Enigma, #1, page 6
I miss having the close connection of a girlfriend. As much as I love Regina, she mothers me too much for me to consider her a confidante. I need a female companion to discuss the conflicting emotions I’m currently feeling for Isaac Holt.
Hold on, what?
I’m an FBI agent. Any feelings I’m considering need to be squashed. I can’t consider befriending someone like Isaac Holt, let alone develop feelings for him. I need to crush the idea of any relationship and treat him like the blood-sucking leech his FBI file leads me to believe he is.
But, my Uncle Tobias always said you should never judge anyone by other people’s opinions. He’d often quote, “Until you have a legitimate reason not to like someone, you should treat them how you wish to be treated.” Isaac certainly hasn’t done anything to me that warrants me disliking him.
He may be crude and cocky, but I’d be lying if I said his vulgarity didn’t turn me on. I haven’t stopped thinking about the way he smelled when he cornered me in the run-down pub’s alcove, let alone the scenes from the plane playing on repeat in my dreams every night.
When a hand slams down on my desk, I jump in fright. I’m so startled, I spill my now iced coffee down the front of my shirt. After grabbing a handful of tissues out of my desk drawer, my furious eyes lift to the unamused face of Alex staring down at me.
“I’ve been calling your name the past five minutes,” he rudely informs me. “What has you so intrigued you can’t follow a simple command?”
“Umm, I was just thinking…” I scan the photos on my desk, trying to think of a legitimate reason why I failed to respond without mentioning I was once again fantasizing about Isaac. “… that I don’t believe this gentleman is an associate of Isaac’s.” I lift a photo of the man I saw driving Isaac’s car earlier this week. “I think he’s his bodyguard.”
Alex removes the photo from my hand to appraise it more thoroughly.
“What makes you think he’s a bodyguard and not an associate?” For the first time in the past two months, his tone sounds neutral.
“Anytime he’s been photographed with Isaac, he’s either driving his car, or he completes surveillance of the area.” I rise from my desk to gather several other images of Isaac’s bodyguard I have printed the past few days. “An associate wouldn’t drive the car while Isaac sat in the backseat, he’d sit in the back right along with him,” I continue, impressing myself with my ability to think on the spot.
An impromptu grunt rolls up Alex’s chest as he flicks through the photos. “So, I guess we can cross him off our list and focus our attention solely back onto Isaac.”
“No,” I shout, probably a little too loud as Michelle lets out a squeal. “There’s something about this guy that has me intrigued.” I snatch the photos out of Alex’s grasp to find the picture I was researching yesterday. “I can’t for the life of me work out why he hasn’t come up in any of the facial recognition searches I’ve completed on him the past two days.”
Alex’s brows squeeze, apparently unimpressed I’ve been undertaking searches without seeking his permission.
“He has worked in a government department before, which means he should be in our database,” I advise, pacifying the angry scowl on Alex’s face. “This tattoo is a symbol of an Air Force squadron. That squad only returned from Afghanistan two years ago. Only squad members can get that tattoo.” I hand Alex two photos. One is the original picture of Isaac and his bodyguard jogging, and the other is zoomed in on the tattoo I’m referring to.
My fingers run over the keyboard on my desk to bring up the information I found on the tattoo yesterday afternoon. I enlarge the squadron member tattoo on the screen and turn my monitor toward Alex. He holds the photo against the computer screen mere seconds before a heart-fluttering smile tugs his lips high.
“Brandon, I need you to get me someone high in the U.S. Air Force, now!” Alex strides toward Brandon. His hasty retreat stops before he turns around to face me. “You did a good job, Isabelle.”
A mammoth smile spreads across my face.
“See if you can find any other members of his squadron. Maybe they can help us identify him.”
Eagerly nodding, I sit at my desk. My heart is galloping with excitement at being assigned my first official task as an FBI field agent.
