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“Excellent. Thanks again for your help.”
“Talk later, Harper.”
As I hung up and walked toward Dane’s bathroom to take a shower, I tried to get my mind around the next steps to keeping my business afloat while staying hidden from the bad guys. I just needed to find another place to cook, get all the ingredients I needed for both of tomorrow’s events’ food and a bulletproof vest.
No problem.
Fourteen
DANE
“They were staking out her kitchen all this time,” I said to Leo. He was anxious, ready to pounce, pacing around my office like a caged tiger.
“But we’d been there for hours. Why didn’t they get it over with the second we walked in?”
“To catch us off guard,” I argued. Shrugged. “Maybe to avoid more witnesses than necessary.”
“Or simply to be a hundred percent sure they were shooting at the right target.” Leo stopped at the floor to ceiling window to the right of my office desk and stared outside. “They probably had their people follow us here.”
Probably.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told him, my eyes fixed on my phone screen as I scrolled through my contact list. “We’re safe within these walls.”
“True, but sooner or later we’ll need to leave.”
“Let’s cross that bridge then.”
“I’m just saying I don’t think we’ve got enough men on our team to fight off O’Sullivan’s entire fucking army.”
I glanced up at him. “I’m not looking to start a fight. I want to end it.”
He sat on a guest chair, long legs sprawled out in front of him and raked a hand through his hair, seeming to relive those tense moments in Harper’s kitchen. “That whole showdown’s on me,” he ground out through a tight, clenched jaw. “It should never have happened. I should’ve had my men cover every angle of that place. If anything would’ve happened to Harper—”
“It didn’t. Get over all that guilt. None of this is on you.”
“I was distracted. My head wasn’t in the game. Fuck. I didn’t
have to go that far, licking honey off her clit…”
I was itching to tell him that if this were my last day on this planet, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it. But that would only get him blaming himself more, so I pushed down the urge and changed the subject.
“I’m phoning the fucker.”
“Who? O’Sullivan? Now?”
“Damn straight.”
“Fuck, no. We can’t. We need some leverage.”
“Like what?”
“Dirt.”
I placed both elbows on the hard surface and leaned forward. “How about you hum a few more bars so I get the drift?”
“You need me to draw you a flow chart?” He sighed. “I mean dirt. Shit about O’Sullivan that we can hold over his head. There’s no other way she’s getting out of this alive.”
“And add both our names to the equation. They didn’t come there just for her.”
