The Negotiator (Professionals, #7) - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,33

Miller came into our lives.

It felt—as was likely Cora's intention—like a family coming together to share their evening meal, to talk over good food, to connect.

I couldn't have anticipated how much I would begin to enjoy it. As someone who often ate on the go, it was nice to sit down, to slow down. On top of that, I got to reconnect with my brother, making me realize how much I had missed out on when he was away. I had to learn names of friends I didn't know he had, about where they were from, what they were into. Miller, with her keen observation skills, managed to figure out that one of these friends was a bit more than a friend, further explaining Alexander's somewhat hostile response to having no access to his cell phone for the time being. After a short talk in my office one night, though, about how his girlfriend was much safer if no one knew there was a connection to her, he seemed to come to terms with the arrangement.

Over those dinners, we also were privy to many interesting, dangerous, and even ludicrous stories from Miller's past. About the men she worked with. One who cleaned crime scenes, one who tracked or disappeared people, one who lived in some place called the Pine Barrens illegally with killer dogs and baby goats. She told us about some men she had done negotiations with, about the antics she had cleaned up for Fenway.

She had lived more life by her early thirties than most would ever live.

She didn't, I noticed, talk about her childhood, her young adulthood, anything at all before she started working for Quin. Hell, she didn't even explain how she had come across someone like Quinton Baird in the first place.

As interesting as her other stories were, I found myself wanting to know those ones as well. I'd never been greedy for personal details people seemed unwilling to share. We all had our secrets. We were all entitled to them. But I wanted to know what her childhood had been like, what had helped shape her into the woman that sat across the table from me.

And, what's more, I wanted her to stick around long enough to feel comfortable sharing those stories, those more intimate parts of herself.

I was choosing not to reconsider if she was right, if she would have been just as safe to have her team come get her and take her home.

There was one simple explanation for that.

I didn't want her to go.

It was absurd, but true.

I was getting accustomed to seeing her around, to hearing her laugh, to seeing her hanging out with my brother, to knowing she'd had a hand in making the food I was eating.

That interest, though, was exactly why I had been swamping myself in work, had doubled up my efforts to find Chernev. Not because that was necessary since I had a team of dozens of men handling both situations, but because I found I needed time away from her. I was thinking of her too often, was finding it harder not to reach out and touch her, to grab her, to lead her down the hall and into my bed.

I'd never been a man who couldn't control myself. But I found I was struggling to do so with Miller. A woman whose real name I didn't even know.

So I stayed out longer than needed.

I locked myself in the office with some of my men.

I ran the stairs three times a day to get rid of the excess energy that I would much rather spend with her in bed.

I was getting ready for my late-night run when Miller jumped off the couch, rushing to block the hallway before I could exit it.

"I want to go."

"You complained just days ago about the stairs."

"Yes, well, that was before I had been locked in a house day in and out with no way to really move around. I need some exercise. I'm going stir crazy."

"You can't leave the grounds right now."

"Then why can you?" she shot back, brow raising, arms crossing, the perfect picture of defiance.

"I was not the one that Chernev threatened."

"His threat to you went without saying," she told me, rolling her eyes. "Obviously, he wants to kill you. And likely Alexander."

"It's different," I insisted, pushing past her.

"Why?"

"It just is, Miller. Let it go."

"No, I'm not going to let it go. If you want me to let it go, let me leave. Then you won't