Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, pulling my hands off his lapels and straightening his jacket. He placed a hand on my lower back and steered me toward the elevators, taking my ratty backpack out of my hands and throwing the strap over his shoulder.
Within moments, we were in a large suite with walls of glass probably overlooking something impressive. I didn’t care. All I wanted to overlook was Locke Maris, preferably naked.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he demanded as soon as we were alone behind a closed door.
“Nothing, I just…” I blew out a breath, feeling more vulnerable than I cared to admit, even to myself. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
He studied me while setting my bag down, pulling off his jacket, and laying it neatly on the back of a chair. “You look awful. Where have you been?”
I let out a weak laugh. “Thanks. Way to romance a guy.”
“Is that what I’m trying to do?” He crossed his arms. “Funny. I wasn’t aware.”
“I want to be fucked,” I said, needing to keep this from turning into a conversation about me and what I’d been through the past almost year. I avoided sounding whiny, but only just.
His nostrils flared. “Not happening. Tell me why you’re in Amsterdam.”
Was I still Jethro Davis, go-go boy from the Candy Bar? Or was I allowed to be Jett?
I knew better than to tell him my last name was Marian. When you meet someone on an op, your connection to them will always be traceable to the op. Which meant I could never be Jett Marian to him, junior consultant for a “global solutions” company.
So I chose to do what my training demanded and stay under the cover he knew.
“You remember the guy I was with at the restaurant in New York?”
His forehead crinkled. “Your date? I never saw him.”
“Probably for the best. Anyway, he hired me to go on a business trip with him, only his wife found out about it. He gave me some cash but then took off.” I shrugged. “I’ve been traveling around a little, hoping to see some things, but I found a killer deal on a flight home I can’t pass up, so I’m heading back tomorrow.”
He uncrossed his arms and stepped toward me, tugging up the hem of the plain black T-shirt I wore.
“You’re skin and bones,” he said, nostrils flaring. “Haven’t you been eating?”
I yanked my shirt back down, suddenly embarrassed. “That’s none of your fucking business. And if you don’t like what you see, I can take it out of your sight.”
As I turned to leave, I tilted my head up to keep the stupid tears in my eyes from spilling out.
I hadn’t been eating. Or sleeping. At the end of the op, I’d been alone and scared as fuck, expecting Mira Stein to discover I was with ESP and rat me out to Malte and Timo, who would have beaten me to death and tossed me in the fucking river without giving it a second thought.
“Sit the fuck down,” he said, moving to the telephone and picking it up.
I was too tired to argue. I felt like I could sleep standing up. Being in Locke’s presence felt like the safest I’d been in ten months.
“Fine,” I muttered, dropping onto the sofa, kicking off my shoes, and stretching out. I closed my eyes for a minute, listening to the deep, rhythmic sound of him telling someone to do something. I wasn’t quite sure what and honestly didn’t care.
Sometime later, I awoke to the light clatter of dishes being set down. I was curled on the sofa with a hotel duvet on top of me, warm and comfortable in the air-conditioned room.
“Come eat,” Locke said.
“I already ate,” I croaked, voice rough from sleep and exhaustion.
“Don’t care. Come eat more.”
I sat up and tried to get my bearings.
Amsterdam.
The mission was over, and I was headed home.
“Yeah, okay. Gonna find a bathroom first.” I made my way to the first open door I found and moved into the bedroom in search of a toilet. Locke’s suitcase was open on a luggage stand, and his Dopp kit was on the bathroom counter.
After emptying my bladder and washing my hands, I snooped through his toiletries, going so far as to take a picture so I could snoop in more detail later.
It wasn’t creepy; it was good intelligence work.
When I made my way back to the main room, Locke was sitting at the small dining table, scrolling his phone. “Eat,” he said without looking up.
I moved to the table, suddenly interested in whatever smelled so good. It was French onion soup, a fresh Caesar salad, and a basket full of various rolls. Nothing too heavy for this late at night, which I appreciated.
“You’re not eating?” I asked as I dipped the spoon under the cheese layer of the soup bowl.