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This isn’t the first job that the Knights have interfered with. We keep records, yes. But shit like this, me having to get things beyond what the client is paying for, that changes the game.
“Just do the job and don’t mess it up.”
“If you’re concerned my methods might put the fucking job in danger…” I deliberately trail off with an eyebrow raised.
His eyes narrow at me, then shift away. “No. I’m just letting you know that you’d better not fuck it up by letting your personal mission get in the way.”
“Motherfucker…” That’s the problem with people on my level. We see things.
There’s a small, humorless smile on Jones’s face. “I know you, West. When you do undercover jobs, it’s a swindle, blackmail, big scores. Not something like this. So you’ve got a personal mission. Use Smith’s talents. Use all of us if you need to. Just don’t fuck things up by letting what you’re really after get in the way.”
“I’m a cold fucking son of a bitch,” I mutter, finishing my drink and straightening up. “I don’t let emotions get in the way.”
“I didn’t say a word about emotions.”
I slam my glass on the bar and walk away without a look back.
Scarlett Hanlon’s right on time.
I take my time to answer the door, and when I do pull it open, she stares at me with utter dislike, a dark heat of desire in the depths of her golden eyes. We’re on the threshold, the walk from the private elevator that opens into the foyer a conceit I can see she’s judging me on.
“Welcome,” I say, stepping back and motioning for her to move inside. “To your new home.”
The air crackles and shifts. But she doesn’t move. “Temporary home.”
It’s a waiting game, futile because we both know how it’s going to end, me winning with her stepping over my threshold.
But she’s got steel in her veins because she lets the moment stretch. We’re not in touching distance, not unless I step forward, but she still eats up the space in the foyer where she stands a few steps away from the door.
Finally, she looks past me and takes a few cautious steps forward.
“Temporary,” she says again, as if she’s trying to convince herself of that.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think you’re a rich man.”
She means a fucking vulgar monster who has cash. But we both know money talks.
And this place…
The SoHo penthouse is built on top of a historic building, and the interior is a modern air of linen and leather in beiges and creams… the current trend of every luxury interior design lookbook.
There’s an entire wall of glass that opens to a huge outdoor area, one the real estate dick said was a way of bringing the outside indoors, and vice versa.
The dollar signs flashing in his eyes like flickering light bulbs when I bought it six months ago, staged with furniture and all, was almost laugh worthy.
And as she takes it all in, I can feel her disdain thick in the air.
To be fair, I don’t blame Scarlett.
This is the epitome of someone trying to buy respectability.
It’s an ugly flash of money done up in muted shades and tones.
It can be whatever I want it to be, and right now, it’s perfect for JM.
“Oh, I am, and very, very powerful. Remember that.”
