Page 3 of West

And then she scans the street, one way, then the other, and turns.

Oh. No. Not to be dramatic, but you could say that my heart just stops right there in my chest. Really, I can’t breathe, and I’m not sure what’s worse, the terrible sudden blaze of heat under my ribs or the rush of weakness at seeing her.

So apparently fate isn’t listening to my promises.

Yes, it’s Ziggy Mattucci.

So that’s where she went.

I’ll explain later—but suffice it to say this woman might be the death of me someday.

If I don’t kill her myself.

Okay, not really. Problem: She’s so far embedded in my soul that losing her once has already cost me pieces of myself.

But I don’t slip out of the shadows, I don’t stalk up to her and growl, Where have you been? I stay put because I know, deep in my bones, that Oleg’s target just might have been the one woman I can’t seem to get free of.

Either that or it was the woman who climbs out after Ziggy.

Mid-forties, dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, no jewelry. She wears a camel coat, belted. Dark trousers. Flat shoes. And she holds a leather portfolio against her ribs.

She looks like a CEO.

This is interesting, don’t you think? Mostly because Ziggy is a spy. Or at least, she was, last time I saw her—although granted, that was at her family’s estate in Tuscany, and with a few broken ribs and a busted wrist, the woman could hardly speak a full sentence without needing to sit down. So what in high heaven⁠—

Later. I take a breath.

“Gracias,” the woman says to the driver, who’s gotten out and crossed over to her.

He hands her a folded sheet. “Su itinerario para mañana.”

Your itinerary for tomorrow.

So, not a random hired car, but someone who works for whatever organization brought her here. Ziggy shuts the door, again casts a look down the street.

I duck back. No need to complicate anything.

Aw, it’s probably too late for that, isn’t it?

The doorman pulls the brass lever on the revolving door. “Bona nit, doctora.”

Doctor?

Ziggy follows her in, which is interesting. Maybe she has a team inside.

Except, what team? Last I knew, she was fresh out of operatives.

Okay—let me catch you up. Ziggy is a Black Swan. A member of an all-women, elite group of spies, specializing in heists and undercover betrayals and working under the radar. They’re international, but they do a lot of work with the Brits, and also with the Caleb Group.

I should leave. Really. No reason to yank open the door and follow Ziggy inside and say, What the blooming heck are you doing here? Okay, that’s an edit of my actual thought, but we’ll keep it tame.

If she doesn’t care enough about me not to vanish for eight months without a word, then I shouldn’t be standing here like a man with a broken heart.

That might be overstated. Not a broken heart. I just got the wind knocked out of my sails. Felt a little shipwrecked for a while there.

So the Ziggy sighting is probably good news. I can now mark that little annoyance of her disappearance off the list in the back of my brain. Ziggy, back at work. All is normal with the world.

Really.