Page 9 of The Devil's Detail
“It was for his sister.” He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes. “Should I not have signed it?” He looks panic-stricken now. “Was he a spy?” He’s lost it, his mind jumping to the worst case scenario.
But I can’t tell him the truth. He would have a field day, and I’d never hear the last of it.
Clawing all my professional persona back together, I ask him, “Which way did he go?”
He looks bewildered and simply points to the door and shrugs.
I stride away. He must have driven here. Nobody lives within a mile of this place.
I rip open the door and see a few black Escalades in the parking lot—obviously Carter’s useless security detail. Why the hell they hadn’t come into the coffee shop first and scoped it out is beyond me. Or sat someone in, having a drink and watching. They deserve sacking. And now this rogue, Jameson Bonney… Where the hell would he have gone?
I search the lot. Nobody other than Carter's security, who baulks when they spot me. Trying to intimidate me perhaps, they gather as a group as I approach them. Futile efforts on their part. Do they not know who I am?
“Stay away from our client.” One even gives me a shove just to make sure I’m listening.
I’m not. I’m sniffing. I’m trying to take in their scents. But please God don’t let it be one of them. I’d die of embarrassment. But that was the risk, wasn’t it? He’d know me, but I’d never know him.
What feels like an age later, I resignedly slink back into the coffee shop. Carter is talking to Dave. I cut past all the chit chat. “Do you have CCTV?” I query the cafe owner.
“Do I, Carter?” He looks to Carter, who looks equally clueless. I’ll take that as a no.
“Any form of cameras either inside or outside the premises?” Again blank stares from both. “Maybe they’re hooked up to the internet or cloud?” I ask hopefully.
Dave looks outside and upwards to the small, puffy, white clouds floating by. I blow out a breath of exasperation.
“Should I be worried? Do you think that British guy was a threat?” Carter sounds practically frantic now.
British.
My heart stutters in my chest. It was him. It’s my turn to stare out at the outside world in wonder. All I can think about now is him. His scent, his touch, how he licked every inch of my body. The nips and bites. My jeans must be displaying my level of arousal, as I hear Carter groan. He’s trying desperately to tear his eyes from certain parts of my anatomy, but failing spectacularly.
I spot one of Carter’s security lurking just outside the door now. My resolve hardens where they are concerned. That man could have been dangerous, and they were nowhere near to help out. This cafe could have been packed to the rafters with crazed Carter fans—and there are a lot of them out there—and he would have been mobbed, again, as not one of them came to see where he was or what he was doing. Carter may not have done his homework, but I have. I know they’re charging him a king's ransom for subpar protection.
I try to sit and accommodate my… situation… and hide it from Carter’s uninhibited eyes.
“Right, Carter, here’s what I want you to do.” I authoritatively rattle off his tasks, ensuring he adds them to a list on his phone that only he knows the password to. I amaze myself at how forceful I can be. How decisive I have to be in my professional life.
Yet, in that room, I let go of the reins with consummate ease. What a juxtaposition.
I tell him I know the level of security he has, and question how he’s still a sitting duck on a weekly basis. He has no answers, he looks away with the fairies.
I make a decision to put someone on him today. Someone to trail him and his team, get the lay of the land. I don’t want a shit show if and when I take over, and I know just from what I’ve seen this morning, this security outfit is one coffee chat away from a disaster.
I don’t let on to Carter about some of my decisions. He’s best left in the dark for now. Instead, I hustle him out the door as fast as I can, then continue to stalk the car park.
It’s futile.He’sslipped through my fingers. But I’ll be prepared next time. He will not get away again.
7
Mr Jameson Bonney
I’m coming apartat the seams. I’ve just been into the most kitsch, twee café and seen the man of my dreams. I could hardly hold a sentence down. Words were not forming on my lips, they were flying out of my head before they got anywhere near my mouth. Any coherent thought of any sort was more or less evading me.
Every thought, every feeling I’d had since the club, I’ve been pushing them down. But they had not gone. Oh, no. On the contrary, they were waiting to come back and clobber me over my head. It was like a tsunami of feelings, and I was fucking drowning. Drowning in those eyes as I looked through the window at him. Muscles to die for. Stubble at, oh God, the perfect length. Long, straight nose. And a few freckles that skittered like stars across his cheeks. I’m sure they were a constellation. I’d been looking it up, expecting it to be there in print, because it truly was heavenly.
And it was suffocating, attempting to catch his attention.Focus on me, be mine. Instead, I practically ran out of the place.How can a man like me—suave, sophisticated, drop dead fucking gorgeous—become a bumbling idiot in someone’s presence. How can such a short interaction, a one-night stand for fuck’s sake, leave me feeling like he is the air I breathe, and without him in my life, I will truly suffocate.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I disappeared quickly into my car. I would have gone back, if not. Thrown myself at his feet, and revealed all. But I am a wimp, far too scared to do it. Too scared to show my hand, in case he bites it off. I don’t think I’d survive that.