Chapter 10
When Harlow picks me up at nine, excitement is beaming from me. I’ve spent the majority of my day searching for ex-squadron members. I secured a reliable source that may assist me in discovering the identity of the man who works with Isaac. I scanned his photo to my contact earlier tonight. He’s going to show it to a tattoo parlor owner who has tattooed the squadron symbol previously. He may be able to assist me in tracking down an ex-squadron member who’s willing to talk to me. Most hang up the instant I advise them I’m from the FBI. Obviously, there’s no comradery amongst colleagues.
“Wow, you scrub up nice,” praises Harlow when I slip into the passenger seat of her car.
Smiling, I roam my eyes over her tight black dress. “As do you.” A wolf whistle sounds from my lips.
Other than her big, beaming smile, she looks completely different out of her work clothes. Her hair is no longer pulled back in a low ponytail, instead, hanging loosely down her back. This is the first time I’ve realized her auburn brown hair is curly. Her lips are glossed with bright red lipstick, and her eyes are done in a dramatic Cleopatra way. She’s gorgeous, and she will give all the young girls on the dance floor a run for their money tonight.
“Here.” Harlow offers me a tube of lipstick as she pulls her car away from the curb. “It will match the color of your dress perfectly.”
Yanking down the visor in her car, I put on the bold red lipstick she handed me. The color does pair well with my tight, strapless red dress. I hand her lipstick back and pucker my lips. The three cocktails I’d downed getting ready are already enhancing my playful mood.
“Wow, we won’t buy a drink all night,” she predicts.
She wasn’t joking. The instant we enter the nightclub, we’re inundated with requests to buy us drinks. We wrangle our way through a mass of sweat-drenched, heated bodies to locate Brandon in a private booth at the side of the dance floor.
Brandon must have arrived super early to secure such a prime spot in the bustling nightclub. The brown button-pressed leather booth has a sense of intimacy with thick, luxurious red velvet curtains hanging off black metal A-frames. The stream of purple LED strip lights running along the roof reflect on the sheer curtain draping down each booth, giving the illusion of privacy.
Leaning over, I press a quick peck on Brandon’s cheek before introducing him to Harlow. The bustling nightclub is packed to the brim. Most of its patrons appear to be of college age. The interior is lavish but outdated. It isn’t usually the type of club I’d hang out at, but it was the closest nightclub in our area that didn’t have an association with Isaac Holt.
I spend the next two hours sampling a range of fruity cocktails and accepting invitations to dance. After one dance partner gets a little handsy, I saunter to the bar for a bottle of water. I’ve been downing cocktails like they’re soda water, and they are rushing to my head in quick succession, making me woozy and my footing unsteady.
Brandon curls his arm around my waist to lessen my stumbles. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I slightly slur. “I’ve just had too many cocktails too quickly.”
He chuckles before requesting a double scotch on the rocks from the bartender. “Lucky for us, we have the day off tomorrow.” He winks cheekily.
Alex is a slave driver, and tomorrow is my first day off in two months. It’s probably been even longer for poor Brandon. Grabbing the bottle of water off the countertop, I spin around to face the dance floor, slipping out of Brandon’s grip in the process. I smile when I spot Harlow sitting in our booth. She also has a bottle of water in her hands. I giggle to myself. I haven’t even been out for two hours, and I already want to go home. Can anyone say grandma?
Brandon snatches the bottle of water from my hand to replace it with a colossal size cocktail glass full of a frothy pink liquid. “Who knows when we might get another day off?”
He downs his double scotch on the rocks in one hit, his face scrunching up as he slams the now empty glass onto the countertop. He looks like he’s about to puke at any moment.
I giggle when he groans, “I forgot how much that burns.”
“Oh, do you think you can do better?” His loud voice gains us the attention of a handful of college students gathered around us. “Chug, chug, chug.”
The college kids surrounding us soon catch on to Brandon’s chant. Never one to back down from a challenge, I scrunch up my nose before chugging down the pink concoction as dared. Luckily for me, the drink is deliciously fruity, so it goes smoothly into my empty stomach.
The crowd erupts into a roaring chant when I consume every drop of liquid in the large cocktail glass. I attempt a curtsy but end up stumbling and bumping into Brandon when I trip over my own feet.
Brandon waggles his brows. “Another?”
