Enigma, #1, page 5
“Our next weekend off, we should go out,” I suggest to Brandon.
Brandon’s glowing eyes dart to mine.
“Only as friends, though. And just drinks… no dinner or movies, just drinks.”
When he nods, a stern cough demands the attention of my eyes. Alex has his brows furrowed, and his lips have thinned. His whole stance is projecting uncontrolled anger, and I could be mistaken, but a smidge of jealousy.
“If you have time to organize dates, I need to increase your workload.” His blue eyes shoot daggers at Brandon.
Yep, he is definitely jealous. His unexpected jealousy makes me wonder if he is a treat-them-mean- to-keep-them-keen type of guy.
“Sorry,” Brandon mumbles under his breath.
Hesitantly, I remove my hands from the computer monitor. Relief washes over me when I notice my bikini photos are no longer flicking across the screen. Barely breathing, I scroll down to the photo of Isaac’s companion I captured this morning. An impressive groan vibrates Alex’s lips at the same time a pang of remorse stabs my chest.
“Run facial recognition,” requests Alex, slapping Brandon on the shoulder three times.
Brandon nudges me with his elbow. When I move away from my desk, he pulls a black swivel chair in close and runs his fingers over the keyboard. I turn my reluctant gaze to Alex, hoping some commendation will lessen the guilt I’m feeling for spying on Isaac.
Alex’s eyes scan my face, but not a word seeps from his lips. My shoulders slump and a sigh spills from my mouth.
You’re just doing your job, Isabelle, I silently justify, hoping to ease my remorse.
Dropping my gaze back to the computer monitor, I watch as the facial recognition software scans potential matches for Isaac’s companion. Alex shifts in close to me. He’s so near I can smell what he had for breakfast. I never picked Alex as a blueberry-pancake-with-maple-syrup type of guy, but there’s no denying that aroma—sweet and sickly at the same time.
My stomach grumbles. Unfortunately, not only did I dump the coffees into the bin this morning, my blueberry muffin went right along with them.
“I bet you wish you didn’t ditch your muffin in the bin now,” Alex whispers into my ear.
My confused eyes dart up to his. I’m confident I kept my mumblings to a bare minimum this time. When he notices my perplexed expression, he smiles—not a genuine, heart-fluttering smile, but a sly grin that makes me wonder what he’s concealing underneath his pretty-boy exterior. It’s dangerous and conniving.
“Bingo,” shouts Brandon, interrupting the uncomfortable stare-down between Alex and me. “Facial recognition has a match.”
I scan the information displayed on the monitor in front of me. Delilah Anne Winterbottom, thirty-six years old, publicist and divorcee, spouse of Henry Theodore Gottle, the third, before their divorce settlement was finalized eight months ago. She lives in New York City, has no siblings, no children, and no criminal history.
“Looks like another dead end.”
I thought I was discreet until Alex’s firm eyes lift to mine. “A dead end?” His eyes bore into mine as if he’s a parent reprimanding a child for failing an exam.
“She’s a publicist…” I attempt to reply before catching a glimpse of Brandon shaking his head.
With a pivot, he points to something on the screen. The overhead lighting reflects on the monitor, making me unable to see what he is referencing.
“Please continue, Isabelle.” Alex spits out my name as if it’s venom. “I’d love to hear your reasoning as to why this is a dead end.”
My eyes shoot to Brandon. When Alex follows the direction of my gaze, anger reddens his face. Recognizing that our ruse has been busted, Brandon’s finger slips off the computer monitor as he swallows several times in a row.
“Henry Theodore Gottle, the third,” Alex informs sternly. “Son of Henry Gottle, suspected mob boss of New York City.”
“Just because he’s the son of a mob boss doesn’t automatically make him part of the mob.”
Alex laughs, seemingly amused by my reply. His chuckle doesn’t match his charmingly handsome looks. It’s a scary, witch-like laugh that has everyone in the room stopping what they’re doing to glance at him peculiarly.
