The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

“What happened to you, Mom?” she asked her reflection. “Whatever it was, it’s not going to happen to me.”

She swiped on a shade of red lip gloss her mother would never wear and strode into the bedroom to throw on her favorite pair of worn-in jeans, pink “Stomp the Patriarchy” tank top, light gray cardigan, and slip-on tennis shoes. She whipped her hair up into a ponytail, grabbed her cross-body bag from where she’d hung it on a hook behind the door, took in a reaffirming deep breath, and strode out into the living room where absolutely no one was waiting.

“Sawyer, you have contractural obligations to meet,” she called out.

No response.

She walked to the edge of the hallway leading to his rooms, a flock of butterflies high on meth zooming around her belly. After a quick glance down the still hall, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and checked the time. Ten after eight…so right on time for her but there was nothing about Sawyer that even hinted at him being late by even a minute. She connected the dots in a heartbeat.

He was trying to welch.

Oh, that was so not going to happen.

Before she’d even made up her mind as to what to do about it, she was down the hall and turning the knob on Sawyer’s door. It swung inward without a sound and she stepped inside.

His office was abandoned. Not a note or pen or crumpled piece of paper lay on his desk’s clean surface. The morning sunlight streaming through the window walls and making the metal and glass desk sparkle was the only sign of life in the room.

Hiding, huh? Fine. She could be the finder in this little game.

Doing her best impression of a stealthy cat burglar, she tiptoed past the opaque glass brick half wall and into Sawyer’s sitting room. A love seat and two oversize chairs—all black, of course—sat facing the window wall. There wasn’t a single personal item in view, unless you counted the Wall Street Journal, The Economist, or The Singapore Times arranged on the—glass, of course—coffee table as personal. The rest of the room was as empty as a bar two hours after last call.

She glanced up at the final barrier. A second glass brick wall. Unlike the other, this one went all the way up to the high ceiling and all the way across the width of the room, a blocky opening in place of an actual door. It didn’t take three guesses to figure out what was beyond it. Sawyer’s bedroom.

There went the fizzy crackle pop in her belly again.

“You’re not getting out of this, Mr. Stuffikins, so get your butt out of bed.”

She held her breath, waiting for the rustling of sheets, which were probably black, or the telltale sound of bare feet hitting the floor. Neither ever came.

Okay, this was just ridiculous.

She marched through the double-door sized opening and stopped dead in her tracks. A massive bed, big enough for an orgy, dominated the space. The sheets—red, smooth and tangled—were rumpled but tossed to the side revealing…an empty bed. No matter how long she stared—and imagined—Sawyer wasn’t there.

The big chicken must have run out while she was in the shower.

Maybe it was the word shower that drew her attention. Maybe it was a sound she’d only heard subconsciously. Whatever it was, she turned to the left and started walking toward the one real door in the entire room. It wasn’t closed. It stood half open. So it wasn’t like she was exactly spying when she peeked through the opening.

“Mierda,” she said, the exclamation a soft sigh of longing.

She really should have shaved her legs yesterday morning.

Sawyer stood in a replica of the shower she’d used earlier. Water from the four nozzles rained over his muscular form and splashed onto the glass shower wall as he stood under the spray with his back to her. Clover’s imagination hadn’t done the man justice. Not even close. He was all tightly bundled muscles, from his thick forearms to the hard curve of his thighs to his high, round ass that could get him a ton of work in gay porn calendars. Seriously.

“Saya boleh mati gembira,” she groaned under her breath. Of course, if the fates were kind—or women—she wouldn’t be dying happy until she got to touch her fill.

It wasn’t just the past six months of her battery-operated boyfriend that had her this tuned up for actual physical touch, it was Sawyer. Temptation didn’

t even begin to cover it.

He started to turn. Clover had just enough brain power left to dash back so her body was hidden behind the doorframe.

“Fuck, Clover,” Sawyer groaned. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Heat burned her cheeks.

“Yeah, take it all the way.”

Oh God. He wasn’t.