Page 14 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
My stomach grumbles. Unfortunately, not only did I dump the coffees into the bin this morning, my blueberry muffin went right along with them.
“I bet you wish you didn’t ditch your muffin in the bin now,” Alex whispers into my ear.
My confused eyes dart up to his. I’m confident I kept my mumblings to a bare minimum this time. When he notices my perplexed expression, he smiles—not a genuine, heart-fluttering smile, but a sly grin that makes me wonder what he’s concealing underneath his pretty-boy exterior. It’s dangerous and conniving.
“Bingo,” shouts Brandon, interrupting the uncomfortable stare-down between Alex and me. “Facial recognition has a match.”
I scan the information displayed on the monitor in front of me. Delilah Anne Winterbottom, thirty-six years old, publicist and divorcee, spouse of Henry Theodore Gottle, III, before their divorce settlement was finalized eight months ago. She lives in New York City, has no siblings, no children, and no criminal history.
“Looks like another dead end.”
I thought I was discreet until Alex’s firm eyes lift to mine. “A dead end?” His eyes bore into mine as if he’s a parent reprimanding a child for failing an exam.
“She’s a publicist…” I attempt to reply before catching a glimpse of Brandon shaking his head.
With a pivot, he points to something on the screen. The overhead lighting reflects on the monitor, making me unable to see what he is referencing.
“Please continue, Isabelle.” Alex spits out my name as if it’s venom. “I’d love to hear your reasoning as to why this is a dead end.”
My eyes shoot to Brandon. When Alex follows the direction of my gaze, anger reddens his face. Recognizing that our ruse has been busted, Brandon’s finger slips off the computer monitor as he swallows several times in a row.
“Henry Theodore Gottle, III,” Alex informs sternly. “Son of Henry Gottle, suspected mob boss of New York City.”
“Just because he’s the son of a mob boss doesn’t automatically make him part of the mob.”
Alex laughs, seemingly amused by my reply. His chuckle doesn’t match his charmingly handsome looks. It’s a scary, witch-like laugh that has everyone in the room stopping what they’re doing to glance at him peculiarly.
It takes several long and tedious minutes for his laughter to die down. When it does, he says, “You surely can’t be that stupid, Isabelle.”
When I fail to respond to his taunt, he stops grinning and steps toward me.
“And here I was thinking you made it through the academy solely by using your brain. I guess today proves what I’d originally suspected.” He keeps his voice loud enough that the agents watching his charade can hear him. “You weren’t brought here for your academic abilities.”
My arms fold in front of my chest when Alex’s squinted gaze leisurely assesses my body.
“Since you’re so determined to utilize your brain instead of your other moredesirableassets…” his eyes drop to my breasts, “… be a good girl and fetch my coffee you failed to produce this morning.”
With a flick of his wrist, I’m dismissed from the room, once again degraded from a respectable FBI field agent to a glorified coffee girl.
CHAPTER8
Two weeks later…
“You have a stalker.” Harlow’s face is animated. “A total drool-in-the-corner of-your-mouth tall drink of water, but a stalker nonetheless.”
When my baffled gaze floats from the floor, she gestures her head to the corner of the room. I bleakly swallow when I catch the intense gaze of Isaac Holt peering at me from behind the morning newspaper.Shit!
When he realizes he has captured my attention, he smirks while folding his newspaper in half to place it on the table. His eyes never once detour from mine. Although my initial reaction is to run, it would look mighty suspicious if I fled now.
For the past two months, I successfully avoided any impromptu run-ins with him. The establishments he dines at are a lot fancier than this humble bakery, but I knew this run-in would eventually happen. Ravenshoe is large, but it isn’t large enough to get permanently lost in the crowd.
“He’s been here over half an hour, and he’s never paid anyone any attention, until now.” Harlow hands me the whole grain and rye toasted cheese sandwich I ordered for lunch.
Once I have a mug of coffee in my hand, Isaac motions for me to join him. My eyes dash around the bakery, seeking a spare table. A throaty groan escapes my lips when I discover there are no empty tables in the entire shop.
My panicked eyes shoot back to Harlow, who mouths, “Go on, he’s hot.”
Rolling my eyes, I gingerly pace to Isaac. Harlow can look at him for his irrefutable sex appeal, whereas I must look at him through the eyes of an agent. Ruthless, cunning, heartless, and unlawful are the first thoughts that pop into my head when I read his FBI file, but when I look into his gray eyes, they disclose an entirely different story.