It takes several long and tedious minutes for his laughter to die down. When it does, he says, “You surely can’t be that stupid, Isabelle.”
When I fail to respond to his taunt, he stops grinning and steps toward me.
“And here I was thinking you made it through the academy solely by using your brain. I guess today proves what I’d originally suspected.” He keeps his voice loud enough that the agents watching his charade can hear him. “You weren’t brought here for your academic abilities.”
My arms fold in front of my chest when Alex’s squinted gaze leisurely assesses my body.
“Since you’re so determined to utilize your brain instead of your other more desirable assets…” his eyes drop to my breasts, “… be a good girl and fetch my coffee you failed to produce this morning.”
With a flick of his wrist, I’m dismissed from the room, once again degraded from a respectable FBI field agent to a glorified coffee girl.
Chapter 8
Two weeks later…
* * *
“You have a stalker.” Harlow’s face is animated. “A total drool-in-the-corner of-your-mouth tall drink of water, but a stalker nonetheless.”
When my baffled gaze floats from the floor, she gestures her head to the corner of the room. I bleakly swallow when I catch the intense gaze of Isaac Holt peering at me from behind the morning newspaper. Shit!
When he realizes he has captured my attention, he smirks while folding his newspaper in half to place it on the table. His eyes never once detour from mine. Although my initial reaction is to run, it would look mighty suspicious if I fled now.
For the past two months, I successfully avoided any impromptu run-ins with him. The establishments he dines at are a lot fancier than this humble bakery, but I knew this run-in would eventually happen. Ravenshoe is large, but it isn’t large enough to get permanently lost in the crowd.
“He’s been here over half an hour, and he’s never paid anyone any attention, until now.” Harlow hands me the whole grain and rye toasted cheese sandwich I ordered for lunch.
Once I have a mug of coffee in my hand, Isaac motions for me to join him. My eyes dash around the bakery, seeking a spare table. A throaty groan escapes my lips when I discover there are no empty tables in the entire shop.
My panicked eyes shoot back to Harlow, who mouths, “Go on, he’s hot.”
Rolling my eyes, I gingerly pace to Isaac. Harlow can look at him for his irrefutable sex appeal, whereas I must look at him through the eyes of an agent. Ruthless, cunning, heartless, and unlawful are the first thoughts that pop into my head when I read his FBI file, but when I look into his gray eyes, they disclose an entirely different story.
The closer I get to Isaac, the more my eyes absorb every impressive feature of his face—sculpted cheekbones, plump and full lips on a mouth that could have me toppling into ecstasy just from hearing him speak, and one pair of the most exquisite eyes I’ve ever seen.
No photo will ever do his eyes justice because they’ll never fully capture how alluring and intense they are in person.
“Hello, Isabelle.” Even with his angry tone, my name still rolls off his tongue seductively.
“Hi,” I reply as my heart violently flips.
A smile sneaks onto my face when he pulls out a chair for me, then air snags in my throat when he sits next to me instead of the chair opposite me. Trying my hardest to ignore his masculine scent, I dump my satchel on the ground under our table, then pull my toasted sandwich out of the white paper bag. He remains quiet, but his entrancing eyes track me. The air is suffocating, riddled by the thick stench of awkwardness.
Snubbing the nervous tension between us, I take a sizable bite of my sandwich since I’m famished from not eating since breakfast. An appreciative moan rumbles up my throat as the gooey, cheesy goodness infiltrates my taste buds. When a string of cheese snaps off my sandwich and lands on my chin, my tongue instinctively darts out to lick the residue off my face.
Isaac groans a low and menacing growl that forces my eyes to his. My cheeks heat when I’m confronted by his intense gaze staring ravishingly at my lips. I dart my eyes away before I become trapped by their allure.
My nervous eyes shift to the window at the front of the bakery. If anyone in the surveillance team witnesses our exchange, Alex will force me into a skimpy dress and parade me in front of Isaac by this evening. I refuse to be treated as a commodity. I’d rather spend my years in the Bureau gathering coffees for narcissistic, self-centered assholes than be forced into prostitution.
