Page 13 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)
Sloane didn’t sleep well that night. She’d always had trouble sleeping in a bed that wasn’t hers.
It didn’t help that whenever she closed her eyes, the door to her closet of anxieties burst open and her insecurities came out to play.
Or worse, her thoughts would drift to Navarre, and what he’d said about what they could do in the big, comfortable bed she was lying in right now.
And although he hadn’t been explicit, her overactive imagination had been more than happy to make a few suggestions.
No matter the reason, she woke in the darkened room with bleary eyes and a crick in her neck.
As the fog of sleep drifted from her mind, she reached for her phone to check the time and groaned.
Damn it, she still had almost thirty minutes before her alarm was set to go off.
But by the time her body relaxed enough for her to fall back asleep, it would be time for her to get up anyway. She might as well start the day now.
On the heels of a jaw-popping yawn, she whipped back the covers and stretched.
She had a busy day ahead of her, and it filled her with a strange combination of excitement and apprehension.
If everything went according to plan, she didn’t have a thing to worry about.
Dressed as Sierra, she’d lure the press to the executive airport, where they’d watch her—from a safe distance, of course—board a private jet bound for Sierra’s mountainside estate in North Carolina.
Meanwhile, Sierra would sneak out with the remaining Six Points crew and drive to a totally different airport, this one closer to the coast, where she’d fly to a private island in the Caribbean with her current flavor of the week.
Sloane didn’t know who the guy was, and even though she was curious, she knew better than to ask.
On paper, it all sounded pretty straightforward, but she was also aware of Murphy’s Law and that famous saying about the best-laid plans.
She padded barefoot to the bathroom and took a long hot shower, basking under the multiple jets until her fingers and toes were all pruned up and the crick in her neck only felt like a minor twinge.
When she finished, she toweled her body dry and dressed in black sweatpants and a T-shirt with Fozzie Bear from the Muppets on the front.
There wasn’t much point in getting fancy.
In less than an hour, she’d meet with Sierra’s staff, who would take care of her hair and makeup, and dress her in the clothes they’d chosen for her to wear to the airport.
Hopefully, her wardrobe would include a comfortable jacket.
Last she’d heard, the high temperature in the Asheville area was forecast to reach the mid-50s today.
Not bad, but chilly for a Florida girl who was accustomed to much warmer weather.
As she opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hall, the mouthwatering scents of chorizo and bacon washed over her, and her stomach rumbled in response.
Not surprising, considering she hadn’t eaten anything since dinner last night.
Following her nose, she tracked the aromas downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Jackson and Navarre.
Both men wore black from neck to toes, guns resting in their shoulder holsters, while they prepared what appeared to be enough food to feed a battalion.
There were three or four cartons of eggs on the counter, in addition to an assortment of meats, cheeses, and vegetables.
Well, there was a sight you didn’t see every day, though she honestly wouldn’t mind it.
For a moment or two, she simply stood there and watched them work side by side at the six-burner gas stove.
Navarre wasn’t what she’d describe as a small person, but his lean, muscular build appeared slight next to Jackson’s hulking frame.
Even so, they worked amazingly well together, their movements fast and fluid without ever banging into each other.
As if sensing her presence, Navarre glanced over his shoulder to her, and she felt a flutter low in her belly that she refused to admit was due to anything other than the smell of bacon.
She offered a smile, refusing to feel embarrassed that he’d caught her gawking at them.
Honestly, what did he expect? The two of them looked more out of place than the Kardashians at a truck stop.
“Good morning.” She gave them a little finger wave. “Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful.”
Jackson emptied the contents of a cast-iron skillet into a large casserole dish, one of several lined up on the kitchen island, each resting on a warming tray.
Another dish was nearly overflowing with bacon, and she assumed the third was meant for the scrambled eggs Navarre was preparing in a huge frying pan.
And if all that wasn’t enough food for the crew, a round serving platter by the toaster was piled high with bagels and muffins.
