to need a kick of caffeine, and not being nearly bold enough to use the ancient coffee pot that came with the hotel room. And, well, going downstairs to get a coffee from the dispenser would mean putting on pants. When given a choice, not putting on pants was always the better option.
Especially in this heat.
I situated myself back on the seat with my setup, going over my notes, checking some off, underlining others, making a map of the containers, of where I knew the cameras were, trying to come up with a new course of action to evade the likely doubled security for the next evening.
Eventually, despite the caffeine, sleep claimed me, albeit fleetingly.
A car alarm going off made me shoot forward in my chair, heart hammering in my chest, everything around me feeling hazy and foreign for an alarmingly long moment before I remembered where I was, why I was here.
"Shit," I snapped, whipping my head over my shoulder, checking out the time.
Five-fifty a.m.
I could have already missed a ship or two.
"Damnit," I grumbled, reaching for the binoculars on my lap, trying to force my still-tired eyes to focus.
Foreign ships.
But none from South America.
That meant I had just enough time for a quick shower, change, and a trip down to the first floor to grab some continental breakfast when it opened after six.
Armed with a coffee, juice, a bagel, and a single serving box of Honey Nut Cheerios to eat as a snack later, I made my way back to the room, doing an impressive balancing act to get the keycard in, if I did say so myself.
All for nothing, of course.
Because one foot inside with the door slamming behind me, I dropped everything, coffee splashing all across the ugly carpet.
Because there, sitting in my office chair like he owned the joint, was the man from the night before.
Mr. Grassi, the son.
"Seems like an appropriate place for a meal like that," he said, his voice smooth, deep, sure of himself. "Don't," he demanded, tapping his leg, drawing my gaze to the gun situated there. "Just relax, Romina," he added, and my name slipped a little too nicely off his tongue.
"Romy," I corrected, knee-jerk.
"Romy," he repeated. "Luca Grassi," he told me, cold gaze unnerving.
"Mr. Grassi," I said, hearing the quiver in my voice, knowing of all the possible ways this could go much, much worse.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what I do?"
"Yes."
"And yet you thought you could trespass on my business."
"Maybe I was meeting a guy."
"A woman like you wouldn't work the docks when she could be getting paid top dollar entertaining rich men with more than enough money to spare."
That sounded like a compliment. And with a gun on me, I shouldn't have been flattered. Yet, there was no denying I was. Well, as flattered as one could be when being called a prostitute.
"But I'm not buying you being a working girl. Would you like to feed me more bullshit, or can we get to the bottom of this?"
"I find myself fascinated by shipping containers," I tossed out, getting a raised brow. "I thrive on adrenaline surges like those you get from being chased by a security team in the middle of the night."
"Who do you work for?"
"The state of California."
"I am going to need a straight answer."
"That is a straight answer. I work for the state of California. They sign my paychecks."
"Okay. I'll bite. What do you do for the state of California?"
"I work as a translator in the court system."
"Then what are you doing in New Jersey?"
"Vacation." That was technically the truth. I'd needed to take some stacked-up sick leave and vacation days to fly back home, then to New Jersey. I didn't want to think about what might happen if I ran out of those paid days off. I wasn't exactly in a place where I could be without a job for any stretch of time.
"You're on vacation, but you stay here?"
"What can I say? Interpreting doesn't pay that well."
"You have beaches in California."
"They're crowded," I said.
"So are ours."
I was out of arguments.
"Look, Romy, you don't strike me as a professional of any sort. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Because women must always be damsels in distress," I shot at him, arms folding over my chest.
"I know plenty of men who have found themselves in over their head. They end up doing things they never thought they would. If that is the situation, then I can put this away," he said,