Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series) (4 page)

Deals & Doubts

MARCUS GIBBS

I watch Luc Olivier do a line of coke off my coffee table
, and it makes me uncomfortable, but who am I to complain?

I peer over at the clock. It is nearly two in the morning. When is this fucker going to get to the point so I can call him a cab?

"Would you like some?" He offers me the straw and wipes his nose.

"No
, thanks." I like to keep my drug habit a secret, and I would rather keep a clear head around a creep like this guy.

"Do you have the product ready?"

Product
. I bounce the word around in my head and decide I approve. What else am I supposed to call it?

"I do. It's at my lab.
Fifteen vials. They must be refrigerated and isolated. What is your plan? Who have you been talking to?"

I have to admit I am new at this. I don't know how
terrorists work. All I know is I want my money, and I want the credit.

Ignoring my
questions, he asks, "Do you have a cure for this disease?"

I purse my lips
, slightly annoyed, and respond curtly, "That’s for me to know. I have the disease ready for the client who needs it. It will easily wipe out a small population. Isn't that what they asked for?"

Luc nods, and his French accent becomes thicker with his
rising anger. "Listen to me—don't give me any attitude. I don't have to be here right now, remember?"

Dammit. I bite my tongue. This fucker is right. They
have bids from other people, but I decide to go for it.

"But I have the best product," I sneer.

As if confirming the statement, I see the anger leave his face, and the edge of his mouth curve up a fraction, hinting at his amusement.

"The men I am working for will be sending someone within the next couple of weeks to confirm testing, and then transport. They will say they are acting as a liaison for me. Remember, I still have to do that deal with Jeremy Hunt. We are renewing the contract for another two years."

I roll my eyes. I guess there is always the more legitimate business to attend to as well. It's good for covering tracks.

Luc also works under the table for other
terrorist groups, but his full-time gig is as a communication specialist for another big bioengineering company in Paris that contracts work from Sunscape Biotechnologies. Although, I think he prefers working for the dark side. His drug habit helps fuel his need for danger.

This man is responsible for quite a few undercover
hits within the United Nations. He would pretend to supply ambassadors with bioengineering help to steer economies in a better direction, when in actuality he was helping select terrorist groups understand the ins and outs of certain government departments, including his own. He is a slimy motherfucker, that's for sure.

"Understood. I will wait to be in touch
, then." My tone signals that I am ready for him to leave.

He smiles eerily at me, and my reflex is to soften my scowl.
He gets up from the couch, swaggering as if he has won, pockets the baggie containing the rest of his coke, and extends his other hand. We shake hands. I notice that his pupils are fully dilated, and I just want to get him out of my apartment.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Gibbs. I will see myself out."
Thank God.

"Have a wonderful night
, Mr. Olivier."

I walk him to the door, and then lock it behind me once he is gone. I exhale and wonder if I have been holding my breath this entire time.

Before taking a seat in the kitchen, I grab a beer before bed. I want to forget Luc Olivier for a while.

As I sip my
beer, I pull out my cell phone and stare at the newly made phone contact: Alex.

I should have gotten her last name.

I'm smiling. It feels good to smile. All I can manage to do is drink my beer, stare at my phone, and smile until the last drop is gone. I wonder when I should text her.

The thought is almost as exciting as orchestrating biological warfare.

I let out a loud laugh. I'm a crazy fuck and I know it.

JEREMY HUNT

I have a bad taste in my mouth.

The lasting image of that frustrating girl cements itself in my brain, and it has me reeling.

The long, pitch-black, curly hair; the glittering gold in her hazel eyes
; her perfect, pink, pouty lips always twisted into a challenging smirk; and those adorable eyebrows ever furrowed with confusion or frustration at each and every interaction between us.

I scoff at the personal confession. I've never met someone so persistent at telling me no. It doesn't make sense
—or am I an arrogant asshole?

Maybe she is right. Maybe I'm more annoyed that Marcus got her number.

I guess I could let him have this one. I've snatched many a girl from him, but this one, I don't want to.

That's because you are a selfish bastard.

I smirk at the thought even though I shouldn't.

Now what do I have? Nothing! No number. No information whatsoever. I guess I have her name. What good would that do me?
I could get Rebecca to pull a background check. Tell her it's for future employment.

Hmm
. “Alex Turner.” Or is it Alexandra, Alexandria, or what?

I collapse onto my couch
, shaking my head and questioning my sanity.
She is only a girl. She is only a girl,
I repeat as a mantra.

Trying to make myself feel better, I remind myself she is
only a waitress. But a smart waitress.

I appreciate a good challenge, and I have never met a woman that seems like one
.

U
ntil now.

I sigh, rubbing my face and feeling crazy again.

What's the point of dwelling on this? I've lost my chance, and will never have the opportunity again. Even if I do see her again, it would be an obnoxious encounter if she were with Marcus. I know when Marcus is gaga over a pretty girl, and this one was too easy to fall for. I know, because I fell too.

With that thought, I realize it's two in the morning. I need sleep. I don't need to be thinking about some insignificant encounter. I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow that should be on my mind.

I get up from my couch, walk into my bedroom, and empty my pockets. As I remove my clothes and slip into bed, I have an unsettling thought. What did Marcus have tonight that I didn't?

I rarely lose, and I have
a sinking feeling I am not going to be able to let this one go.

I let my eyelids sink closed as I recall her face when she drove away in the cab
—lost, confused, and speechless. Sometimes it felt like her eyes were telling me something entirely different from her mouth.

I know attraction when I see it. I didn't see it for Marcus. I saw it every time her eyes caught mine, but they always seemed cloudy and full of doubt, even though her words were crisp and confident.

