Hostile Territory (Blackbridge Security 1)

“Listen.” I hold my hands up. “I saw a guy she was recently dating a few times in passing, but he never spoke in front of me. She didn’t even introduce him. I don’t know if he was Russian or not.”

“Yet you don’t seem surprised.”

I huff. “Why would I be? Last year she was dating a guy she swore was a Saudi prince. She isn’t exactly selective so long as the guy has money.”

Deacon looks back down to the folder of information, cracking his neck to either side before looking back at me. The sound makes my skin crawl just like it always has.

“Is that who was in the apartment?” He nods. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet.” There’s no emotion whatsoever in his voice, like it won’t bother him at all that the man could die.

“She was spooked,” I recall, saying the words out loud as the memory floods my brain.

“When?”

“When I talked to her on the phone last week. She answered the phone but only stayed on the line long enough to tell me that she couldn’t talk. The phone call was so brief, I only just now remembered it. I didn’t think much of it. Dani has always been sort of a drama queen. She could’ve been spooked because Neiman’s was having a sale she didn’t have time to make. You never know with her.”

Deacon snorts in agreement. “When did you speak to her before that conversation?”

“Ten days before that, maybe? So, like three weeks ago. She wouldn’t give me much information, just that she was going on vacation to a beach. I think the next time I spoke with her was right after she got back from that trip.”

Even though he’s still looking down at the paperwork in his hands, I know he’s listening to me, so I continue.

“I stopped by her apartment a couple of days ago after she didn’t show up for a gala, but she didn’t answer the door.”

His eyes find mine, and he doesn’t look impressed at all. “Still living your life from one party to the next, I see.”

“Do you just wake up in the morning and decide to be an asshole?”

He blinks in my direction.

“Or maybe spin a wheel to determine your level of dickheadedness for the day?”

“According to the information Wren found, you don’t seem to be in any danger.”

Of course he’d just ignore my questions. It’s not like I fully expected him to give me an answer anyway.

He doesn’t say a word before walking out of the office. Stubbornly, I stay on the sofa. He didn’t tell me to follow him, and even if he had, I wouldn’t trail along behind him like some damn lost dog waiting for bits and pieces of information.

I don’t really want to go back to my place, but I can’t get a hotel room for the night without returning there for my purse.

“Here.”

I look up to see a pair of basketball shoes in his hands.

“I imagine they’re going to still be too big, but these are the smallest pair we have here.”

Instinctively, I scrunch my nose at the sight of the shoes. I’m not at the country club about to play tennis, so these just won’t work at all.

“I’m wearing a Prada dress.”

“And we’re all out of fucking matching Jimmy Choos,” he growls before dropping the sneakers near my bandaged feet. “Go barefoot for all I care but hurry the fuck up. I have other shit to do.”

“Where are we going?” I snap as I regretfully tug the shoes on my feet, tying them as tightly as I can manage to help prevent them from creating more blisters.

“I’m taking you home.” He’s irritated to the max but pissing him off has always been fun for me. It’s been years, and it’s only taken a fraction of time to get right back to where we were all those years ago.

“Taking me home? How do you know I didn’t drive?”

“You don’t have any fucking keys.”

“Whoa there, detective. Calm down.”

He grumbles under his breath, but I’m on his heels when he leaves the room for the second time. The quicker I get my purse from my condo, the faster I can see the back of him. I never should’ve called his ass in the first place, and I’m kicking myself for doing just that when we’re caged alone together in a different elevator from the one I took to get up here.

When the doors finally open, we’re not in the lobby of the building I entered through but in a parking garage lined with vehicles more fitting for war than downtown St. Louis.

“Is that an armored truck?”

“I’m parked over here,” he says, once again ignoring my question.

“What the hell are you into, Deacon? I was thinking you left the military, but it doesn’t seem like it’s that far in your past.”