“My flat. I converted the spare room. I’ve got what I need to find this bastard.”
A tremor ripped through hard enough that I had to brace a hand on the wall.
Luka noticed immediately.
His posture shifted—not softer, but closer. Protective. He stepped into my space just enough to block the rest of the lobby from view, his shoulders a wall, his presence a shield.
“Alex,” he said, voice low, holding out my phone. The screen was dark. “Unlock your mobile again.”
My fingers shook as I did. He took it, opened an app on his own device—a stark, unbranded interface—and brought the two phones together again. A soft tone chimed, brief and precise.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I’ve mirrored your device,” he said evenly. “Any incoming data—texts, calls, metadata—I’ll see it the moment you do.”
My heart jolted. “Is that…legal?”
One corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed cold. “I consult for firms that pay me not to ask that question.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Relief and dread tangled in my chest.
Luka’s voice dropped a register. “I will find him.”
A cold, electric shiver rolled down my spine.
“Luka…”
He hooked a finger lightly under my chin, just enough to make me look at him.
“You’re safe with me,” he said. “But today, you do exactly as I say. No shortcuts. No detours. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
My breath caught. “Do you really think?—”
“I think,” he said darkly, “that any man who watches you in a club, learns who you are, and texts you afterward is not finished with you.”
My pulse hammered.
“Now,” Luka added, taking my hand and guiding me toward the lobby doors, “I’m taking you to work.”
chapter
eighteen
Itapped once on the half-open office door, laptop tucked under my arm. “You wanted to see me?”
Richard looked up from his desk, and a broad, unhurried smile unfolded across his face. “Yes, do come in, Alex.” He leaned back in his leather chair, ankle resting neatly over his knee. “You all right?”
I stepped inside and smoothed my skirt. “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just a little out of sorts this morning. Nothing another cup of coffee can’t fix.”
He gave a low chuckle. “I do adore Americans. You’ve not been here long enough to learn that ‘all right’ is a greeting, not a question.” He gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. “Please.”
“Ah. I feel like an idiot now.” I laughed lightly as I sat, crossing my legs at the ankle. “Can I still blame the jet lag?”
“You do look tired, if you don’t mind my saying,” Richard replied mildly, steepling his fingers. “Busy weekend?”
My thoughts flickered to Luka—his hands, his voice, the way he had dismantled me until nothing else existed. To the club—the masks, the lights, the heady, reckless freedom that had followed me back to my hotel room. I pushed the memory aside.