High-Priority Asset (Hard Core Justice #3) - Juno Rushdan

Chapter One

No matter where she went or what she did, Isabel Vargas couldn’t escape him.

Some days were better than others, but Thursdays were the worst. The one night of the week she closed her art gallery alone so her best friend and assistant, Brenda, could take a yoga class across town with the hottest instructor in Santa Monica.

The one night she relived the traumatic encounter with her ex. Remembered the bruises, his breath on the back of her neck, his angry hands on her skin. His body holding hers captive. The malevolent rasp of his voice, his vile words pouring into her ears, punctuated by one delusional phrase he kept repeating. I love you.

The doorbell rang. She jumped at the buzzing sound, her heart racing. Drawing in a deep breath, Isabel calmed herself. She powered down her laptop, grabbed her quilted-leather purse and turned off the lights on the upper level of the gallery. Going as slowly as possible, she hoped whoever was at the locked front door would go away.

Please, don’t be him. Please.

The doorbell buzzed again, pitching her nerves higher. She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out the tan bottle. Tiny white pills rattled inside. Her therapist had prescribed Ativan after her last incident with him, which had necessitated a restraining order. Isabel refused to think or speak his name. Doing so only gave him power when she needed to reclaim it.

She’d started jogging three miles every other morning, taken up boxing, Krav Maga and city-safety classes for women. She even got a dog. A ferocious Doberman named McQueen that she’d had trained as a guard dog. Keeping him in the office had proven too confined a space and customers got antsy around him in the gallery, so he was at doggie day care on Montana Avenue.

From the railing that overlooked the ground floor, she couldn’t see who was at the front door. The bell rang in frantic succession. The irritating buzzer reverberated inside her.

Isabel popped the lid, put a pill in her mouth and swallowed it dry. Twice a day, every day. It kept the benzodiazepine in her system and her on an even keel.

She took her time down the stairs, her Jimmy Choos clacking against the dark hardwood of the steps. At the bottom, she saw a man wearing a suit and tie standing out front.

Spotting her, he banged on the glass door. “Hi! I was hoping someone was still here.”

She edged closer. “What do you want?”

“I know you just closed ten minutes ago.”

Every Thursday, at seven on the dot, she locked the door and finished wrapping up until she was ready to leave.

“You’re usually open until eight,” he said, glancing at the sign. “Except Thursdays, apparently. It’s my anniversary and my wife has been dying to get that painting, the waterfall by Kush.” He pointed to the far-left wall behind her, but she didn’t turn and look at it.

Isabel kept her eyes on the man.

He was clean-cut and appeared pleasant enough, but the same had been said about Ted Bundy. The United States had more serial killers than any other country and Isabel knew firsthand what kind of twisted soul could hide behind a dazzling smile and a good suit.

“Sorry.” She lifted the flap of her purse and stuck her hand inside, fumbling over her EpiPen and grabbing hold of her pepper spray. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” No one ever died from too much paranoia.

“Oh, please. I’m only ten minutes late. Don’t make my wife suffer for my poor planning.” He looked exasperated and distraught.

If he was being genuine, Isabel felt for him and his wife, but it wasn’t her problem. “No purchases after closing, but tomorrow, I’ll give you a ten percent discount.” She’d take the money out of her forty percent commission. “I’ll even write a note apologizing to your wife on your behalf, telling her it was my fault the gift was a day late.”

“If I don’t come home with the Kush, she might finally divorce me.” His voice grew more insistent. “I’d hate to lose the best woman in the world because I ran ten minutes behind. Please. Can you help me?”

Isabel pulled out her pepper spray with her left hand and pointed it in his direction—a show of force that she meant business despite the door separating them—and took out her cell phone with her right. “Leave. Now. Or I call the cops.”

“Whoa, lady.” He put up both hands. “I’ll buy her jewelry instead.” With a scowl, he

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