“All that shit on her plate is precisely the point,” he insisted. “She’s not—”
“Qualified or trained to do this kind of work. Blah, blah, blah. But news flash: she’s doing a bitching job regardless. And instead of sending her off every morning feeling like a can full of squashed assholes, maybe you could try sending her off feeling like she can conquer the damned world. Step up your game or keep showing up as lame, man. Jeez.”
“And how would you suggest I make her feel like she can conquer the damned world?” He took a sip of the tea Ace passed him. The Earl Grey wouldn’t do a thing to soothe his nerves, but it would soothe the roiling in his stomach at the thought that his words to Chelsea, meant to be cautionary and to express his concern, were instead making her feel bad about herself. Shit.
“A dozen body-shaking orgasms should do it,” Emily said.
Dagan choked on his tea. “Excuse me?”
“It’s as obvious as the nose on your face.”
“What is?”
“That you’re hot to trot for our resident undercover CIA liaison.”
Was it just him, or had someone cranked the heater up about twenty degrees? “How do you figure that?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Emily rolled her eyes. “Maybe because if it were possible to impregnate someone with a look, Chelsea would be carrying around octuplets?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s what he said. What he thought was fuuuuuuck.
“Oh, for the love of Shoeless Joe Jackson.” As a born-and-raised Chicago South Sider, Emily never had her inner White Sox fangirl far from the surface. “You’re so full of manure that if you laid in the dirt, you’d start growing little versions of yourself. How you’re always sniping at her? That’s your inner six-year-old’s way of getting her attention.”
Emily knew about his inner six-year-old? Double fuuuuuuck.
“And here’s an idea,” she continued. “Instead of walking around like a boy in a man suit, how about just manning up and telling her how you really feel?”
When Dagan got good and pissed, or when he was homed in on a target, he went completely still. Spooky still, some had said. And following that stillness was always some sort of explosion. “Are you calling me a coward?” he asked quietly.
“I’m not calling you a coward. I’m calling you a fool and a man suffering from unrequited lust. They are often the same thing.”
“So by your logic, verbally sparring with Chelsea is just a cover for me wanting a little push-push-in-the-bush, huh?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I wouldn’t have described it that way, exactly. But, yes.”
He had her. Target locked. Time to let the lead fly. “That must mean you’re aching to knock boots with Christian then, right? I mean, you chew his ass every chance you get.”
“Uh…” All the color drained from Emily’s face, and for a beat or two, silence reigned in the kitchen.
It was Ace who broke the tension. “I swear.” He shook his head. “I start my days in a good mood. But within ten minutes of being around all you heteros, I have a serious desire to kill someone.”
Emily ignored him, glaring at Dagan. “S-stop trying to change the subject.”
“I’m not trying to change the subject.” That was a lie. “I’m just pointing out that you accusing me of fighting with Chelsea to cover up the fact that I want to sleep with her is a little like the pot calling the kettle black.”
Now Emily’s cheeks were fire-engine red. “For the record”—she stole a quick look at Christian—“I fight with Christian because someone has to. It’s the only way to keep his ego in check.”
Christian’s eyebrows slammed into a scowl. “Bloody hell. How did this get turned on me?”
Before anyone could answer, their phones came to life. The combined sounds had Dagan’s spine going ramrod straight. Pulling his cell from his hip pocket, he thumbed on the screen. They had received a group text message from Chelsea, and a dizzying mess of emotions tumbled through him when he read her two simple words: I’m in.
Chapter 2
I’m in! I’m in! Take that, Dagan Zoelner!
Chelsea slid her cell phone into her pocket and glanced around before pushing the door to Morrison’s office wider. At this time of the morning, the only staff members in Morrison’s fancy-dancy Mayfair penthouse were her and Juanita Gonzalez, Morrison’s chef. But Chelsea still felt as if a thousand eyes were peering at her. When the door hinges creaked, she winced.
Toeing out of her kitten heels, she slipped into Morrison’s office. She’d only caught a few glimpses of the room over the past month, but they had been enough to familiarize herself with the layout. His large mahogany desk—and the laptop that was her ultimate target—were over by the west wall. Too bad that in order to get there, she’d have to pass a passed-out Morrison.
The clang of her heart in her chest was so loud, she was surprised the sound didn’t wake the sleeping man as she tiptoed across the room. She missed her shoes quite desperately. The hard marble tiles were cold enough to freeze the tits off a frog—one of her father’s favorite southern-fried sayings, God rest his soul. And the frostiness seemed to slip through the soles of her feet and up into her body, turning her lungs into two blocks of ice.
Was Dagan right? Was she really not cut out for this kind of work? The fact that the room was spinning seemed to point to yes. Of course, not being able to breathe probably had something to do with her stupid frozen lungs. Damnit!
Tugging on the collar of her blouse, she forced herself to suck in a ragged breath. The air felt hard and sharp, but it was enough to crack the sheet of ice in her chest and make the room stop doing its best impression of a merry-go-round.
Better. She nodded to herself with satisfaction and crept farther into the room. When she passed the red leather sofa, she glanced down at the old man. He was still wearing the tuxedo he had changed into before she left yesterday. The smell of bourbon and cigars wafted up from him in a cloud so thick, she thought if she squinted, she might be able to see it.
Apparently, the fund-raiser he’d gone to had turned into quite a party. Then again, everything Morrison was involved in eventually turned into a party. He acted like he was twenty-one, not seventy-one.
Lordy, he even had a mun—that would be a man bun for the untrendy—like he was a hipster or some shit. Which, at his age, was pathetic enough. But the mun was made worse by the fact that his thinning white hair meant the little knot at the back of his head was no bigger than a cherry tomato.
Chelsea could not understand how his stylist let him out into the world looking like that. Then again, when you were a multibillionaire media mogul and a secret underworld crime boss, you did what you wanted and damned the naysayers.