Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I snap my eyes open and catch a labored breath, wiping away a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Damn.” So much for being distracted. I curse Camille Logan for not allowing me to do my job as I reach to my back, pulling my gun out and laying it next to my thigh. Resting my head back again, I try to distract myself by sprinting through all of the information I have. Which isn’t very much.
There are a pile of wronged businessmen who have fallen into financial ruin after hostile takeovers by Logan. Any one of those could be looking for revenge. Quite simply, Trevor Logan has a lot of fucking enemies. I feel like I’m diving into a pot of possibilities with not a clue of where to dive deeper. Add to the situation that I have a gut feeling Logan is withholding information, and I’m in all kinds of a mind tangle. Then there’s the ex-boyfriend. Technically not a suspect but definitely a threat. Threat? Yes, a threat. He’s a threat to Camille’s health, possibly her life if he gets his hands on her again. Which makes him as equal a threat as the potential threat. So I’ll treat him as such. The message Logan showed me. That paper was too perfect. On that thought, I grab my phone and send Lucinda a quick message.
I don’t think Logan is giving us all the relevant information. The threat was printed on paper that looked like it had come fresh out of a ream. He said it arrived yesterday by courier. Check the CCTV at Logan Tower.
I click send, and as expected, I get a reply within seconds.
Interesting. I’m on it. On another note, I’ve been through Logan’s e-mails with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing suspicious. No one suspicious. Everything clean as a whistle. How’s it going?
I laugh at my phone.
Don’t ask. You women are difficult. While you’re at it, get me everything on the system for Sebastian Peters.
Her reply is speedy.
The ex? May I ask why?
My answer is simple and sweet.
No.
Dropping my phone, I resume my position, forearms resting on raised knees, my head dropped back as I start to chew things over. None of it sits particularly well. Speaking of which…
I shift again, scowling, but my silent annihilation of the uncomfortable floor is interrupted when I hear the click of a lock. I freeze.
And then I’m suddenly falling back, my stomach muscles engaging too late to hold me up. I’m on my back, staring up at the most amazing legs I’ve ever seen. They go on forever, starting with pretty pink tipped toes and perfectly narrow ankles that drift into slender calves. They’re just about the most perfect calves. And her thighs. I can feel my hands twitching by my sides, begging for a little stroke. Her pink lacy knickers are peeking out the bottom of her oversized white T-shirt. The slogan on the front makes my lips twitch.
I AM NOT TO BE IGNORED.
Has she worn that on purpose? No, Miss Logan, you most certainly are not. Especially now. What the hell is she trying to do to me?
Shit, I need to pull myself together before I get us both killed. Distraction. It’s still the best tactic to nail a target, and whoever wants to potentially nail Camille Logan is at a massive advantage right now. Because I’m stupidly distracted. Her blond hair is tumbling over her shoulder, splaying over a perfect breast beneath her T-shirt, and when I reach her face, I find she’s removed her makeup. My cock jolts behind my trousers. Jesus Christ, she’s a masterpiece. I feel compelled to tell her not to bother with the rigmarole of applying makeup anymore. She doesn’t need it.
Her upside-down face moves in, hovering over mine. She folds her arms, pressing the material of the T-shirt into her curves. My jolting cock is instantly solid.
“Why do you have a gun?” She flicks her chin to my Heckler, reminding me where it is. Her question also reminds me of why I’m here.
I shoot up, collecting my gun on my way, and tuck it into the back of my trousers. “To shoot you when you piss me off again.”
She scowls, her button nose wrinkling in disgust. Good. Hate me. It’ll make this situation a whole lot easier. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” she sniffs, turning on her bare heels and punishing me with a rear view of those bare legs. “You’d better come in.”
My eyebrows jump up in surprise. What’s changed? I don’t know, but I’m not about to argue. My arse is still tingling its way back to life. I pick up my bag and stroll slowly into…hell.
I gaze around, alarmed, though I keep it contained. For a woman so immaculately turned out, she’s a messy fucker. Shoes, handbags, clothes, makeup, every imaginable girlie thing scattered over chairs and on the sofa. And then there are the drawings, scraps of material, and piles of papers all over the place, too, including the floor. How does she live like this? Surely she has a cleaner? I’m unable to confirm exactly what look she’s gone for in her apartment, except a fucking mess, but judging by the clear walls, which are the only areas free from some kind of fashion crap, I’m guessing it’s minimal. Minimal? I inwardly snort. Camille Logan soon took care of that. I can feel myself twitch, my regimented military past racing to the surface. I kick my way through a sea of clothes and drop my bag on a table that’s cluttered with every color nail polish under the sun. I immediately spot the one she currently has on her toes. Soft pink. Subtle and girlie.