“Stalker much?” she mutters, but I hear her typing on her keyboard. “I went through the security footage and found who I think is the woman you were with because I knew you'd be a rabid dog with a bone.” She pauses, then asks, “Army, are you sure? You're breaking all our policies.”
“Riveria,” I growl.
She sighs deeply. “Based on her application form, she’s staying at the Empress Hotel.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“You’re a fucking dick.” She’s pissed at me, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Go home and get some sleep.”
I disconnect the call, then start my truck. I’m not far from the Empress Hotel, and my mind whirls a thousand miles a minute while I drive there.
Was that womanreallyLeeva?
How could it be? There was no tattoo on her neck; no mark of Guerilla. I had even wiped at it, and there was no make-up covering her neck. It was bare.
Maybe the woman is Leeva’s doppelgänger.
My mind and body instantly reject that thought. That woman tonightwasLeeva. That’s why I had the insane and potent attraction to her. Why the need for her clawed at my insides. And why being inside her was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
But how could that dirty siren have been my little dove?
My mind keeps going in circles as I reach the hotel and park across the street. I stare at the building, feeling like a stalker, plotting how I’m going to get closer to my obsession.
The hotel has an ivory-stone façade, with wrought-iron balconies and arched windows. The main entrance has oversized, mahogany doors that doormen in polished shoes and fancy suits open and close for the patrons. This is the most expensive hotel in the city.
And they take their security seriously, because the type of clientele that stays here—movie stars, rock stars, heads of state—demands it.
Getting into Leeva’s room will be a challenge, but there isn’t anything that will stop me from succeeding.
The ringing of my cell phone shatters the dark quiet in my truck. I flip it over, expecting it to be one of my friends again. And it is a friend, just not one of the Council, but Len.
She’s the ex-CIA agent I bonded with over the horrific and traumatizing events of me watching my Marine unit be slaughtered, and Len watching the love of her life meet a gruesome end. Neither of us works for our respectivegovernment agency anymore, but we’ve kept in touch, helping each other out periodically by exchanging favors.
As a CIA agent, Len quickly learned that the strongest currency is someone owing you something. Leverage is everything, and over the years, she cultivated assets. The criminal underworld works in a similar way.
But our relationship isn’t just transactional or a means to an end; there’s mutual respect and a genuine friendship between us.
However, we don’t call each other to shoot the shit, so there’s a reason why she’s calling. Len works with a team—like a covert, vigilante team—that had recently helped save Slade, so this could be her calling in that favor.
“Lenna,” I smirk, knowing she hates it when I call her that.
She grunts in annoyance. “Hayes Cartwright, why do you have to be such a pain in my ass all the time?”
“You called me, so I guess that means you’re a glutton for punishment.”
“And here I called you to be nice.”
“You don’t do nice.”
“I can.” She sounds insulted, then laughs. “You’re right, I’m a bitch.”
I stare at the Empress Hotel, watching a couple wearing long overcoats approach, and the doorman opens the large mahogany doors for them. “What’s going on?”
“I called with an early Christmas present.”
“I thought we weren’t doing gifts anymore after last year.”