“I have to go.” I shove my half-eaten sandwich back into its paper bag, then snatch my satchel from the ground. My coffee is in a ceramic mug, so much to my dismay, it will remain untouched. “I forgot an important deadline.”
I dart for the entrance of the bakery as quick as my shaking legs can take me. Harlow’s anxious eyes follow my hasty retreat. “Do you want me to pour your coffee into a takeaway cup?”
I shake my head and continue for the door. Cold air blasts my face when I emerge through the single glass door. After a few brisk strides, someone clutches my elbow, and I’m dragged to the corner of First Avenue. My angry eyes lift and are met with the stern profile of Isaac. His lips have thinned, and his jaw is twitching. My panicked eyes dart up and down the street. I sigh when I discover the blue surveillance van is nowhere in sight.
He pulls me into the dark alcove of a run-down old pub that looks like it hasn’t opened its doors in the past century. After releasing his tight grip on my elbow, he takes a step closer to me. I back away, intimidated by his stern, livid eyes. With a smirk, he moves closer, trapping me between him and the black door of the pub. My pussy tingles from his closeness. Stupid, traitorous body. He’s the enemy, yet, my body still gets excited from his attention.
“I assumed you must have left town when you failed to arrive for our date, but lo and behold, here you are, months later.”
I remain silent as his eyes—full of turmoil and uncertainty—dart between mine.
“Are you going to at least attempt a pathetic excuse?”
Remorse claws at my chest as I shake my head. Trying to fool a man who has eyes that can see through to my soul would be stupid and ineffective.
Teeth grinding together fills the eerie silence between us when Isaac clenches his jaw tight.
“That person you met on the plane isn’t me. I’m not usually like that,” I reply, deciding honesty is the best policy. “I don’t do random hookups with strangers.”
“And you think I do?”
“Yes,” I answer without a smidge of hesitation.
His eyes snap to mine before the most wicked grin creeps onto his face. I try not to return his smile, but I’m defenseless. Someone as gorgeous as Isaac would have an extensive list of women vying for his attention, so I’m somewhat surprised—and a little excited—that my failure to arrive for our date ruffled his feathers.
The air shifts from tense to teasing, the crackling of attraction heightening my senses. His commanding eyes glance at my lips when he mutters, “I still want to bite that lip.”
My pupils widen when he caresses my cheek. I should be pulling away from his embrace, but I can’t. I’m frozen with desire.
My knees meet when he runs his thumb along my top lip before his head tilts closer to mine. Just before his lips brush mine, a deep voice interrupts, “Sorry, boss, but we’ve gotta go.”
I sigh when Isaac steps back from our embrace, leaving only the linger of expensive cologne in his wake. Upon hearing my pathetic response, his lips furl as his lust-filled eyes rake the street. Following his gaze, I spot a gentleman I’ve seen in numerous surveillance photos sitting in the driver’s seat of his town car. Just a few blocks down from Isaac’s black Mercedes is the blue surveillance van that tails his every move.
Shit!
When Isaac’s eyes return to mine, I gulp. If I thought his eyes were intimidating before, now they’re downright dangerous.
“Meet me at the bakery tomorrow,” he requests, his tone stern.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
Seeing the surveillance van is the only reminder I need that I can’t associate with him, no matter how loud my inner vixen is screaming at me to ignore my rational-thinking head.
“It wasn’t a request, Isabelle.”
He runs his index finger over the cupid’s bow of my lip before striding to his awaiting town car. Just as he is about to step into his car, his head swivels back to me.
“Tomorrow,” he instructs before he glides into the back of his car.
The instant his car dashes down Welsh Boulevard, the surveillance van pulls away from the curb and commences its pursuit. I lean into the darkness of the alcove to ensure the surveillance team doesn’t detect me as they zoom by.