Cringing, I shake my head. I’m already stumbling, so once my latest drink makes its way into my bloodstream, I’ll be well over an acceptable limit to be drinking in public. It’s time for me to call it a night.
When Brandon turns back to the bar, I head toward the private booth to check if Harlow is ready to go home. Halfway there, my elbow is seized in a tight grip. I don’t need to look up to know who is grasping my arm. The jolt bolting up my arm the instant he touches me is all the indication I need.
Isaac drags me into a paint-peeling hallway that houses the outdated bathrooms. His slitted eyes dart up and down the bustling hall before he walks us toward the manager’s office located at the end. I should be pulling away from his hold, but with the alcohol in my system and my pulse tripling from his closeness, my inhibitions evaporated the instant he touched me.
A middle-aged gentleman wearing a cheap knock-off Ralph polo shirt with greasy, slicked black hair lifts his head the instant we enter his office.
“Get out.” Isaac’s tone is threatening.
The manager’s bewildered eyes bounce between Isaac and me before he scurries out of the office as Isaac demanded. Once he leaves the room, Isaac releases his firm grip on my arm and turns to lock the door. When he pivots back around to face me, I stiffen, and my pulse intensifies. Even though his eyes are furious, it’s what he’s trying to mask with his unyielding gaze that has me pinned in place. His eyes expose his pure, unbridled jealousy and lust.
“Did you get my card?” he questions in his sexy-as-hell voice.
Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I strengthen my stance, striving to portray that my body has no desire for him. “I’m not sleeping with you—”
“I never said you would get any sleep.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach when he steps close to me. “Well, not for at least a few days.”
My eyes bounce between his as my throat works hard to swallow. I attempt a rebuttal, but I’m rendered speechless, my mouth only capable of gaping open before closing.
“Still trying to deny what your body wants?”
When he takes another step closer, my senses are engulfed by his intoxicating scent. Remaining quiet, he brushes his thumb over my top lip. A croaky moan vibrates in my chest when he dips his thumb into my moist and hungry mouth.
Brazenly, I suck off the smears of pink cocktail from his thumb like I haven’t been fed in months. When his eyes darken from my frisky tease, I sway toward him, craving his body closer to me. When I lose my footing in the process, his carved brows stitch. “How many drinks have you had tonight, Isabelle?”
Chomping on my bottom lip, I shrug. I stopped counting over an hour ago.
“How many drinks have you had?” he questions again, his voice sterner this time.
“A few,” I huff. “Who are you, my dad?”
“Are you drunk?”
My eyes shoot back to his as my lips curve into a playful grin. “Maybe a little.”
A husky groan tears from his throat when I hold my thumb and index finger an inch apart, indicating how drunk I think I am. I’ll be honest, an angry Isaac is as sexy as fuck.
He ignores my playful taunt. “How are you getting home?”
“I wasn’t planning to go home alone.” My intoxication is making me more daring than normal. “But you just ruined my chances of finding a suitable companion for the night.”
I’m lying. I have a minimum three-date rule to get into my panties. Well, I usually do. My strict rules are just null and void when it comes to Isaac Holt.
“I don’t play games, Isabelle, so if you’re attempting to make me jealous, you’re wasting your time.”
Ouch! That was a harsh sting to my ego.
I huff and skirt past him, eager to return to my friends so I can continue enjoying my weekend off. I chose this nightclub because I knew Isaac didn’t own it, but here I am, having my confidence slapped by the very man I was trying to avoid.
As I dart toward the door, a rush of dizziness causes me to lose my footing in my pretentiously high stiletto heels. Isaac grabs my arms and steadies me before I stumble to the floor in my drunken state.
Shamelessly, I lean into his firm body to take in a deep whiff of his manly scent.
“You smell so good,” I slur. Obviously, the cocktail is hitting my bloodstream a lot quicker than I’d anticipated.
When he leans in close to my ear, the hairs on my neck prickle to attention. Oh God, I hope he’s finally going to kiss me.
“Go tell your friends you’re leaving. I’ll wait for you out front.”
