Page 21 of Gunnar

“It absolutely is. You’re old and wouldn’t know fun if it slapped you in the face.”

I shoot him a look, and he throws his hands up in surrender, but I can see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the barely suppressed laughter. “Fine… But if she throws a drink at you, I want pictures.”

I seriously consider strangling him. I map out the steps in my mind—the distance between us, the angle of approach, the pressure points that would render him unconscious before he could make a sound.

Behind me, I hear Hawk, his voice carrying a note of exhausted authority. “Bring her back.”

“No promises,” I grumble, and Jagger immediately begins snickering, the sound following me down the hallway as I chase after Damon.

The entire drive is torture. Not because of traffic, though it is the terrible gridlocked, bumper-to-bumper nightmare that makes Los Angeles famous for all the wrong reasons. The torture comes from the forty minutes of thinking. Of being trapped in a moving vehicle with nothing but my own thoughts for company. And those thoughts have fixed themselves on a single target with the relentless focus of a missile locking onto coordinates.

Devyn Martin.

Thinking about her is dangerous. I know this. I have known it since the moment she opened the front door with her chin lifted and her eyes sparkling with defiance. Thinking about Devyn Martin is like handling broken glass—necessary but dangerous. Every scenario I play out in my mind makes me more irritated, frustrated, and acutely more aware of the impossible situation I now inhabit.

She knows there’s a threat. It is not a speculation but a fact. And yet, she slipped out like an escaping prisoner who viewed the very people trying to protect her as the enemy to be evaded. The image rises in my mind unbidden: Devyn Martin—beautiful and furious—sliding behind the wheel of that Aston Martin, checking her mirrors and pulling out of the garage with the confidence of someone who has never understood what it means to be hunted.

The image alone raises my blood pressure. I can feel it in my temples, a steady drumbeat of frustration.

Beside me, Damon drives with the patience of a saint. Or maybe a hostage negotiator. He calmly navigates the clogged arteries of LA, his hands loose on the wheel and eyes scanning the road with the detached alertness of a professional. He doesn’t try to make conversation; he knows better. He can probably feel the waves of irritation radiating from my side of the vehicle and knows I am one wrong word away from exploding.

Jagger remains on speakerphone, his deep tone filling the cabin with updates from the house. “She’s still downtown. The car hasn’t moved.”

“Great.” The word comes out clipped.

“Actually, she’s been stationary for twenty-three minutes.”

“Even better.” I can hear the sarcasm in my own voice.

“Looks like she’s at a restaurant.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut against the pressure building there. “Which restaurant?”

Keyboard clicking filters through the speaker, rapid and erratic. “Oh.”

“What?”

Then Jagger whistles, low and impressed. “Fancy. You are very underdressed.”

“Dammit, Jagger.”

“It’s one of those places where they charge fifty dollars for a cocktail because they serve it with glacier ice or something.”

Damon snorts, a burst of sound that he quickly suppresses. I stare out the windshield at the endless river of brake lights stretching into the distance, and all I can think about is how much I hate this city and this assignment. “Address.”

Jagger finally gives us the information, and Damon’s fingers dance across the touchscreen as he enters it into the navigation system. The route updates immediately, a blue line snaking through the red arteries of traffic.

Ten more minutes.

Ten more minutes until I will be having a conversation with a woman who is rapidly becoming the most frustrating client of my career—an impressive achievement, really, considering we’ve barely known each other for ten days. At this rate, by the end of the week, I’ll either be arrested for strangling her or nominated for sainthood for not having done so already.

“You like her.” Jagger’s teasing comes through the speaker, cutting through my dark reverie. I freeze, my entire body going rigid, and my hands clenching into fists on my thighs.

Damon immediately starts coughing. It’s a terrible performance, transparent and theatrical, the kind of feigned choking that comes from trying not to laugh and failing completely.

“What?” The lone word doesn’t even sound like me as it cracks into the air.

“You like her.” Jagger sounds entirely too pleased with himself, his voice dripping with satisfaction.