Live Wire (Ramsey Security #2)

"Thank you."

Shutting the door, Saskia hurries away while I grin triumphantly. I don't want to chase someone who refuses to be caught. The fiery redhead most definitely wants me to succeed, even if she won't make the task easy for me.

I walk into the kitchen where Minka and Mom frown at each other.

"Are you American or is that a fake accent?" Mom asks.

"If you consider Taxachusetts part of America, then I bleed red, white, and blue."

Nodding, Ruth grins and glances at me. "I like this one."

Even sharing her smile, I'm thinking about how much I like the other one.

"Saskia is a sweetheart," Minka says, taking a chip from the bowl Nell hands her. "You should ask about her knitting."

Feeling the need to defend Saskia from the teasing, I announce, "She handled the guy last night well."

"I bet it killed her not to shoot the bastard in the back."

"I would have taken the shot," Mom says.

Minka grins. "You could get away with it better than a pro. Hard for us to say our finger slipped."

"I don't know that I could have said that without laughing."

Minka snorts. "I can't imagine what you and Saskia are like around the dinner table."

"She barely speaks."

"Get her drunk," Minka says, looking at her phone. "I bet she likes vodka. No, wait, that's a Russian thing."

Mom and Nell whisper to each other, leaving me irritated. Saskia isn't their kind of likeable. I get that, but I'm pissed anyway.

I walk out through the house and out the back door. The dogs follow, but I'm not interested in playing with them. I feel protective of Saskia, even if she doesn't need protecting. I've always been different, not like her, but enough to understand how being normal is overrated.

Minka walks outside and throws a ball to the dogs. "Do you have a thing for redheads or is it tiny chicks?"

"I have a thing for strong women."

"You don't seem hot for me, and I'm hella strong," she says, grinning. "Don't worry about hurting my feelings."

"I wasn't."

When Minka grins wider, I can imagine this woman killing me without losing a moment's rest.

"Here's a tip about Saskia. If you think seducing her is a good way for you to protect yourself from your cult stalkers, you need to be thinking long term. After she kills them, she won't like finding out you used her. Her special skills don't involve killing people quickly, Mister Sloane."

Rather than defend my intentions, I want to know about Saskia. "How long have you known her?"

"Not long," Minka says, throwing the ball again. "Rafael recruited her. Me too. He's the friendly sort. Of course, I'd heard of Little Maven before taking the job." When I only stare at her, Minka explains, "Little Maven was her nickname. Her mama was Maven. You don't want to know the details."

"I might."

"Then ask Saskia. I don't tell a girl's secrets, especially if that girl handles her problems like our redheaded pal does."

I know Minka is trying to scare me. Mom might have even given her the idea to talk me out of my infatuation. If so, they've underestimated my capacity to latch onto something and refuse to let go.





8


Saskia

Ice Queen Needs to Thaw

Minka dubbed my small apartment "the box." I find comfort in having few belongings. My willingness to walk away from this apartment and everything I own keeps me strong. My mother taught me to require very little to survive. Maven was a feared woman, known for torturing many powerful men until they were no more than children weeping for death.

Standing in my tiny apartment, I miss the size and warmth of Brad's house. My place smells of clean floors and counters. None of the sweet potpourri scent pumped through the Sloane home. For the first time, I crave more than the bare basics.

I considered adopting a cat when I first moved to Houston. After deciding I have no idea how to name a cat, I ditched the idea. What do cats even eat? The entire idea felt like too much work, but now I feel a hint of regret.

I blame Brad for my sudden unhappiness. He's infected me with his life. I see him everywhere in my dull apartment. He's at the small window, staring out at the gray next-door building. I imagine him looming large in the small kitchen, cooking alongside his mother and Nell. This fantasy seems all wrong in the place I call home.

My mail is mostly junk. I pay my bills automatically online. I have no friends to mail me anything. The only things worthwhile are my catalogues. If I were ever to indulge, I might need a bedroom-sized closet to fit all my clothes.

I shove a few new catalogues into my bag and leave the unwelcoming apartment. Returning to the Sloane house isn't an option, if I want to keep my self-respect. Besides, I have genuine safety concerns to discuss with Rafael.