“What do you want to know?”
“Do you like your job?”
“Yes.”
“Well that was easy. Never want to quit? Never have a bad day?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have bad days.” Getting shot at wasn’t exactly a good time when it happened. He also didn’t enjoy killing, but sometimes it had to be done. “But no, I don’t want to quit.”
“I know what you do is dangerous. That doesn’t bother you?”
“Not usually, no.”
“When you got shot… you didn’t want to quit?”
“Not really. I mean yeah, there’s a little bit of apprehension that goes with getting shot, but I’ve never doubted I’m where I need to be.”
He didn’t remember the precise moment because that’s what trauma often did—it wiped your memory of the details. But he remembered the alarm going off, shouting at Maddy. And the bang. He remembered the sound of it. He didn’t remember falling, and he didn’t remember the moment he realized he’d been shot.
What he remembered was waking up in the hospital with tubes running out of him and feeling like he’d been run over by a train. He also remembered a lot of painful physical therapy as he got the use of his muscles back again.
“I’m really sorry that happened,” Angie said softly.
His gut tightened. “It’s not your fault, babe. We’ve been over this.”
“I know. You don’t blame me, and I didn’t actually lead her to you or pull the trigger. But she wouldn’t have found Maddy without me—which means she wouldn’t have shot you.”
“Yeah, but she might have shot you if you hadn’t cooperated. You wouldn’t be on the other end of the phone, and I wouldn’t be wondering what you’re wearing right now.”
Angie made a choking sound, and he realized she’d been drinking something. “Oh my god,” she said when she could talk again. “You nearly killed me. Water went down the wrong tube.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry.” But he really wasn’t because it had gotten her off the subject of him getting shot and her being at fault for it.
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“Why not? You have to know I’m attracted to you. I’m pretty sure you’re attracted to me. Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured me naked.”
“Oh lord, I am not having this conversation with you.”
“You have, haven’t you?” His dick started to respond to the thought.
“Colt,” she said firmly. “Don’t make me hang up on you.”
He laughed. “Okay, fine. We won’t talk about nakedness anymore. Unless you want to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You sound uptight. Know what’s good for releasing tension?”
“Colt.”
Colt laughed again. “Kidding, Ang. Sorta.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m male.”
“Same thing.”
He laughed. “Look, you sound tired and it’s getting late. Why don’t you have a glass of wine and get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”
He heard her yawn. “I am tired, you’re right. Think I’ll skip the wine and head straight for bed.”
“Night, Angie.”
“Night, Colt.”
The line went dead and Colt dropped his phone onto the coffee table. But he didn’t pick up the remote and unmute the television. Instead, he grabbed his phone again and dialed the man who knew everything.
“What’s up?” Ian Black said by way of greeting.
“Probably nothing,” Colt replied. “But I’m curious about something.”
He told Ian about Charles Martinelli and how he’d quit work without notice. About how Angie was having trouble with one of his client accounts.
Ian listened without comment. When Colt finished, Ian said, “Run his name through the database and see what pops up. Can’t hurt. Do you know the name of the client?”
“Not yet.”
“But you can get it.”
“Probably.” If Angie wouldn’t tell him—though he suspected she would—he’d get Maddy to find out.
“If nothing pops up on Martinelli, we’ll plug the client in and see what happens.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Sure thing. So she’s speaking to you now, huh?”
“For the time being,” Colt replied.
Ian chuckled. “Then don’t fuck it up.”
“Not planning on it, boss.”
Ian was still laughing when they ended the call. Colt rubbed a finger over his temple, thinking. He could keep flirting, keep gently pushing Angie forward. Or he could back off entirely and let her find a guy who was more her speed. Another accountant. A scientist. Someone whose life wasn’t ruled by volatility and violence.
Someone who wasn’t living a lie.
Angie couldn’t sleep. She was tired, but she couldn’t stop thinking. She groaned as she sat up in bed after tossing and turning for a couple of hours.
She needed to sleep, but it just wasn’t happening. She checked her phone for the time. 1:00 a.m.
Crap.
She could lie there and toss and turn some more, or she could get up and do some work on her computer. She opted for work, so she threw the covers back and slipped on her robe. She padded out to the kitchen, poured a glass of Chardonnay from the box she had in the fridge—Colt would no doubt be horrified—and sat at the island to open her laptop. She pulled up the Cardinal Group spreadsheet and scrolled through the columns.
She clicked the tabs. There were several blanks, sheet after sheet, but she kept clicking them because she’d never done that before. Going relentlessly sideways until she ran out of tabs.
On the final tab, there was a number. Angie blinked. She’d only found it because she scrolled down instead of closing what appeared to be another blank tab. It was too long to be a bank account number, but she highlighted it and copied it over to her notepad. The number of empty tabs was ridiculous. What the hell was Charles doing anyway?
She counted the spaces. There were twenty-three numbers. She had no idea what those twenty-three numbers meant. They could be anything. Maybe it was an IBAN—an international routing number—but she didn’t recognize a country code so that was probably out too. Could just be Martinelli’s internal notations that made sense only to him, though why he’d put it onto a tab at the end of a bunch of blanks, she had no