To the right, a stack of plates and a tray of silverware filled the remaining space.
“Good morning.” Jackson’s smooth, deep voice filled the room.
The dark skin of his freshly shaved skull glinted under the bright kitchen lights.
“Help yourself. Milk and juice are in the fridge; cups and mugs are in the cabinet beside it. If you want coffee, you’ll have to brew it yourself.
I was going to do it, but apparently mine is too strong for these lightweights. ”
Navarre let out a low huff from where he stood in front of the stove, a spatula in his right hand. “Dude, I could use that shit to strip chrome off a bumper.”
Jackson flipped him off as he placed the skillet back on the stove to start the next batch of hash.
Sloane found it amusing, how guys socialized by insulting the crap out of each other.
She’d heard a lot of exchanges in the Six Points building, especially in the fitness room.
The closer the friend, the harsher the insult—some of them were downright vicious, but they never seemed to take offense.
Maybe it was just a testosterone thing, or some weird form of male bonding.
Navarre’s eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, and the flutter in her belly returned with a vengeance. “Grab a plate and load up while you can. That might look like a lot of food, but the guys will plow through it faster than a room full of stoners with the munchies.”
She laughed at that. “Thanks.”
She picked up utensils and a plate. Unable to resist the lure of bacon—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged—she used the tongs to place several slices onto her plate, and then added a scoop of scrambled eggs and breakfast hash.
It was tempting to grab a muffin while she was at it.
On any other day, she would have given in to the urge.
But she resisted, because she wanted to make sure she could fit into the clothes Sierra’s people wanted her to wear.
Coffee wasn’t her thing, so she crossed to the fridge for a can of Coke. Hands full, she took a seat at the humongous mahogany table in the adjacent formal dining room. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the kitchen, where the guys were busy preparing another batch of food.
While she watched them work, she scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs and…oh, wow. This was a pleasant surprise. The eggs were amazing, light and fluffy, with a subtle hint of sea salt and cracked pepper that gave the flavor a boost.
“Is everything okay?” Navarre called out from his spot by the stove, his neck craned back to look at her.
She swallowed her food. “Yeah, why?”
“You made a noise.”
A flush crept up her neck. That was probably the sound of her mouth-gasm.
She didn’t realize she’d made it out loud.
In her defense, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten eggs this flavorful.
Ever since she moved out of her parents’ house and into her first apartment, breakfast had become a hasty affair: cold cereal, yogurt with fruit, anything that could be eaten one-handed while reading emails or scrolling online.
“I’m just enjoying my food. The eggs are delicious. ”
The answer seemed to satisfy his curiosity, and he turned his attention back to the pan on the stove.
She was halfway finished with the food on her plate when Pinto appeared, his dark hair still damp from the shower.
He made a beeline for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a mug of coffee and a plate piled high with more food than she ate in an entire day. He slid out a chair to sit beside her.
“Morning,” he said right before he shoveled a forkful of chorizo hash into his mouth.
For a few long moments, she watched him eat, amazed a person could put away that much food in one sitting. And he didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him. “I wish I had the kind of metabolism that allowed me to eat like that.”
“That’s what Fiona says.” He grinned as he picked up a strip of crispy bacon. “I suppose I’m lucky that way.”
“Damn straight you are,” Rosario said as she sat across from them. Her plate more closely resembled Sloane’s, though she had several more slices of bacon and a blueberry muffin. “It’s so not fair. My ass would be the size of a bus if I ate that much on a regular basis.”
“But it would still be a very nice ass,” Pinto said and then quickly added, “Not that I’d notice or anything like that.”
Rosario laughed.
Within minutes, the rest of the crew was seated and plowing through their food as though they hadn’t eaten in a week or two.
Most of them were former military, where service members learned to eat fast from the day they started basic training.
At least that was what she’d heard. A few of them went back for seconds, and she was pretty sure Pinto went back for thirds.
“What are the movies for next weekend? It’s Navarre’s pick, right?” Hatch asked around a mouthful of food.