“Don’t you dare,” I say, fighting a laugh as Quince lifts a hand as if he’s about to count off five wildly sexual things he has planned for my little sister.
We all grin, and Eliza slides into his arms and tilts her head up for a quick kiss. Once again, I feel that unexpected tightening in my chest. I tell myself it’s just melancholy. Like the way a mom feels when her daughter gets married and the girl is no longer hers alone.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about joining the SSA,” Eliza says, after she breaks the kiss with a sigh.
“A girl’s gotta have some secrets.”
“And now I have to take her to see Damien,” Quince says. “Grab me a drink and I’ll meet you back here?”
“You got it.” She flashes an impish grin at me. “Already in trouble with the boss?”
“Go,” I say. “Pest.”
She laughs, then skips away, her fingers brushing Quincy’s until they’re far enough apart that contact is impossible.
“You two are good together.”
“That we are. Come on.”
I follow, basking in the love I hear for my sister. Though I tried hard to make it okay, there’s no escaping the reality of our shitty childhood. Eliza deserves to be happy, and I’m glad they found each other.
I mentally shake my head, clearing the emotional baggage. Right now, I either need to be joining in the fete for the Sykes’ new baby or wondering about why Stark wants to see me. I focus on the latter. “I talked to Damien and Ryan earlier when I accepted the job. What’s up now?” While Damien Stark founded Stark Security, Ryan Hunter runs it.
“Haven’t a clue. He just asked if I’d track you down. This is me, following orders. Not a rebellious bone in my body.”
“Funny man,” I say, following him toward the house with a rising feeling of dread. The only reason for Stark to want to see me is to give me an assignment—in which case he’d most likely wait until Monday—or because he’s found out about my Thursday night excursion with Quince. And since Quince and I will be heading into the Starks’ Malibu mansion together, I’m guessing we’re in for a dressing down.
And by we, I mean me.
As it turns out, we don’t go inside. Instead, we veer around the incredible home on a path that leads to the professional quality tennis court. Not that I’m an expert on courts, but since Damien used to play professionally, I figure it’s a reasonable guess. He’s sitting at a small table just inside the fenced area, and Antonio Sanchez is right beside him, his stubbled chin resting on a fist as he studies me.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. I’m not usually self-conscious, but something about the way he’s examining me has me resisting the urge to stand up taller. Instead, I make sure my posture is casual as I regard him with equal intensity.
He doesn’t flinch. Not even when Damien has to repeat himself to catch Antonio’s attention. Only then does he glance away before nodding in response to whatever Damien said.
Then he’s back to focusing on me as Damien heads in my direction, crossing the court until he’s standing right in front of us.
Damien looks between Quince and me, and I’m certain he’s going to dress us down about the operation at the hotel. But all Damien says is, “Thanks for showing Emma to the court. I can take it from here.”
From the surprise I see flicker over Quince’s face, I can tell he expected at least a slap on the wrist. But he gives me a you’re on look, waves at Antonio who’s still at the table, then walks off, prompting me to realize I’d missed an opportunity. Apparently Quincy knows the guy. And I would very much have liked at least a clue as to who Sanchez is.
“I spoke with Anderson,” Damien says, and it takes me a minute to interpret that sentence.
“Colonel Seagrave.” The name falls unnecessarily from my lips. Of course, that’s who Damien’s talking about. My former boss and mentor at the Sensitive Operations Command where I’d worked as an agent—really, a ghost—for a good part of my life. The man to whom I’d promised Cane’s list in exchange for a James Bond style license to kill the little son of a bitch.
“I told him you’d signed on with us.”
I feel the tension leave my body. I’d been expecting a sharp lecture about utilizing SSA resources without SSA authorization. “I was going to let him know today. He knows I’ve been considering it for a while.”
“He was pleased. But I got the impression from our conversation that you worked solo for the SOC.”
“Does that come as a surprise?”
“No. But I do want to reiterate that our policy at the SSA is for agents to work primarily in teams. There are exceptions, but I’m not interested in building an organization full of loners. The work the SSA does is serious and sensitive. Everyone on staff needs to know and trust each other—agents, tech, clerical, all the way down to housekeeping. There’s no room for a lone wolf in my shop.”
“I thought it was Ryan’s shop.”
I’m right, and I know it. Damien Stark runs a multinational, multibillion-dollar empire, and from what I’ve read, he’s pretty hands-on about all his enterprises. But he isn’t an agent and has no background in law enforcement. He’s not someone who checks in day to day at the SSA. And that, in fact, is why he put Ryan Hunter in charge, a man with a long list of law enforcement and intelligence credentials.
So, yeah. My statement was right. Even so, I cringe when Damien says, “My name is on the door, Emma. It’s my shop.”
“Of course,” I say, then add, “Sir.”
His shoulders relax and he drags his fingers through his hair. “That’s not necessary either. All I want to do is make a point about team work and communication.” He looks hard at me, and I look right back at him, not blinking.
The truth is, he’s right and I know it. But I spent too many years doing exactly what the government big shots said without question or objection because they held my life—and, by extension, Eliza’s life—in their hands. Years of following orders. Of doing what I was told and only what I was told.
Eventually I got some leeway, sure. With my skillset, they allowed me that. And maybe there was a bit of trust there, too, at the end. I don’t know. All I know is that I was nothing but a toy for my father and then a puppet for the government. When I finally got clear and opened my own shop and started calling my own shots, the freedom was heady.
And deep down, I’m really not sure that agreeing to join Stark Security was the best plan.
Correction—that’s not a deep down fear. That’s a right under the surface fear. I’ve almost pulled the plug so many times, and yet something keeps pulling me toward this group. Something more than Eliza’s connection. Just because her man is an agent doesn’t mean I need to be one, too.
No, I the truth is, I’ve seen how competent they are, not to mention how many resources are at the agents’ disposal. And there is a lot of appeal to being part of a group that does good work. I’ve been telling myself that for months. I think I even finally believe it. Hell, I accepted the job. God knows the pay took some of the sting out of the decision.
But still, I’ve had these niggling doubts. And now they’ve become a little more than niggling since I’m already getting this subtle dressing down for my first mission. Which, of course, wasn’t really a mission. And which, of course, broke all of the SSA’s rules.