.
I walk the gravel path toward whatever cabin they've assigned me, and I don't look back. Looking back would imply I care whether Hayes Donovan is keeping pace, and I absolutely do not care. The crunch of his boots behind me is steady, unhurried, like a man who's in no rush because he already knows exactly where we're going.
Which, of course, he does. This is his property. His territory. And the fact that he let me walk ahead like I'm leading when we both know I have no idea where cabin four is located tells me something about Hayes Donovan that his boyish face and easy smile tried very hard to hide.
He's smart.
I hate that.
"Left at the fork," he says from behind me. His voice carries without raising. Calm, clear, a voice trained to be heard over chaos. "The path on the right leads to the training facilities. You won't need those."
I turn left without acknowledging the instruction. The path narrows through a stand of ponderosa pines, and the air changes. Cooler. Sharper. The Nevada mountain air is nothing like the recycled climate control of my San Francisco penthouse, and my lungs are pulling at it greedily, which irritates me because I don't want to enjoy anything about this arrangement.
Two weeks. Warren insisted. Two weeks at this off-grid security compound while his team and the FBI work the internal investigation. Two weeks away from my office, my boardroom, my operating rhythm. Two weeks under the protection of men who live in the mountains like it's the 1800s because apparently that qualifies them to handle a sophisticated corporate threat.
The cabin comes into view through the trees, and I slow.
It's not what I expected. Cedar and stone, single story, with a covered porch and a green metal roof that blends into the tree line. It looks like it belongs here, like the mountain grew it. Clean lines, solid construction, windows positioned for light but not for visibility from the trail. Someone built this with purpose.
Hayes moves ahead of me to the door. He produces a keycard from his pocket and holds it to a panel I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't looking. The lock disengages with a quiet click.
"Sully, our tech specialist, wired the cabin two days ago," he says, pushing the door open and stepping inside first. His body fills the doorframe for a moment, shoulders rolling as he scans the interior before stepping aside to let me in. A room-clearing habit. Automatic. "Biometric lock is set to your fingerprint, my fingerprint, and Deck's. Keycard backup. The windows are reinforced, the walls are insulated beyond standard, and there'sa panic button on the nightstand and another under the kitchen counter."
I step inside. The cabin is warm, wood-floored, simply furnished. A queen bed with a thick down comforter and more pillows than a mountain cabin has any right to. A stone fireplace. A small but functional kitchen. A bathroom through a door to the left. My suitcases are already positioned beside the bed. Someone brought them in while we were walking.
It's comfortable. Annoyingly so.
I set my bag on the kitchen counter and pull out my laptop. "The Wi-Fi situation?"
