always came from feeding off athletes. Regardless of denials, they almost all used muscle enhancers, and that almost always caused her fits of laughter brought on by effervescent bubbling through her veins, which would then lead to hours of annoyance and aggravation.
She was laughing before she reached the elevator, in tear-causing chortles by the time she reached her limo, clutching her belly to halt the idiocy of them as Vaughn turned on the engine. The evening was a disaster. Not for having the assignment stolen. Not for the ruination of a very expensive and elegant ensemble. Not for making her look like a drowned alley cat at a dog fight. No. The assassin had cursed her to a night of giggles that had even her chauffeur raising his brows.
And for the last, the bastard was paying.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hold my calls, Miss Barclay.”
“Yes, Doctor Findlay.”
Stuart turned off the intercom, looked across the solid ecru-shaded carpeting to the richly-grained mahogany door separating his office from the hall leading to other suites of offices, the foyer, and Miss Barclay’s receptionist desk. It was all so empty. Dead. Hollow.
He sighed. Heavily. Then he opened the bottom right hand drawer on the late Baroque-style desk, pulled out a bottle of excellent Scotch and an etched crystal tumbler. All of it remnants of his station in life. None of it satisfactory.
Nor was the Chicago skyline outside his office, a view extending out onto Lake Michigan on most days. Today wasn’t one of those days. Nothing save darkness and his reflection met his gaze. It pretty much matched his mood. Two days and a night had passed. That Hussein fellow was dead and still no word from the man about final payment. That was no way to run a business. Stuart would be lucky if he wasn’t blackmailed. He lifted his glass in silent homage to his image before downing the contents. He took a deep breath, felt the warmth spread from where it hit his belly, and waited for a hint of oblivion. It wasn’t working. If anyone had told him that draining his estuary account to pay for an assassination wouldn’t change the hollow feeling he lived with anymore, he wouldn’t have believed it.
A throat cleared behind him and Stuart twirled his black leather chair back to the desk.
“Hello Doctor.”
He was dreaming, and he wasn’t even asleep. The most stunning woman he’d ever seen faced him, sitting in one of his upholstered chairs. She was dressed in a black silk suit of impeccable taste, with one leg crossed atop the other, showing not only perfectly toned calves and thighs, but a penchant for high heels. She was regarding him with unblinking dark eyes. Stuart narrowed his own. Her eyes weren’t just dark. They looked to be charcoal-hued, a near match to her hair. She was exquisite. And if that dating site had sent him a woman one-tenth the version of this one, he wouldn’t still be searching for Mrs. Findlay when he had time.
“I often wondered what men do when they refuse to take calls,” she informed him.
“How did you get in here?”
“Door.” She accompanied the word with a nod in that direction, as if he needed clarification.
“The door is locked.”
She moved her hands apart and twirled a long nail-file thing at him, catching the light with the motion. Stuart would’ve refilled his tumbler, but his hand might shake. That was unacceptable, given the circumstances.
“You picked it.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway.
“All right. I’ll bite.
Why
would you pick my lock?”
He didn’t know what brought the slight smile to her lips, he just enjoyed the reaction of his heart as it kicked into a faster beat.
“To meet you.”
Of course she had. All the advice was wrong. The future Mrs. Findlay hadn’t needed flowers and verse and walks on moonlit beaches. No. All he had to do was lock his door and get drunk.
Speaking of…
Stuart looked over at his multi-faceted glass. This was some kick-ass Scotch. He’d have
She was laughing before she reached the elevator, in tear-causing chortles by the time she reached her limo, clutching her belly to halt the idiocy of them as Vaughn turned on the engine. The evening was a disaster. Not for having the assignment stolen. Not for the ruination of a very expensive and elegant ensemble. Not for making her look like a drowned alley cat at a dog fight. No. The assassin had cursed her to a night of giggles that had even her chauffeur raising his brows.
And for the last, the bastard was paying.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hold my calls, Miss Barclay.”
“Yes, Doctor Findlay.”
Stuart turned off the intercom, looked across the solid ecru-shaded carpeting to the richly-grained mahogany door separating his office from the hall leading to other suites of offices, the foyer, and Miss Barclay’s receptionist desk. It was all so empty. Dead. Hollow.
He sighed. Heavily. Then he opened the bottom right hand drawer on the late Baroque-style desk, pulled out a bottle of excellent Scotch and an etched crystal tumbler. All of it remnants of his station in life. None of it satisfactory.
Nor was the Chicago skyline outside his office, a view extending out onto Lake Michigan on most days. Today wasn’t one of those days. Nothing save darkness and his reflection met his gaze. It pretty much matched his mood. Two days and a night had passed. That Hussein fellow was dead and still no word from the man about final payment. That was no way to run a business. Stuart would be lucky if he wasn’t blackmailed. He lifted his glass in silent homage to his image before downing the contents. He took a deep breath, felt the warmth spread from where it hit his belly, and waited for a hint of oblivion. It wasn’t working. If anyone had told him that draining his estuary account to pay for an assassination wouldn’t change the hollow feeling he lived with anymore, he wouldn’t have believed it.
A throat cleared behind him and Stuart twirled his black leather chair back to the desk.
“Hello Doctor.”
He was dreaming, and he wasn’t even asleep. The most stunning woman he’d ever seen faced him, sitting in one of his upholstered chairs. She was dressed in a black silk suit of impeccable taste, with one leg crossed atop the other, showing not only perfectly toned calves and thighs, but a penchant for high heels. She was regarding him with unblinking dark eyes. Stuart narrowed his own. Her eyes weren’t just dark. They looked to be charcoal-hued, a near match to her hair. She was exquisite. And if that dating site had sent him a woman one-tenth the version of this one, he wouldn’t still be searching for Mrs. Findlay when he had time.
“I often wondered what men do when they refuse to take calls,” she informed him.
“How did you get in here?”
“Door.” She accompanied the word with a nod in that direction, as if he needed clarification.
“The door is locked.”
She moved her hands apart and twirled a long nail-file thing at him, catching the light with the motion. Stuart would’ve refilled his tumbler, but his hand might shake. That was unacceptable, given the circumstances.
“You picked it.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway.
“All right. I’ll bite.
Why
would you pick my lock?”
He didn’t know what brought the slight smile to her lips, he just enjoyed the reaction of his heart as it kicked into a faster beat.
“To meet you.”
Of course she had. All the advice was wrong. The future Mrs. Findlay hadn’t needed flowers and verse and walks on moonlit beaches. No. All he had to do was lock his door and get drunk.
Speaking of…
Stuart looked over at his multi-faceted glass. This was some kick-ass Scotch. He’d have
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