Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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Spicy times ahead.
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James has me bound, duct tape over my mouth, as Ron drives us through the rain-soaked streets of Seattle. I don't know when I lost my phone, but all I know is that it's gone, and I'm screwed. He promised he wouldn't kill me. Yet here I am, bound and gagged in the backseat like some helpless captive. At least he had the decency to clean the blood from my face.
Fuck this.
Ron's been on a call, murmuring something about a "clean-up." My guess? It's about those Spaniard men who were left dead in the garage earlier. Casual. Just another day in the life of James Wilson—or Dimitri—or whatever he really calls himself.
I glare at the back of his head, my mind racing. This is kidnapping. Plain and simple. I was almost dragged off by Nicolás's men, and now I'm with these Russians—or is Ron British? No matter. The question is: What now?
James turns to glance at me, his blue eyes piercing even in the dim lighting of the car. I narrow my eyes in response, giving him the nastiest glare I can muster through the tape. He'll regret this. I'll make sure of it.
"Sir, if I may," Ron starts, and I can't help but feel a flicker of curiosity. Ron, with his calm British accent, always so damn proper compared to the rest of them. The guy is like a human icicle—cold, unaffected. He doesn't even flinch under James's usual volcanic fury.
James inhales slowly, clearly already on edge, and Ron presses on, carefully. "I believe it would be more efficient to take Miss Striker to the warehouse for... easier disposal."
I yell against the tape, my muffled voice filled with the fury that words can't convey. Easier disposal? Are you fucking kidding me?
James's hand tightens into a fist, and his voice cuts through the car like a blade. "I'll handle Miss Striker my own way. She's not going to be fucking disposed, Ron."
There it is. That deadly, commanding tone James has perfected. The one that would make most men back down immediately. But Ron? He's cool as ever.
