Page 24 of Dirty Damage

I flip through the pages of the background check I ordered, scanning details about Sutton Palmer’s life.

MIA parents, one sister, few addresses to her name and even fewer people in her orbit.

But the people she is connected to have interesting ties.

Artem pauses mid-chew, a piece of tuna trapped between his chopsticks.

My head of security has been with me since we were kids breaking motorcycles and hearts in Saint Petersburg. The look on his face tells me he suspects I’m a littletoointerested in this employee, but he’s smart enough not to mention it.

“Drew Anton,” he says after swallowing. “Worked muscle for Paul Lipovsky in Vegas before moving to Palm Beach. Started running with the Martineks about six months ago.”

He frowns down at his bowl. “Dammit, they forgot my wasabi mayo. I knew something was wrong.”

“I ordered extra.” Volodymir, young and eager to prove himself, hands Artem a small plastic container from the bottom of the paper bag. Then he turns to me. “What I’m more interested in is those photos she sent everyone.”

Mikhail, my weapons specialist, whistles long and low. “Makes me want to visit the daycare center more often. Who knew we had that kind of ass hiding down there?”

Something dark and possessive coils in my chest. The same feeling that’s been haunting me since I saw her half-dressed in the gym.

Since those photos hit my inbox.

I shouldn’t care what they say about her. If they wanna rub themselves raw thinking about her, it’s no skin off my back.

Still, I find myself scowling at them both.

“Shut it.”

Vol’s mouth snaps closed. Even Mikhail, who usually can’t tell when enough is way more than fucking enough, suddenly finds his food fascinating.

I turn back to Artem. “Any proof of direct connection between her and the Martineks?”

He shakes his head, beard catching the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He grew it out not longafter getting married. One crack about his softening jawline, and I haven’t seen a peek of it since.

“None that we could find. She moved here after breaking things off with Drew. Traded in a townhouse for a shitty apartment and a Lexus for a beater Ford. Classic signs of a woman running from something.”

Or someone.

The thought makes my jaw clench.

“The sister’s still with Lipovsky, though,” Mikhail adds, apparently finding his voice again. “Living large in Vegas from what I could tell. It’s where those pictures came from, too.”

Vol leans into Mikhail and grins. “We gotta get to Vegas, eh?”

I whirl on them both. “Take your food and get the fuck out.”

They scramble for their bowls and hightail it while I turn back to the photo clipped to Sutton Palmer’s file. It’s her employee badge photo, though the pictures the entire company has seen are the ones floating behind my eyes.

Twenty-five.

Foster kid turned daycare assistant.

Nothing extraordinary on paper. But there’s something about her that gets under my skin.

Maybe it’s the way she stood up to me in the gym, all fire and backbone despite her embarrassment.

Maybe it’s the vulnerability I glimpsed beneath her defiance.

The way she trembled when I touched her, even as she told me to stop staring at her tits.

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