“Yes, but—”
“I knew that old coot would cave,” he said, taking long strides to his office. “Did they leave a nano-drive in my office?”
“Well…”
He opened the ornate wooden door to his father’s office, halting in his tracks.
“What the hell is this?” he said.
Towers of file folders were stacked to the ceiling in columns. Along the left-hand wall were old-school bankers’ boxes, bursting at the seams. He couldn’t see his couch or his desk. Straight ahead was a hedge maze with walls constructed of special project documents. So much for keyword searching or running statistical programs on the data.
“I’m betting this isn’t what you were expecting,” Edith said.
And that’s when Collins lost it. Laughter shook his whole body as he fell into hysterics, his earlier lunacy forgotten and replaced with another.
“Well done, Cid,” he said.
This was the best example of malicious compliance he’d ever seen, but Collins thrived on challenges. When backed into a corner, Cid proved himself to be a true adversary. Without a doubt, Collins had lost the battle, but in the end, he’d win the war.
The Commander
They’d never seen them coming.
The commander looked back on those days of ignorance with a keen sense of loss. What he wouldn’t give to go back to a time before the Draconians—when inner-clan squabbles seemed momentous and when hard-fought treaties had felt historic.
Their histories were now a pile of rubble beneath the ancient city of Arcai.
“Commander, it’s time to retreat,” his lieutenant urged from outside his office door.
He ran his hand across the hard surface of the antique advisor’s table. Commissioned by his great-grandfather, it was where he’d sat with his most trusted councilors for thirteen years, trading ideas, finding solutions, and nurturing friendships.
Most of them were dead now.
Explosions sounded in the distance. Every tribe had been ordered to ground.
“Sir,” his second-in-command said. Out the wide window, fire rained down on their defenses.
The commander had a legacy. His child would carry it one day. Perhaps soon.
They could not delay any longer.
The commander crossed over the plush handwoven rugs made by some of his father’s most talented artisans. All of it destined to be lost to their enemy.
He paused but a moment to lay a comforting hand on the shoulder of his oldest friend.
“Bring the table.”
Quinn
Crap! She was late.
Her left foot cramped painfully as she did her best to run in her patent-leather pumps.
There was zero chance he was going to let it slide. Not after three separate reminders from his assistant—this week.
She wouldn’t be in this mess, or these torture devices they called shoes, if it weren’t for the political unrest over the upcoming elections. She spent more time in meetings these days than at her desk. She was seriously missing the glow of a blue-light filter, a fresh cup of hot tea, and the tapped communication line of an extremist nutjob—ahh, cozy bliss…
Her schedule of meetings was endless, not to mention essentially useless. What good did it do to talk about the problem over and over again? They needed to do their jobs and investigate. In addition, she had her own personal investigation to see to, one to which she’d prefer to devote her time.
Quinn nearly fell as she rounded the corner, her heels slipping on the smooth tile of the Covington Academy Performing Arts Center corridor. She righted herself and tried not to break her stride.
What elementary school had a Performing Arts Center anyway? What happened to the smelly cafeteria stages she’d danced around on as a kid?
Finally outside the door of the theater, she straightened her blazer and smoothed out her skirt, daring the usher to say something about her frazzled state.
When she entered, the lights were already dimmed, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Several heads turned her way, but she ignored their glares. There was only one head, a redhead in particular, that she looked for—Julian’s.
A tiny pixie of a ballerina twirled across the stage. Serah had been somewhat heartbroken last month when she lost the leading slot to another girl—this girl. But watching Serah practice these past few weeks, one would never have guessed she’d been disappointed. She’d worked so hard. As Quinn scanned the aisles, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Serah hadn’t made her entrance yet. She would have felt awful if she’d missed her big moment.
A throat cleared to her right, and she sought out a familiar pair of baby blues. Even in the low lights of the auditorium, they were piercing. It wasn’t fair for a man to have such striking eyes. Especially one who was such an ass. Julian Collins, CEO of Psionic Enterprises and billionaire playboy, was one of the most beautiful men in the world. This was categorically true. Entrepreneur magazine had named him thus just last month. So she knew it, the world knew it, and worst of all, he knew it.
The row Julian sat in would be a challenge to navigate. One couple had staked out the end seat in order to have room to set up their tripod. Perfect. A professional, shake-free recording of a nine-year-old’s recital that would last through the ages. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Only two seats remained open on Julian’s left. Guess I’m not the only one running late, she thought smugly, wedging herself into the row and trying to keep her backside out of the laps of the overachieving parents. She finally found her seat, plopping down inelegantly next to the mom. Julian quirked an eyebrow. It was both infuriatingly smug and irritatingly attractive. Stupid hormones.
“I know we’re in an elementary school, but I don’t have cooties,” Julian quipped, leaning against his armrest.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked across the empty space. “We’ve yet to develop a test for cooties, so you could be a carrier and not even realize it.” She withheld the criticism in the back of her mind: that with the type of company he kept, he very well could be carrying something. Every tabloid in the country would attest he indulged in all manner of flirtations, to put it mildly. But that was a petty thought and really judgmental on her part. It wasn’t her business whom he spent time with.
He scoffed but tilted his head in question, waiting.
“Does Margot not want to sit by you either?” she asked, raising her own eyebrow back at him. Margot seemed to be somewhat different than his usual go-to women. Different in that she had hung around longer than any other. They’d appeared in all the gossip blogs for several weeks now. Not that she followed those types of things.
“Shh,” a woman hissed loudly behind them.
Quinn turned sharply to see the woman’s tight glare and barely resisted a smart retort back at her. They weren’t that loud, and besides, the girls were dancing, not speaking.
Julian rolled his eyes dramatically. “Margot double-booked a fundraiser on top of tonight’s recital.” Julian hadn’t lowered his voice even a fraction, and her neck prickled from the icy displeasure of whoever sat behind them.
Resigned, she stood and ducked into the next seat, intentionally avoiding the armrest they shared. “Why don’t we try and avoid getting kicked out of an elementary school ballet tonight?” she whispered, leaning his direction.