Page 74 of Rogue

“You know where my suite of rooms is located . . . if you have any questions.”

I stiffen at the subtle reminder of what happened before in his bedroom.

From beneath my lowered eyelashes, I send a silent message to Jaxson.Please don’t let him goad you.Except he’s scowling at our boss, returning glare with glare.

I agonized over the pros and cons of signing on with TORC. Money for medication versus leaving my family to their own resources. My house with a white picket fence versus life on the Ranch, or wherever Hayden needs me. Dreaming of a lover who will never be versus being with a lover who might never be. Never in my wildest imagination did I anticipate how my return would put Jaxson in jeopardy.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Kylie . . .” Hayden grounds out.

“Leaving.” I bow my head and calmly head for the door. Except what I’m feeling is the exact opposite of calm. I step away from the library, away from a man I undeniably detest, away from a man whom I wholeheartedly love. But when I hear his harsh warning to Jaxson, my heart skips a beat.

“If you ever put her before an order again, I’ll personally terminate you.”

19

Paris

Somewhere back at the Ranch, Hayden is laughing. Arrogance equates to ignorance. But sending those pictures was brazen stupidity.

I’m a complete failure. Three days in, and I’m wondering where my special kick-ass mercenary powers—which I foolishly believe exist—have disappeared to.

Three days spent at the same Montmartre cafe, snapping pictures of the same men while fighting back the itch to spice up their espressos. Sure, they’ve kept me out of the sewers of Paris. Jaxsonisprobably deep in the muck and still following my initial trail. But Novák proves to be elusive.

Has he changed his appearance? Am I’m looking for a dark-haired, bearded man when I should be searching for a clean-cut Malibu blond? Or maybe he’s smarter than I give him credit for?

Hard to say.

His Pricks have had three meeting within three days with their French associates, which likely means something’s up. More large manila envelopes have exchanged hands. Bulky, flat envelopes, which makes me think money is inside. A wire transfer would have been smarter, less obvious—but hey, who am I to give these Pricks financial advice? From today’s table, tucked off to their right and out of a clear line of vision, I contemplate my next move.

Pinch one of the envelopes and send it to Hayden? Fingerprints and money are easily traceable. Yet that would stir things up and put them on edge. Not quite as much of a stir as Jaxson’s wild-west bonanza at the tea house or my manhole extravaganza, but subtlety is the name of the game when you’re spying on these Pricks. We’re at a disadvantage with the catacombs being more dangerous than ever.

As much as I’d love to get my hands on an envelope, it’s a bad idea.

No Novák.

No envelope.

No . . . patience.

So what’s a bored, frustrated, increasingly desperate girl to do? Well, when in Paris . . . drink bubbly. I smile and lift the near empty flute to my lips, polishing off this lovely mood-lifting pink Champagne-Chambord mixture called a Kir Royale. Paired with a croque monsieur—France’s version of grilled cheese with ham—and my day suddenly seems brighter.

Which leads me to a bright idea.

I generously tip the waiter—such an American—and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I carefully exit the cafe.

This morning, I tried for a more sophisticated, Frenchified look by wearing a loose, flowing black dress and my go-to strappy sandals, and smoothing my short locks back and securing my hair with a black velvet ribbon. A welcome reprieve from my sewer-rat attire.

I leave the Pricks to their thievery as I duck out of the cafe without being noticed, then head down the hill toward their awaiting Mercedes. Checking the license plates, I approach Novák’s men’s car. Luckily, they’ve left the windows open. I not-so-patiently wait for a few pedestrians coming from a late lunch to pass by before sliding into the backseat, popping the latch securing the seat in place, and then threading my black velvet ribbon between the eyelet and the latch, taking my time to make sure it’s to my exact liking.

A half-inch gap between the trunk and the seat remains. But it’ll have to do.

I glance in the rearview mirror and, with no one around, I lean over and pop the trunk. Casually, I exit the car, hitch my skirt up, climb into the trunk, and, taking a deep breath, close the hood.

If Novák won’t come to mama, mama will go to Novák.

Then the waiting begins.