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’m carried quickly to the top of Logan Tower and exit into a minimal space, with white at every turn. I feel instantly cold. White marble floors, white walls—broken up only by a few abstract canvases that are equally as cold—and a huge white reception desk.
“Sir.” A high-pitched, delighted tone yanks my attention to a woman behind the desk. “How can I help you?”
“I have a three o’clock with Mr. Logan.” I scan the area, noting cameras at every corner. I’d put my life on the fact that he’s watching me now. My spine lengthens, my hands linking behind me as I return my eyes to the receptionist.
She straightens her shoulders and picks up the receiver. “Mr. Logan, I have a Mr.…” Her words fade to nothing as her slip registers. She looks mortified, and it only increases when I hear the booming demand of a man down the line. She visibly cringes, covering up the speaker piece of the receiver. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you my name.” I leave it there and watch as she dies on the spot.
“Your name?”
I flick a finger to the back of her computer. “Didn’t that thing tell you?”
“You’re not on the system.” She’s losing her patience, and I’m lost in my land of amusement once again, for, what? The second time today?
“Jake Sharp.” I put her out of her misery and she quickly removes her hand from the receiver, her body relaxing with relief.
“Mr. Sharp, sir. Jake Sharp.” She jumps in her chair, dropping the receiver. Logan’s reputation precedes him, it seems. I’d feel sorry for her…if I were the compassionate type. Which I’m not. She scrambles to retrieve the phone. “Yes, sir!” Slamming it down, she slumps in her chair and swallows, closing her eyes. “Last door on the left.” She points down the corridor.
I browse the few scattered canvases on my way, my nose turning up at the notorious businessman’s poor taste. They all look like a wish-wash of colors, splattered haphazardly. I’m sure my perception would be gasped at by art lovers, but I say what I see. And I see a mess.
As I raise my fist to knock on the solid mahogany door, I hear the curt demand, “Enter!” I pull my hand back and cast a look over my shoulder, seeing a camera mounted on the wall adjacent to his office door.
“Like Big fucking Brother,” I mutter, taking the handle and pushing my way in. I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed to find him flanked by two apelike men.
“Afternoon,” I say pleasantly, flicking a trained eye to the huge beasts eyeing me warily.
Logan motions to a chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, Sharp.”
Shutting the door softly, a calculated move to give his ape-men a false sense of security, I wander casually over, keeping my focus on Mr. Logan but capturing every detail of his office to memory.
Unfastening my suit jacket, I pull my trousers up a little at the knees and lower calmly into the chair. I don’t entertain the ape-boys with even a fleeting look. That would tell them I’m threatened by them. I’m not. All brawn and no brains. I bet neither could keep up a sprint for longer than five seconds.
“Pleasure,” I lie, relaxing back in my chair. The animosity that emanates from the two bruisers pierces my skin. They don’t like me. Good. I’m not here to be liked.
“Your reputation is impressive.” Logan picks up a file and flicks through, pretending to peruse what he expects me to believe is a pile of intel on me. I’m embarrassed on his behalf. There’s nothing in that file, but pointing it out to this idiot would be foolish. He’s paying me too well.
Play his game, Jake.
“I never fail.” There’s little point in being humble. My reputation really is impressive, and everyone worth their salt in security knows it. But that’s one of only a few limited details anyone knows about me. Everything else is classified.
He casts the useless file aside, standing from his chair. His photos do him no justice. He’s even uglier in the flesh. Camille Logan gets her looks from her mother, Logan’s second estranged wife, something I quickly discovered after a detailed search on her. Camille’s mother is a stunner, probably twenty years Logan’s junior. Wife number one, a modest ten years younger than him and mother to his son—Camille’s half-brother, TJ—was tossed aside for Camille’s mother. She fled the country for her native Russia after losing custody of TJ in a nasty court battle, leaving their son in the hands of his ruthless father.
I looked up TJ, too. Unlike Camille, he’s been unfortunate enough to inherit his father’s looks, rather than his beautiful Russian mother’s.
Now Trevor Logan, who is turning sixty later this month, is on wife number three, the woman he left Camille’s mother for. She’s even younger than Camille and TJ.