Page 8 of Taking What's Mine

“Dammit, Isabel.” He shakes his head. “You should’ve told Dean the second you got this. We can run background checks, bank traces, everything.”

I bristle at his tone. “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s counting to ten. When he opens them again, his voice is calmer. “Okay. Let’s figure out the next step. If this is our guy, or at least a link to him, I can talk to some contacts I have. Discreetly.”

I raise my brows, surprised. “You have contacts?”

He shoots me a look. “Believe it or not, I do more than just stand around looking intimidating.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips before I can stop it. It’s gone just as quickly. “All right, so what’s the next step in your grand plan, oh fearless leader?”

He leans forward, forearms braced on the table. For a split second, I notice how the muscles in his forearms flex under that fitted black T-shirt, and I swallow hard.Focus, Isabel.

“First,” he says, “we secure this lead. I’ll make a few calls, see if I can dig up anything else on Morris Rolfe. Meanwhile, you go over any other intel you have—phone records, logs, emails. Then we compare notes.”

My heart stirs with a mixture of excitement and dread. This is real now. We’re actually working together on this. “And then?”

He pauses, meeting my gaze. “Then we see what we’re dealing with. If it’s safe to go after him directly, we plan a controlled approach. If it’s not, we find another angle.”

I blow out a breath. “And in the meantime, we hide away in this charming little woodland cabin?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “In the meantime, we do our jobs. That means I make sure you stay out of harm’s way until we’re certain of our next move.”

Something about the finality in his voice sets my pulse racing. “Lincoln,” I say, trying to curb the edge of panic, “what if this takes weeks? Months?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll be here for weeks or months.”

I want to protest, but I can’t deny the logic. I flick my eyes around the cozy living space. The soft hum of the HVAC system, the pine-scented air—if I didn’t have a stalker or a bodyguard breathing down my neck, I might actually enjoy this place.

I shift in my seat, suddenly aware that I’m alone with Lincoln in a house designed for secrecy and solitude. My stomach flips. I clear my throat. “All right. Let’s get started.”

He nods, determination etched on his face. “Yes. Let’s.”

Without another word, he picks up the folder to review the details, and I watch him carefully, torn between my instinctive desire to break free and the undeniable comfort of having him here. We might butt heads, but at least I’m not fighting this battle alone anymore.

As we start pouring over the papers, the tension between us hums like a live wire. This is going to be an interesting ride, no matter how it turns out.

Chapter 5

Lincoln

Morning light filters through the windows, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. I’m up before dawn—old habit from my military days—though I actually manage to sleep later than usual last night, thanks to the peaceful quiet out here. Hard to believe I’m still on a job when birds are chirping and fresh mountain air fills my lungs.

I rub the back of my neck as I stand at the kitchen island, my phone pressed to my ear for the third call of the day. Everyone I know has a slightly different story about Morris Rolfe, but the general consensus is that he’s a slippery son of a bitch who trades in black-market intel for a living. Not exactly surprising.

“Yeah, I understand,” I say into the phone, tapping a pen against the countertop. “So you haven’t seen him since last year?” The contact on the other end—a former colleague from a privateinvestigation firm—confirms it. “All right, thanks. Keep me posted if anything changes.”

I hang up, grabbing the slip of paper I’d been scribbling notes on. Yesterday’s digging turned up a handful of old addresses, a few known associates, and the rumor that Morris has been spotted near Chicago in the last month. Could be nothing. Could be everything. Either way, it’s a lead.

A clatter from the stove draws my attention. Isabel’s bustling around the kitchen, hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. She’s got a spatula in one hand and a determined look on her face. Something smells amazing—bacon, yum.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” I say, stepping closer to peek at the pan.

She throws a glance over her shoulder, a wry half-smile curving her lips. “Surprised? I’ve had to fend for myself a lot over the years.”

I can hear the undercurrent of pride in her voice. It’s not defensive, exactly, just a quiet statement of fact. Part of me wants to ask for details, but I hold off. I’m still piecing together the mosaic of who Isabel really is—beyond the fierce, take-no-prisoners professional side I’m used to seeing at Maddox Security.

Instead, I set the notes on the kitchen table, next to my laptop. “Thanks for cooking. I usually live off protein bars and black coffee on the job.”

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