I find bacon and eggs in the fridge and make breakfast. I’m drinking a strong cup of coffee when Zoe walks into the kitchen, showered and changed. My gaze skims over her frilly blouse and fitted jeans. The clothes are her, the woman I got to know. She’s as beautiful as ever, even as a blonde. My heart skips a beat. The truth gives me a head rush. She’s truly here and not just a vision from one of my empty dreams. I have her back.
I pull out a chair at the breakfast counter. “I kept your breakfast warm in the oven.” Using a mitten, I serve her the warm plate of food. “Coffee?”
“Yes.” Like an afterthought, she adds, “Please.”
I pour a cup and stir in two sugars the way she likes. Gripping a strand of her hair, I twist it between my fingers. “You’re going to dye this back to your natural color.”
Her words are catty. “I thought men liked blondes.”
“I like you for who you are unless you want to be a blonde now.”
“Not particularly.” She folds her hands around the mug. “Anyway, it’s a lot of work to keep up.”
Good. It’s one step closer to who we used to be, to who we’re supposed to be. “Eat your breakfast, then call your brother. I’m going for a shower.”
She eyes the door. I smile. The keys are safely in my pocket, the alarm on the door set, and I’ve already confiscated her phone. If she thinks she can run from me again, she’s got another think coming.
While she eats, I shower and pull a clean shirt from my overnight bag. The pants are crumpled from sleeping in them, so I pull on a pair from the suit travel bag I’ve stored in Zoe’s closet. I’m ready in twenty minutes, finding Zoe in a clean kitchen. It would’ve been fifteen if I didn’t have to tend to my painfully hard dick in the shower.
Defeat sits in her shoulders, their proud line slouched. “Damian can meet us at ten.”
“If you have any loose ends to tie up, I suggest you do so now.”
From the thorough check I did on her, I know she doesn’t have any accounts. She pays cash for everything. We only have to give notice to her employer and rental agent.
While she writes a letter of resignation, I make the bed and take the bag she keeps packed from her closet.
I dump it at her feet in the kitchen. “I suppose you’ll need this.”
She gives me a cutting look.
“Come on.” Wrapping my arm around her waist, I support her while she hops down the stairs and to my car on one foot.
“How did you get in here?” she asks as I throw our bags in the trunk.
“I got someone to hack into the rental agency’s database. We pulled your code for the gate and your thumbprint for the boom.” Smiling, I open her door. “This may or may not surprise you, but there isn’t an alarm in this world I can’t override or a lock I can’t pick.”
“Right,” she says, letting me help her into her seat.
I fasten her safety belt before going around to my side. Throwing the keys up in the air, I catch them in a fist. My heart beats again. For the first time in months, I feel something other than despair. The autumn day is warm with the fragrance of honeysuckle hanging in the air. It’s pretty. It’s the only way I can experience these upbeat things. It’s the only way I can eat and taste the food, only when I have Zoe by my side.
Zoe gives directions while I drive, even if I know where Damian’s office is. The block he owns is a glass skyscraper with a helicopter landing pad on the roof not far from Newtown. Big, silver letters spell Hart Diamonds across the front of the building with the company logo depicted underneath. The place is like Fort Knox. We’re searched before we enter the parking. I don’t have a choice but to leave my gun in the visitor’s safe. Then my car is searched. After a lengthy process of signing in, we go through scanners, are searched again and made to wait in an area with heat sensitive scanners that pick up above normal body temperatures to raise a viral threat alarm. This guy leaves nothing to chance.
A woman in her late fifties meets us when we clear the final checkpoint. “This way, please.”
She calls down an elevator that works with voice recognition software and escorts us to the top floor. When we step out, Damian Hart himself is waiting in a large reception area featuring an eclectic collection of art. He’s wearing a dark suit like me, and like me, his regard is sharp and observant. If he didn’t already know who I was, he would’ve done an extensive search on me to arm himself with every piece of information he could lay his hands on. Of course I’ve done the same with him. The little media and company photos I could scavenge don’t do him justice. They portray his strong form and handsome features, but not the cunning edge to his manner or the dangerous vibe only someone of the same making can recognize.
Walking toward us with long, confident strides, he pulls his sister into an embrace and kisses her cheek. The resemblance is striking. They have the same good bone structure and dark hair—that is, when Zoe doesn’t dye hers. Zoe is a female version of her brother, smaller and paler, but not less stronger. In her own way, she’s a warrior, a fighter for justice, a spokeswoman for love, and a formidable little con artist when she wants to be. Or shall I say escape artist?
“How are you?” Damian asks, searching her eyes. The question