Who is this girl? I want to know more, and dammit, I have no idea why.

Chance

ALEX TURNER

I am exhausted from last night. Tracking Marcus's car proved to be useless. Derek went and checked the situation out. All we know is Luc is at the top of our suspect list. He is most likely the European contact. He left Marcus's house via cab around 2
a.m., and it looks as if Marcus didn't head to bed until close to four.

I wonder what kind of game Marcus is going to play. Will he text me soon?

I wander around my apartment, deciding what I should do with my day. It is only ten in the morning. I debate if I should head to the office or hit the gym.

I should be studying.
My LLAT exam is on Tuesday.

The test could make or break my career within my agency. It took me years of dedication to qualify to take the test that put’s the details right in its name: Law, Linguistics, Artillery, and Teamwork. It’s a test that is earned through experience, and I cannot mess this up.

I peer over at my coffee table and squint at the sight of my review books on law and agency technicalities. Oh, how I want to light those books on fire and throw them off the tallest building in Boston.

I sigh as I realize the right answer.

I grab my backpack, my books, and decide coffee is necessary.

My cell
phone rings.

"Agent Turner speaking."

"What are you doing?" Derek asks.

Rolling my eyes, I respond with, "I am about to go study.
I take my LLAT exam in less than a week, remember?"

"You're studying on a Saturday?"

I decide to get snarky. "Derek, you act as if I live a normal young adult life. Well, I don't have any plans with the expansive number of friends that I
don't
have, and my lack-thereof boyfriend hasn't called for a night out. So unfortunately, I have to go study for the test that will eventually help me take
your
job."

He laugh
s, and the familiar sound makes me smile. I'm glad I can still make him laugh.

"Well said. Has Gibbs been in touch?"

"No, but he will, I'm sure. Any news?"

He grunts into the phone. "I wish. If you meet up with him at any
point, I need you to put a descrambler on his phone. The sneaky bastard has some sort of signal-altering software, and we can’t seem to tap his phone like we normally would. It looks like we might need to get a bit old school and put something on his phone directly.

"I will work on it. I am sure he will call soon."
There is a long pause. "Agent Matthews?" I ask, filling the silence.

"Do you want to get a beer tonight?" he asks.

Another long pause.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Another long pause.

"I understand, Agent
Turner. I'll be in touch."

I am almost disappointed that he didn't fight for it, but I don't have time either.

"Goodbye, Derek."

JEREMY HUNT

Rough morning. Can I still consider it morning? I peer at my watch
. 11 a.m. Yeah, I can still consider this morning.

I run my hand through my hair, utterly frustrated.

That breakfast meeting with Richard Dyvornychenko did not go as planned. When will I be able to get that Russian contract? I've been trying to convince them for the past six months that with our patents and their investors we can easily master the solar energy problems both our companies have been having, but I can't get that Russian bugger to trust me. I feel a little out of control. This is the last company I need to sign to move forward on one of our green energy projects.
Fuck.

I stroll into
a coffee shop near Boston Common, seeking a caffeine fix. I did not sleep well last night, and I was not at the top of my game at the meeting as I should have been. The line is long and I hate public places.

The line scoots forward
. I'm about fifth in line when I glance around, and someone catches my eye in the back corner. A girl. I do a double take. There is something familiar about her, but not quite. I only have a profile view.

She is sitting at a table
, reading from what I can assume is a textbook by its size. Actually, it looks as if many textbooks lie scattered across the table.

At a quick
glance, she could be anyone, but her hair catches my attention. It's almost black, thick, and curly, and it cascades messily over her shoulders.

I would have overlooked her
, but it's the movement she makes that makes me wonder. She tangles her finger in one of her wavy locks, twirling it, and then letting it go. It's distracting. Not that she looks plain—actually, the opposite—but she is completely natural. No thick layer of makeup on her face.

Without looking up from her
reading, she grabs for her coffee, and sips it robotically. As she sets the cup down, she nibbles her plump, pink lip, and the memory of her floods my brain. How could I forget?

Alex. The waitress from the club. The one who put me in my place, and the one who wouldn't
give me what I wanted.
What are the chances?
I think. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

I examine her attire:
skinny jeans and a plaid long-sleeved shirt. The flannel shirt is formfitting, and I note her flawless skin is visible above her jeans. It's tantalizing. Who knew someone could look attractive reading a book? I can't tear my eyes off her gnawing at her lip as she reads; I want to bite that lip.

Whoa, slow your roll
, Hunt. Marcus is into her, remember?

Fuck that. I am too intrigued and cannot take this sighting as a mere coincidence. I remember she mention
ed some exam during her tirade. I wonder if she is studying for that. The memory of the argument makes a smile play upon my lips, which I find odd, because I have never felt so embarrassed before. That girl had me grasping at straws. Last night, she refused to do anything that involved me—talking, staring, getting a ride—but why? And do I care? That's the part I wish I could shake.

"
Sir! Sir?"

Dragging me
away from my thoughts, I realize the cashier is shouting at me. I feel stupid for being distracted. I apologize profusely, order my mocha, and decide to give a large tip.

I peer over at Alex. Now she is gnawing on her pencil. It's adorable. Is she nervous?
Maybe I could make her more nervous.
The challenge excites me. I may never get another chance to talk to this girl again. I wanted this exact moment, didn't I? This last chance?

That hair is beautifully distracting. So full, curly
, and messy as it practically devours her face. Sexy doesn't do it justice. I wistfully imagine running my fingers through it.

My order appears on the counter. I grab it and make my way toward her. This could be fun, or it could be horrible like the other rejections.

However, I appreciate a good challenge.