maze of corridors; each door we’d gone through required a code and a palm scan. The receptionist, Ivy, had made it to the elevator first, which didn’t accept fingerprints. Oh no, to gain access to the lift a retinal scan was in order.
What was that about?
And it got worse, or better depending on how I looked at it. The main office space looked like I’d entered a movie set. That was, if the movie was a CIA action thriller where the hero comes out on top and leaves a slew of dead bad guys in his wake. The ‘better’ part was I knew I was safe in the building—as in totally safe because no one, not even James Bond was breaking into Z Corps. The ‘worse’ part was, seeing all of that made the reality of my situation slam into my chest.
I was not in Maryland to visit my friend Anaya nor was I there to cuddle Maxine—Kyle and Anaya’s daughter who I’d yet to see in person. Which made me feel like a crappy honorary auntie.
I had fled California because the last close call was too close. I could no longer live in denial, calling every dangerous situation I’d found myself in a coincidence. They weren’t. Everything was connected.
Now I was in a huge conference room—so huge a table fitting eighteen sat in the middle of the space, and not only did it fit but there was still room for a credenza—one that was not small by any stretch—sat against the wall with a flat-screen TV hanging above it.
The space was not tastefully decorated, it was top-of-the-line luxury. Which told me I couldn’t afford an hour’s worth of their time.
Shit.
And finally, I was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate with eight huge men staring at me. Seven of whom I didn’t know, save Gabe. Though I’d only met him a few minutes down in the lobby.
It also must be noted when this was over I would be having words with Anaya. She had indeed disclosed that all of the men her husband worked with were good-looking; she’d even gone as far as joking how applicants had to submit a professional headshot along with their resumes. However, Anaya had sorely failed to convey the level of good-looking these men were. Therefore my poor eyeballs were totally unprepared when I walked into the room.
And since we’re on the topic of gorgeousness it would be criminal if I left out Ivy. I wasn’t a woman to self-harm and lament how other women were skinnier, prettier, had more in the boobs or booty department. As far as I was concerned the sisterhood needed less jealousy and bitchiness and more solidarity. However, Ivy had it going on in a way that made me regret not having a daily beauty regime, and seeing the woman’s flawless skin had me vowing right then and there to purchase the best face wash, exfoliating cream, and moisturizer I could afford.
“Evette London?”
A man’s voice boomed my name. Unfortunately, that meant my gaze went to the man who’d asked. I say unfortunately because once our eyes connected the man’s gaze became shrewd in a way I’d never seen and I’d met some smart, observant men and women in my line of work. But no one had ever looked at me and five seconds later had hacked into my thoughts.
“I’m Zane Lewis,” he introduced himself.
This Zane Lewis was a dangerous man. Extremely so. Sharp, intelligent, deadly. Yes, I’d gleaned all of that by the way his startling blue eyes took me in. The man didn’t bother hiding that he was scrutinizing every blink, twitch, inhale. Mr. Lewis wanted you to know he was watching.
I admired that.
I hated bullshitters.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lewis.”
Those blue eyes rolled and he corrected, “Zane or Z or boss or king of the world. Any of those work. I’ll also answer to dickhead and asshole. Pretty much anything but Mr. Lewis.”
“Zane,” Ivy snapped from beside him and I thought the petite woman was pretty damn brave when she smacked his arm before she continued. “Just once it’d be nice if you could hold your tongue and not freak out the client in the first thirty seconds.”
Zane made a tsking sound before he said, “First, she’s not a client and I should know because clients actually pay the invoices they receive. As a time-saving effort, I’d suggest you start a new expense category. Name it Pain in My Ass. My gut tells me you can assign the