The Ghost (Professionals Book 2)(5)

By: Jessica Gadziala


“He won’t.” They never did. I was good. Case closed.

“If he does,” she tried again. “Can I still come to you for help?”

“Of course,” Quin answered, drawing her attention back to him. “If, by some insane chance, he finds you. You can call us. We will send someone - whoever is closest to you from our team at any given time - right over to pick you up. Then the process begins all over again.”

“How many times has that had to happen?”

“None,” I answered, tone final.

“Out of how many cases?” she pressed, clearly having trust issues about it. And, well, if three of the best private security firms in the city failed you, I guess I could see that.

“Sixty-three. Since I’ve worked here. More on my own.”

“And no one has ever been found.”

“No one has ever been found,” I confirmed.

“Okay,” she agreed, giving Quin a nod.

He reached for the button to Jules’s desk, and not a minute later, in she walked with the papers, hanging back to wait for them to be signed.

“Jules, can you show Miss Blythe-Meuller to one of the rooms upstairs? Gunner and I need to discuss some things,” he added as Sloane jumped up out of her chair, clearly eager to get away. And, it seemed, mostly from me.

Which was unfortunate for her.

She was about to have a whole fuckuva lot of me in her life.

“Try to play nice,” Quin told me when we were alone.

“With Miss Blythe-Meuller?” I shot back, smirking.

And while he was the boss, and wore that professional persona well, once we were alone, he let out a laugh at that as well.

“Yes, with Miss Blythe-Meuller. Give her a break. She’s had a rough go of it. You could try to be less of a dick.”

“Being a dick is why you pay me the big bucks,” I said, taking my paperwork to go look over in my own office.

I had this distinct feeling that Miss Blythe-Meuller was not the kind of woman who was going to play nice herself.

So I had no intentions of doing so either.





TWO





Sloane





“You’re not going to tell me it is going to be alright?” I asked after the redhead with the great skirt and killer heels led me around the building, then up a staircase in the back to a second floor.

“I figure this is likely the worst day of your life,” she said, shrugging a slight shoulder as she punched in a code on the alarm system, then pulled open the door. “I don’t imagine fake platitudes are going to make you feel any better.”

I liked that.

The honesty there.

It helped.

To stay focused. To move forward. To make sure I didn’t harp on it.

Everything I was losing.

Everything I had worked so damn hard for.

“This is the common area,” Jules explained, waving toward the couch, armchairs, coffee table, television, and a lush gray carpet. “There is a small kitchenette,” she went on, clearly the person who had given the spiel many times before. I wondered a bit fleetingly how many women had been in a similar circumstance as me. Having a situation beyond their control get so dangerous that they have to leave everything they know and love behind. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge or cabinets. Coffee. Whatever you might need. And down here are the rooms,” she went on, her heels clicking on the dark floor as she went down a hall with doors flanking either side.

“Is anyone else staying right now?” I asked, having the selfish desire to be alone.

“You lucked out. Or, depending on how you feel, pulled the short straw. There’s no one staying right now.”

“Good,” I agreed with a nod. “Closest to the common room, or furthest?” she asked, waving at the doors, ten in all.

“End,” I decided, figuring it was the furthest away from people if they happened up, the most private.

“Alright. Well, here we go,” she said, leading me to the left. “There is a bed, closet, and a small private bath. I will have someone bring your bags up. Settle in. Try to get some sleep. Gunner will likely be coming for you early in the morning.”

With that, she opened the door for me, then turned and walked away. Professional. Efficient. A bit standoffish. I would have hired her in a heartbeat too.

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