And Jayden stood up, swallowed, and said, “I can explain.”
Oh no. Jayden had been prepared for a lot of things when she sat down in that corner booth. A military contractor. A government liaison.
For sure, someone she’d never met.
What she hadn’t prepared for—what she could never have prepared for—was Dakota Rivers walking through the door.
And he looked ragged, angry, and . . . betrayed.
The Grounds of the City was exactly the kind of place Black Swans loved for meetings—industrial-chic, crowded, loud enough that no one could overhear a conversation. Exposed-brick walls climbed toward a timber-planked ceiling. Copper pendant lamps hung over wooden tables packed with Sydney’s brunch crowd. Dried flowers and trailing plants cascaded from metal shelving units, and the espresso machines hissed steam beneath hand-lettered menu boards advertising the flavor of the day.
Jayden had positioned herself in a corner booth with sight lines to both entrances. Her untouched flat white had sat cooling in front of her while she watched the door.
And then Dakota had walked in.
The noise of the café—conversation, laughter, the clatter of cups—faded to static.
Their eyes locked.
And in that split second, the world stopped.
He was her contact? The security consultant she’d spent a week falling for? Lying to?
No, no . . .
And yes, okay, she’d hated leaving him at the Opera House, her stupid words too light, too easy. But it was fun!
She just wanted to cringe.
Of all the coffee shops in all of Sydney . . .
He walked toward her booth and she stood up.
She’d never seen such a dark look—okay, maybe after her scuba gear had been sabotaged. Or after Howard was injured. But . . .
She swallowed. “I can explain.”
“No need.” He slid into the booth across from her. The table between them felt like a battlefield.
She sank into her side of the booth. Oh, it wasn’t supposed to end this way!
“So.” His voice was low, controlled. The voice of a man keeping his anger on a very short leash. “Black Swan.”
“Jones, Inc.”
“What do they call you?”
She drew a breath. “Lynx.”
He nodded. “I should have seen it.” He shook his head, a bitter edge to the movement. “I’m an idiot. The way you noticed everything.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I told myself you were just observant. Just a hotel inspector who paid attention.”
“Dakota—”
“Was any of it true?” His eyes met hers, and she saw the hurt beneath the anger. “Or were you just trying to figure out if I was going to kill you?”
The question hit her like a blow. She opened her mouth to defend herself, to explain, and hated—hated—that her voice came out sounding hurt.
“Don’t be dramatic. No—” She stopped. Forced herself to be honest. “But yes. And no.” She exhaled. “It got complicated.”