My eyes snap to his, triggering a rush of queasiness to form in my stomach. “I can’t leave with you.”
I may be extremely tipsy, maybe very close to drunk, but I still know I can’t risk my career by leaving the club with him.
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Isabelle. Go and tell your friends you’re leaving and meet me out front.”
Frozen in place, I watch him move toward the office door, his strides long and effortless. He unlocks it before turning around to face me. His beautiful features are constricted with anger. “If you aren’t outside in five minutes, I’ll come and find you,” he advises me before strolling out into the hallway, not once glancing back in my direction.
Chapter 11
An appreciative groan erupts from my throat as I snuggle into a smooth and soft texture. I don’t know what thread count these sheets are, but they’re the softest I’ve ever laid on. I’ll have to thank Regina for replacing my bedding as these sheets make me feel as if I’m sleeping on a cloud.
After pulling my arms out of the quilt, I have a long and leisurely stretch. My muscles feel exerted, but that’s expected when you spend hours dancing in four-inch heels. When I sluggishly open my eyes, I come face to face with my disheveled reflection.
Oh, shit, where the hell am I?
I quickly sit up, causing a rush of dizziness to cluster in my head. My hands dart up to rub my temples, easing the furious pounding that makes it feel like my brain is escaping my skull. Once the urge to vomit passes, I glance around the starkly decorated bedroom. The space is vast, but it’s cold and sterile. I’m on the right side of a king-size four-poster bed. Other than the bed and two mahogany nightstands, the room is empty. There are no photos or knick-knacks on the bedside tables that would indicate whose bedroom I’m in, and no paintings adorn the walls. Other than the mirror on the ceiling, the room is as basic as they come.
When I peel the dark sheets away from my body, I discover I’m wearing nothing but a small, white V-neck cotton shirt. I don’t need to run my hands down my body to know I’m braless. Not just because I can feel the heaviness of my breasts, but because I didn’t have a strapless bra to wear with my strapless dress last night, but even more concerning than the fact I don’t have a bra on, is the fact I’m also not wearing any panties.
Oh God, Isabelle, what did you do?
I dive out of bed and yank open the top drawer on the bedside table, hoping it may give me some indication as to whose bedroom I am in. Other than a large, open box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant, the drawer is empty. I pull on the hem of my shirt, vainly trying to cover my buttocks as I rush to the other drawer. Inside this drawer is an extensive collection of ladies’ panties. On close inspection, I realize they don’t look recently washed.
Bile rises from my stomach to my throat as I slam the drawer shut. The chance of me being sick doubles when a door creaking open echoes through the room. I jump back into the bed to cover my naked derriere with the super-soft comforter and sheets.
My heart pounds louder than my head when Isaac strolls into the room wearing nothing but a small white towel. My eyes open wide as memories of last night come filtering back in. Him pulling me into the manager’s office. Me sucking on his thumb like it was my last meal. My eyes pleading with him to take me on the very desk we were standing next to. Just one look into his entrancing gray eyes had me throwing caution to the wind.
I remember Brandon’s disappointment when I said I had to go. I made a pathetic excuse about being sick in the bathroom stall and that I was too embarrassed to stay. Harlow offered to drive me home, but she had been drinking just as much as me, so I asked Brandon to call her a taxi.
My stomach swirled as I walked toward the exit of the club, but it wasn’t from nerves—it was in excitement. Isaac was standing at the entrance door. His lips crimped when he spotted me sauntering toward him. It was raining, so his bodyguard sheltered us with an umbrella as we hopped into the back of a waiting BMW 4WD.
“Hugo.”
That was what Isaac called his driver when he instructed him to lose the tail. Lose the tail. Does Isaac know we are following him? Oh shit, did the surveillance team capture me with him last night?
My panicked eyes dart to Isaac, who is watching me curiously. I try to keep my eyes secured on his, but the urge to run them over his body is too strong. In nearly every photo I’ve scanned of him in the FBI database, he’s wearing a suit. Although there’s been the occasional photo of him in gym shorts and a shirt from when he goes jogging, I’ve never seen him like this, so up close and personal. His body is perfect.
