Page 83

Ryder didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “No, I can’t.” He moderated his tone to one that sounded reasonable and friendly, rather than commanding. “Why don’t we bring Angie back to your house? A change of scenery might help.”
As he’d hoped, Nathalie seized on the suggestion. “That’s a great idea. How about it, Angie? We can go to my home, relax, and talk. You’ll be safe there.”
Angie’s head shook, her frantic expression tightening the back of Ryder’s neck. “No. I shouldn’t have called you, I shouldn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Nathalie soothed. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”
She turned to Ryder. “I’m perfectly safe. It’s just me and Angie.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding.
He wouldn’t be swayed. “I need to clear the apartment.”
“Ryder.” Nathalie’s hand feathered across his forearm. She stepped into him, her breath bathing his face. Her scent, earthy and floral, filled his nose. Her warmth seeped into his skin.
She lowered her voice. “Angie’s scared. She’s a victim of trauma, and storming through her personal space with a gun is only going to traumatize her more. I’m asking you to honor that. Let me speak to her alone. You’ll be right on the other side of the door.”
“It’s not safe,” he growled. “Not proper security—”
“Protocol. I know.” She smiled. “Even if you think the bad guy is still around—despite having already broken into my lab, and despite his likely employer being arrested this morning—I highly doubt he’s hiding out in my receptionist’s apartment.” Her hand cupped his cheek. “Trust me.”
She turned back to face Angie. “I’m coming in. Alone.” Without even looking back, her hand flew up like a stop sign, cutting off the argument forming on his lips.
Angie closed the door and unlatched the security chain before re-opening the door wider. Nathalie stepped in and gave the girl a careful hug.
Ryder glanced over their heads into a living room with a faded brown couch and two mismatched armchairs. Along the back wall was a sliding glass door leading to a small balcony. The side wall opened to what appeared to be a dining room. He could just make out a chair pulled up to a light oak table.
He glanced down the empty corridor, his sixth sense jangling. “Don’t be long or I’m coming in, even if I have to break down the door.”
Angie stepped back from Nathalie’s hold and closed the door, putting a solid barrier between him and the two women.
Ryder’s gut churned.
The deadbolt slid home with a click.
Chapter Nineteen
Nathaliestaredatthebruise mottling Angie’s face and struggled to keep her anger in check. She had to tread carefully and find out what happened so she could convince Angie to call the police on whoever used her receptionist as a punching bag.
“Let’s sit down.” She gestured toward the brown sofa that looked like it had weathered a few stints in a college apartment. “Then you need to tell me what happened.”
Angie’s fingers knotted together as she shifted on her feet. “How about,” she sucked in a breath. “I mean, would you like some tea?”
“Sure.” If it would put Angie at ease. “I’ll help you make it.” Nathalie set her purse on the end table next to the couch and followed her receptionist past the outdoor balcony and through a compact dining room to a galley-size kitchen. An electric tea kettle sat next to the stove.
Angie shuffled to the kettle before turning to face Nathalie. She shrank even further into herself. Tears squeezed past the swollen tissue around her eye and down her bruised cheek. “I’m sorry.” Her frightened gaze shifted to something over Nathalie’s shoulder.
Or someone. The hair on the back of Nathalie’s neck rose.
Too late.
Metal, cold with a raised circular edge, pressed against the base of her skull. “Hello, luv.”
The voice was male.
And British. A working-class accent, lacking the crisp enunciation of Ryder’s upper class one.
“It’s okay, Angie.” Nathalie cursed herself for being all kinds of a fool. She kept her gaze trained on the young woman. “It’s not your fault.”
The bastard had used Angie to get to her. He’d pay for that.