While leaning on the peeled-paint door, I calm the erratic beat of my heart. I can’t believe I was so senseless. I nearly kissed Isaac Holt. Isaac Holt! A man currently under investigation by the FBI. A man who has half of the county following his every movement. A man so deliriously handsome and good-smelling, I want to run my cheek along his jaw just to capture his scent.
What? Jesus, Isabelle!
After reprimanding my lack of judgment, I emerge from the niche of the pub and walk back to my workplace.
Approximately halfway there, my phone dings with a text message. When I yank it out of my dark denim jeans, I notice it’s a message from an unknown number. My excitement intensifies, wondering who the message could be from.
It vanishes when I read the message.
Alex: You’re late.
Sighing, I jog down the bustling street, weaving in and out of the heavy foot traffic. My quick strides halt when another message dings on my phone.
Alex: Pick up coffee on your way back.
Dammit! I don’t think I could ever despise someone as much as I do Alex Rogers.
Chapter 9
“You can stop hiding, you know,” jests Harlow. “He hasn’t returned here since he left you that card on Monday.”
I’ve been eating lunch at a local burger place every day this week just to avoid any more run-ins with Isaac. I can’t trust myself to be in the same room with him. Just one look at his deliriously handsome face, and my inhibitions fly out the window. When I returned to the bakery bright and early Tuesday morning for the agents’ morning coffee fix, Harlow handed me Isaac’s business card. On the back of the card, he simply wrote, ‘When you stop denying what your body wants,’ with his cell phone number at the bottom.
I crumpled the card up and tossed it to the ground, but no matter how hard I acted as if it weren’t there, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from it. By the time Harlow finished preparing my order, I’d gathered the business card off the ground and shoved it into my jeans pocket where it has remained the past four days.
Harlow hands me two crates of coffee. “Do you work seven days a week?”
I freeze as I struggle to think of a legitimate reason why my cover as a secretary would be collecting so many coffees on a Saturday morning. “Umm, no. It was a big night for a few friends and me last night. I was the designated driver, which also means I’m responsible for the morning caffeine fix.”
I cringe at my pathetic excuse, but when Harlow smiles, I realize she’s accepting my explanation.
“Do you work seven days a week?” I ask since I’ve just realized she’s here every morning right alongside me.
“It’s a requirement when you’re the owner,” she answers, staring into space. “I miss late nights and long sleep-ins.”
I gawk at her in surprise. Harlow seems around my age, which is young to own a business already.
Noticing my expression, she smiles. “I’ve always loved to bake. This was a dream of mine since I was a young girl.” She gestures her hand around the bakery. “But I’m slowly realizing dreams don’t always turn out how you envision them.”
I nod. I was so excited when I was accepted into the FBI Academy. I thought I would live a life of suspense and intrigue, but I’m learning what I visualized as an FBI agent varies a great deal from what I do every day. I have nine months, two weeks, and one day left on my contract to work with Alex’s department, then hopefully, I’ll be reassigned to a better unit, and the dreams I envisioned might transpire.
I offer Harlow a sincere smile before I head for the exit. Just as I’m about to walk out into the street, she calls my name. “If you have any more exciting nights planned, can you throw a dog a bone?”
Smiling, I once again nod.
It’s only when I’m in the alcove do I remember I’m going out with Brandon tonight. I invited Brandon out with me under the strict understanding it’s a friends-going-out-for-drinks-night-only invitation. No assumptions, no false promises, just friends. He readily agreed.
When I dart back inside the bakery, Harlow’s head lifts from the cash register.
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
She smiles and shakes her head, excitement is beaming out of her.
“It isn’t a raging party, just a friend and me having some drinks. You’re more than welcome to tag along,” I inform her, smiling.
Since I don’t have a car, Harlow offers to pick me up from Regina’s house at nine tonight. By the time I walk back into the office building located across from Isaac’s nightclub, the coffees I purchased are stone cold.
Alex grumbles under his breath as he reheats his coffee in the microwave in the galley kitchen, but his angry mood can’t sour my excitement. I haven’t been out dancing in months, but even more thrilling than that’s the fact I’ve made a friend.
