Fire Inside:A Chaos Novel(39)

I was getting my shot at Hotel Monaco and I’d been at the office for five hours. Five hours without the phone ringing, emails coming through, or any of my ten employees walking into my office. This meant I got to do things I never did, like clean up my email inbox, tidy my desk, organize my files and concentrate on work without distractions. This also meant I did ten hours of work in that five hours and not only would I hit my organized desk on Monday, I’d do it ahead of the game.

I thought this was fabulous. The first hint of fabulousness I’d had in weeks.

No, months.

No, years.

And this was the thought I was having when I heard the warning beep of the security system that said the door was opened and you had a minute to put in the code or the call was going to Dispatch.

My body jerked, my eyes went to the wall of windows that looked into the interior office, and my mouth dropped open.

Hop, in deliciously faded jeans, his black motorcycle boots, his black leather cut with his hair falling appealingly in his face, and his jaw not shaved since that morning, was just inside my office. He was carrying a white plastic bag that looked like it held Chinese food containers.

He was also with a Native American man who had his gorgeous, glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. The guy was standing at my beeping security console.

Without me telling them to do so, my feet pushed back my chair, my body straightened from it and, woodenly, I walked across my office to come to a halt just inside the door.

Hop watched me do this. When I stopped, he called casually, “Hey, babe.”

I stared at him, then my eyes drifted to the Native American guy who was working at the wires he’d pulled out of my console. The beeping stopped. He twisted his neck and took me in then aimed a slow, shit-eating, unbelievably sexy grin at me.

A shiver shook me from top-to-toe; his grin was that good. Not to mention, he was shockingly handsome. He also had a very wide, gleaming gold wedding band on his finger, beaming so bright against his luscious brown skin, I could see it from across the interior office.

“Yo,” he called.

“Uh…” I mumbled.

His shit-eating grin got bigger and sexier.

A tremor shook me.

“This is Vance Crowe,” Hop introduced, jerking a thumb at Vance and telling me something I already knew.

Vance Crowe worked for Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations. He was famous. All the Nightingale men were famous. This was because newspaper articles and books were written about them. And newspaper articles and books were written about them because they were all talented private investigators who had a knack for the business and a way of finding trouble. Bad trouble. And that trouble usually had to do with a fantastically beautiful damsel in distress who would, in the end, find herself married to one of the Nightingale men.

I looked back at Vance to see my console again looked normal with no wires hanging out and he was turned to me.

“Manual override,” he stated, “Very manual,” he went on. “It’s good now. When you leave, just set it like normal.”

I blinked.

Vance turned to Hop. “Later, man.”

Hop stuck out a hand and they did a complicated, jerky, manly, completely cool and weirdly hot handshake as Hop stated, “Marker.”

“You got it,” Vance replied as they broke contact. “I need you, I’ll call.”

“Right,” Hop said, jerking up his chin.

Vance jerked up his, turned to me, and gave me another grin. I got a chin jerk then he turned and disappeared through my door.

Hop moved to it, locked it and then turned to me.

He started talking as he walked toward me.

“Took some work, had to ask around and be cool about it but got it from Big Petey. Kung pao shrimp.”

I blinked again.

Hop made it to me, shifted slightly sideways and either by necessity or design his hard body brushed mine as he moved by me and into my office.

Again woodenly, I pivoted to see Hop looking around as he walked to my desk and dumped the bag on it.

He turned to look back at me. “Cush, babe.”

I didn’t look at my button-backed white leather couch against the wall. The high-backed white leather executive chair behind my sleek, modern but feminine glass-and-chrome desk. My all-in-one, huge-screened computer. The white leather chairs in front of my desk. The thick rug on the floor with its stark graphic design in white, black, hot pink, and tangerine. Or the fabulous art deco prints on the wall.

I stared at him.

He looked back to the bag and started to unearth white containers with red Asian designs on their sides, muttering, “Expected nothin’ less.”

“What just happened?” I asked.

He twisted his neck to look at me, his hand wrapped around paper-bound chopsticks. “Crowe’s good at bypassing security systems.”