Turning on her heel, she padded out of his office, stopping to toe into her shoes before making her way through the massive penthouse toward the front door. The opulence of the place still got to her. Vintage Limoges vases, gold-leaf detailing on picture frames, the Picasso painting hanging on the dining room wall… Just a few of those pieces sold on the black market would net her a sum bigger than the debts that had made her backstory so believable.
Her daddy would have said that Morrison was shittin’ in high cotton. She said he had more money than any one man should. And oooh, the temptation to grab a few pieces of wealth on her way out was strong. But she was no thief. And besides, the twenty G’s Morrison had already paid her for her first month’s work would go a long way toward reducing her remaining student loans. Once those were paid off, she would use every extra cent she made to pay off the mortgages. And then…then she would finally be able to rest easy, knowing her parents’ house had been saved, knowing their home had been saved.
She made a left at the half bath with its antique marble pedestal sink and passed the kitchen where Juanita was busy making Morrison’s breakfast. “Bye, Juanita!” she called cheerily. “I’m off to run some errands for Mr. Morrison!”
Juanita absently waved her hand, and Chelsea felt a little kick of excitement. She was almost home free. She’d done it! She’d really done it!
Scurrying across the foyer, she pulled her favorite trench coat from the hall tree. Her hand was on the knob of the front door when it turned inside her grip.
Steven Surry, Morrison’s head of security, burst in so quickly, she stumbled back, dropping her coat. He caught her arm before she could ass-plant, and the expression he wore was the facial equivalent of a thunderstorm. Every hair on her body lifted in warning of a potential lightning strike.
“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re off to, huh?” he demanded.
“I…” Chelsea’s throat was as dry as the fruitcake her father had always made for Christmas. She had to swallow to gather enough spit to try again. “I was going to run some errands, and—”
“What errands would those be?” he cut her off, cocking his head and eyeing her suspiciously.
“M-Mr. Morrison is nursing a hangover. I’m going to buy him some coconut water. It’s packed with electrolytes and—”
Surry held up a hand and she gulped. Audibly. When he heard the noise, his gaze narrowed further. Steven Surry had eyes as dark as the pits of hell and ebony hair that seemed to absorb all light. In another life, one where he wasn’t working for Morrison, Chelsea might have considered him handsome.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Since he still held her arm in a hard grip, it was easy for him to spin her around. With a not-so-gentle nudge, he herded her back through the entryway.
She considered making a break for it. Maybe if she darted around him, she could get out the door. But then what? Wait patiently in the hall while the elevator arrived?
Sure. That’ll work out wonderfully well.
Her other option was the emergency stairwell. But as soon as she ran, Surry would know she was up to something and he would immediately give chase. She harbored no fantasies that she could outmaneuver Surry—who looked like an NFL running back—down twenty flights of stairs.
Nope. Better to retain my cover and wait to see what’s happening.
She didn’t have long. “We’ve had a security breach, and you’re staying with me until I determine whether or not you’re involved,” he grumbled.
Security breach…
Those two words made her gulp again. Surry pulled her to a stop, pinning her with a stony-eyed stare.
Okay, so now she was starting to come around to Dagan’s way of thinking. She really wasn’t cut out for this shit. The fact that she was giving herself away left, right, and center was proof positive.
She had just enough time to reach into the pocket of her blazer and press the volume-up button on her cell for a three-second count before Surry grabbed her hand and extracted her phone. He looked down at the black screen. “What are you up to with this, huh?”
“Nothing,” she lied, her heart pinwheeling inside her chest. The stupid organ banged into her stomach, making her nauseous. “I was just putting my hands in my pockets.”
And hoping I held down that button long enough to activate the distress call.
Ozzie, BKI’s techno-geek extraordinaire, had programmed all of their cell phones with an emergency feature. If they held down the volume-up button for a one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi count, their phones would automatically text a Mayday to the rest of the group. Then the cell would send out its GPS location. Pretty brilliant. Chelsea only hoped she’d used it correctly.
“We’ll see about that.” Surry pocketed her phone before grabbing her arms and tugging her wrists behind her back.
“Hey! What the heckfire do you think you’re doing?” She hoped to cover her terror with bravado, and she was insanely grateful that she’d learned early on in her CIA training to wipe the call and message log on her phone, and to make sure to keep her contacts encrypted. “Take your damned hands off me!”
“Please,” Surry scoffed. “After a month with Morrison, no doubt you’re accustomed to a bit of manhandling. I’ll apologize for any ill treatment later. Once I know you’re innocent.”
She’d be waiting the rest of her life for that apology.
Oh, holy friggin’ crap. She should have bolted when she had the chance. Maybe, just maybe, she could have beaten Surry on those stairs. A smart operator might have taken the chance. A brave one certainly would have. But here she was, marching past the kitchen and toward the scene of the crime, all without lifting so much as a pinkie to fight her way free.
She really wasn’t cut out for this. She hated proving Dagan right.
Dagan…
Just the thought of him gave her hope. Because if anyone could get her out of this mess, it was him.
Order Julie Ann Walker’s next book
in the Black Knights Inc. series
Fuel for Fire
On sale July 2017
Author’s Note
For those of you familiar with the vibrant city of Chicago, Illinois, you’ll notice I changed a few places and names and embellished the details of others. I did this to suit the story and to highlight the diversity and challenges of this dynamic city I call home.
Acknowledgments
As always, kudos to my hubby. Sweetheart, when I said I couldn’t spend one more winter in Chicago, you whisked me away to New Orleans for two whole months. The majority of this book was written on a belly full of gumbo and étouffée, after Mardi Gras parades and second-line shenanigans, and while sitting on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. Thank you for always being up for an adventure.
Big thanks to my editor, Deb Werksman, and my agent, Nicole Resciniti. Ladies, you always make my books shine. Thank you so much for your dedication and unwavering support. You’re both amazeballs, and I couldn’t do any of this without you.
Mega props to my readers. Thank you all so much for following me and the bunch at BKI on these crazy journeys of love, laughter, and life lived on the edge. Here’s to many more! Cheers, and happy reading!