She slowly walks back to her desk, picking up the phone, presumably to call Angelo. I need to get out of this office and away from her if I want to think clearly.
I go back to grab my coat, keys, and phones, and I send a text to my driver.
“I’m gone for the day.” I strut past her desk.
She doesn’t respond, and I force myself not to look her way.
The gymin my penthouse has a stereo system that rivals the speakers at a concert. The downstairs neighbors used to complain, so I bought the apartments underneath me. Now, I can blast my music and work out in peace.
I’m shirtless, my fists taped up, as I pound on the worn bag of sand. The ritual calms my nerves.
Kate was the first woman I ever took home from a bar. I’d been approached before, but I’d never given in to the temptation. I’m paranoid as hell about getting targeted by a disgruntled diplomat whose son or business partner I might have killed when I was working for the US government. Female mercenaries can be just as deadly—if not more so—than males.
It’s just my luck that I decided to forget myself for a night with a woman I thought was an innocent civilian.
She approached you, idiot. You have no one to blame but yourself. How could I have been so fucking stupid and gullible?
It’s those damn blue eyes and her doe-like expression. She has that fun and innocent personality with an alluring body to go with it. She looks and acts like the kind of girl I would have dated before I was a SEAL, before I knew so much pain and lived in constant survival mode.
My life as a CEO billionaire for my late father’s corporation is nothing compared to the stress of living to kill or be killed. I’ve dealt with some seriously evil pricks. I’ve seen and done things that I pray to forget every day.
But I never can.
My fists and shoulders are aching from my assault on the heavy bag, and I finally cease the workout to go get some water from the kitchen.
I walk barefoot into the oversize space, where my chef should be arriving in the next half hour to prepare my dinner.
I grab a glass to fill it up as I hear the elevator ping.
Eloise must be early.
The only person that comes to my apartment regularly is my chef. I turn the glass up to take a long drink of water.
A crash makes me jolt, and I lunge for the kitchen drawer holding my 9 millimeter.
I have the handgun trained toward the entrance as I cautiously approach the corner, peering around to search for the source of the noise.
My personal assistant is bending over to pick up the shards of pottery from a priceless Egyptian artifact shattered on the floor. I won it in a bidding war for over ten million US dollars the last time I was in Egypt.
“Oh shit, shit. I cannot believe how freaking clumsy I am,” she murmurs, clearly distressed.
I let out a sigh of relief, the adrenaline spike in my veins beginning to crash back down.
She screams as her head jerks up, her finger slicing open and forming a line of red that begins to drip on the white marble floor.
“Mr. Bradshaw! You—” She cuts off abruptly as her eyes widen at me. She stares at my chest, mouth open.
A few beats pass before I realize I’m still holding a handgun, aimed straight at her head. I lower it to point at the ground.
“Miss Dawson, the crash startled me.”
I tuck the steel into the back of my shorts waistband as I slowly walk up to her. I notice the discarded clear bags of my dry cleaning on the floor.
She’s gaping at me as I walk up to help her with the cut on her finger. She starts to stand, taking a small step back from me.
“I—”
“You—” I begin at the same time she tries to speak.
