her, and she’d work eight days a week if she could. Not that she didn’t enjoy her weekend nights. She’d certainly enjoyed last night. She brushed her palms over her breasts, remembering how they’d been admired and attended to. Yes, she’d enjoyed that man a lot.
But she had three minutes until this one arrived, so she dropped onto her chair and touched the laptop to bring it to life. Lola never wasted anything, especially time. At twenty-three, she was already almost a millionaire. You didn’t get there by taking breaks and thinking about men who’d adored you for a few hours.
Well, some breaks. And some men.
While she waited, she clicked through the air-shipping schedule for the evening, and dashed off a quick note to the CEO of a furniture company in North Carolina who’d just signed on as Omnibus Transport’s latest customer. That one gave her a twinge of satisfaction.
After all, furniture delivery had always been the humble roots of this little empire.
The elevator dinged and she touched the button on her desk to unlock her door, a security measure she’d learned from her father. Standing up, she rounded the desk to position herself in front of it. She’d make him sit of course, the only way to get a height advantage on a man of six-two.
The door opened slowly and she met the steely eyes of Constantine Xenakis, thief, mercenary, and one of the finest specimens of male to ever cross her threshold. She took a slow ride down his incredible body, but her gaze stopped at the tan box in his hand.
The thrill of victory was so intense she shivered. “Well, that looks promising. A lockbox.”
“There was nothing else close to what you wanted in her house.”
“Maybe she carries it with her.”
“I thought of that, but wasn’t able to get her bag. She’s got muscle.” He took three long strides to her desk and clunked the box on her desk. “Or . . . someone else has beat you to the punch.”
She curled her lip. Impossible. “Maybe Maggie did get some protection. She’s probably heard that Ramon is out.”
“She goes by Lena, and she doesn’t just have a bodyguard, my friend. She has one of the best in the business. A Bullet Catcher. That’s with capital letters. Top man in the company, too, so she’s paying a handsome fee for his services. Unless . . .” He looked hard at her. “You planted him there.”
Lola dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “Nope. You got this, and if you got what I wanted, nothing else matters. You didn’t open it, did you?”
“Of course not.” He eased into one of her guest chairs, lifting his legs to land a pair of scuffed Docksiders next to the box on the desk in a move both rude and arrogant.
No matter. She touched the lock. “Can you get this off?’
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
He grinned. “Lock removal’s an extra grand.”
“Fuck you, Con.” Not for one minute did she believe he hadn’t opened the box before he brought it here. But he wouldn’t keep what she wanted, because then he wouldn’t get the ten thousand dollars she’d agreed to pay him for it.
She yanked open the top drawer of her desk and pulled out her little pink-handled revolver, aiming it at the box.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed his feet down and took the gun from her hand. “And I thought you were elegant.”
The dig stung, but at this point, she didn’t care. Her heart rate was up and her palms were damp. She was so close. So, so close to finally winning Alonso Jimenez’s biggest game.
Con stood, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a tiny silver cell phone, which he set on the desk, then a key ring, which he squeezed, popping out a short metal prong. He put it in the lock, twisting once, then again. The lock released with a soft ping.
She took off the lock and slowly lifted the dented lid. Her father used to tell her that sometimes the most valuable treasures were hidden in ugly places.
Of course, he said that when he squeezed her face and tried to erase the insult by jostling her chin. The heartless bastard.
There wasn’t much in the box, but that was okay. What she wanted was very small. But all it held was . . . papers.
She lifted one after the other. Insurance. Deeds. A birth certificate. A passport? A wedding license?
That was it. Legal papers.
She sifted through again, checking corners, fluttering the