Page 4 of Wrecked With You

Chapter Two

I’m hanging upside down outside the window of one of Burbank’s hotels, and I can’t help but think that the world looks pretty much the same from twenty-four floors above the ground as it does right-side up at sea level.

But then, I’m not a sunshine and roses kind of girl. On the contrary, I’ve always thought that the world was a fucked up place, as often upside-down and backwards as it is safe and navigable. No, that’s not true. It’s more often fucked up. The warm and cozy world that you see on television commercials? That everyone’s grandmother claims to remember? It doesn’t really exist. I don’t think it ever really did.

Harsh, maybe. But the truth usually is.

I first learned about harsh realities when I was still in diapers. I didn’t have a stellar childhood, that’s for sure, but my perspective on the world gave me an edge. And my interesting string of jobs over the years has given me some very unique skill sets. The kind of expertise a woman needs if she plans on gathering a shit-ton of compromising intel from a money laundering asshole who, once upon a time, also brokered the sale of little girls on the black market.

Unfortunately for me, Billy Cane isn’t an easy guy to get close to. Which explains why I’m hanging upside down in front of his hotel window, a cable and a reinforced harness keeping me in place, as I try to hold my camera steady while I zoom in on his computer where he’s doing some very naughty things.

Not sexual things, though.

There are no scantily clad prostitutes in my view. No revelations into Mr. Billy Cane’s personal predilections. I’m not trying to catch him in that kind of compromising position. I’m trying to catch him moving money. Lots of money for lots of underworld clients.

I want to capture the keystrokes. I want shiny footage of the account numbers. I want all the juicy details. Because the more info I have to bargain with, the less likely anyone is going to care that I popped the guy.

Because that, of course, is the real reason I’m here.

A crackle of static in my earpiece catches my attention, then Quincy’s smooth British vowels fill my head. “Status, Auntie?” It’s a silly call sign, but protocol requires no names over the radio. The code name comes from Auntie Em of the Wizard of Oz, one of my favorite movies. And since I’m Emma, it’s a name I choose often for missions.

“Five-by-five. Just enjoying the view.”

“As much fun as waiting to reel you in might be, this mission is a bit below my pay grade.”

Quincy Radcliffe is not only one of the Stark Security Agency’s first recruits, he’s also a former Deliverance operative and a former MI6 agent. Which means he’s absolutely right. “Feeling extraneous?”

“You said you needed me specifically,” he reminds me. “And you asked me to bring company equipment even though you’re not with us.”

“I practically am.” The company is the Stark Security Agency, Quincy’s current employer.

“Are you, now? Do go on. When you asked me, I had the impression you’d be signing on the dotted line any day now. And yet I don’t believe you’ve signed a bloody thing.”

I almost smile. “You sounded seriously fucking British right then.”

“I am seriously fucking British. I’m also the man who is going to decide when and if I’m going to reel you up again. I want a straight bloody answer. Did you sign on to the company?”

If I weren’t hanging upside down, I’d shrug. “Technically, no.”

Damien Stark’s been asking me to come on board as an operative with the elite security agency ever since I rescued a kidnapped princess and Quince helped take down the fuckwad who was after her.

I admire the heck out of the SSA, but I also like my freedom. Working on my own terms. I spent too many years as a covert op for a deep-cover government intelligence organization. Under the circumstances, that was a kickass deal for me. A hell of a lot better than death row, that’s for damn sure.

Now that I’m no longer yoked to the government, my freedom is important to me. Quince knows it. My sister knows it. I know it.

I’m still trying to figure out if Stark Security knows it.

“Explain not exactly,” he demands.

“Well, you’re here, and you’re part of the company, and you’re my sister’s boyfriend. That’s way less than six degrees of separation. You do the math.”

His beleaguered sigh fills my ear, and I have to smile. Right now—upside down and all—I’m having one hell of a good time.

“Which begs the question of why I agreed to your absurd request in the first place.”

Through the crack in the hotel room’s curtain, I see Cane shift in his chair, revealing even more of the computer screen. I grin, then zoom in for a much better image of the spreadsheet he’s editing, chockfull of names and account numbers. “That’s it, you fucker. And thank you for being so anally organized.”

“Auntie…”