Page 31 of Tempt Me

“Sorry, Nat. I tried.”

“I know. You did your best.”

“I don’t think she’s the leak.”

“That’s going a bit far, don’t you think? Just because she didn’t fall for your offer doesn’t mean she’s not on the take. Maybe she’s a loyal snitch, and she only talks to her contact at Moo-Lah.”

“I don’t know, Nat. She seemed pretty protective of Jamila.”

He was right. She did. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t the source of the leak.

“Let’s go,” I said.

When Mateo turned on the car, the headlights illuminated a tiny woman wearing a blue shirt, khakis, and a furious expression.

I screamed.

Mateo yelled.

She scowled, then circled around to my side of the car and made a cranking gesture.

Wincing, I rolled down the window. “Hey, Rhiannon.”

“Don’t you ‘hey, Rhiannon,’ me. You should be ashamed of yourself. You too.” She jabbed a finger at Mateo.

“It was all me,” I said. “He was just doing me a favor. I was trying to protect Jamila.”

“With entrapment? Really?” Her scowl was world-class. “You trying to Catherine Zeta-Jones me?”

“Do what now?”

“I’ve been loyal to Jamila longer than you’ve been alive, girlie.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“I would never, ever betray her. Don’t be messing with me.”

“No, ma’am,” I mumbled.

Holding her head high, she turned on her heel and left.

“¡Mierda! I wouldnotwant to be you at work tomorrow.” Mateo clucked his tongue.

“Me either.”

The next morning,I stopped at the coffee shop in Mountain View Jamila liked and ordered four coffees. Black for Jamila, a vanilla latte for Felicia—she was the key to Jamila’s calendar, and I needed to keep her happy—and two iced caramel macchiatos, one for Hannah and one for me. As I tapped my credit card on the pad, I squashed down the foreboding that weighed on my chest all night.

The barista, a woman in her sixties, tore off the receipt. “Need this for your expense report?”

“No, thanks. This one’s on me.”

She raised her eyebrows, taking in my ecru suit and pale pink blouse. “Dressed up for someone special?”

“Just work.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “In that getup? Everyone in Silicon Valley wears jeans and ball caps to work.”

I straightened the sleeve of my blazer. “My boss doesn’t. And you know what they say, dress for the job you want, not the one you have.” Not that I wanted Jamila’s job. That sounded more horrific than crustacean murderer.

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