Page 27 of Reckless Devotion

A couple of well-considered prods in the right place and she’s exploding like a stick of dynamite, and weirdly I find myself liking it. I take the opportunity to observe her objectively as she strides toward the manufacturing plant—heading for the wrong set of doors.

The clothes she is wearing shouldn’t be sexy. They aren’t the sprayed-on type most women wear, but her jeans are fitted enough to show the curve of her hips as they sashay away from me. A deep blue sweater rests at her hips, topped with a crisp little white collar peeking over the edges that balances out the whole look.

She’s clearly hiding a sharp wit under all these loud colors and prints. That full moon comment? It took me by surprise so much I nearly laughed, and delivered with the perfect drip of sarcasm. It also sent a part of my brain that is less refined wandering down a path that speculated just what that might look like. Whether her nipples are the same shade as those pouty mauve lips.

Witty, bold, and totally uninterested in me. I’ve had a lifetime of women batting their eyelashes and vying for my attention, and if there is one thing I’ve learned? It gets old. People usually want something. Money, status, connections, sex. It all starts to feel like a game in the end. To come across a woman who wants absolutely nothing from me is refreshing. In fact, she seems to have an aversion to mebecauseI have status and money. That’s what it is, I tell myself as I follow her. She’s an enigma.

She’s still charging toward the service exit, completely unaware that she won’t be able to get in that way because she’s too stubborn to walk with me. I circle my finger and thumb together and place them between my lips, whistling sharply to get her attention. It’s either that or yelling, because she’s farenough away at this point, but the fact this will likely piss her off is a bonus.

She grinds to a halt and turns, shoulders tight. I point toward the entrance and she changes paths, cutting across the lot to intercept me. That copper flush is painting her cheekbones again. Anger? Embarrassment? Lust? It’s hard to tell with her. Whatever emotional compass I possess seems to get slightly jammed around her.

I meant it when I said I had caught the way she looks at me, her gaze lingering on my chest for a second longer than necessary, or the way she sometimes drops her attention to my mouth. But despite my insinuation, I’m not convinced it means the same for her as it would from any other woman. I just wanted a reaction, and boy did I get one.

She yanks open the steel and glass doors to the facility and storms in, unsurprisingly forgetting to hold the swinging door open. I catch it before it slams in my face and roll my eyes.

“Mr. Walker, we weren’t expecting you!”

“Bert.” I extend my arm and shake the balding middle-aged security guard’s hand when he rushes around the welcome desk to greet us.

Names of the people who work for me are the only things I make a point of learning. Even those who are subcontracted in, like Bert. I have over a hundred thousand employees across the globe, so I remember who I can and brush up when I know I’m going to a specific site. I spent thirty minutes this morning over breakfast reviewing the names and headshots of the staff here, and what they do. It’s a little thing, but it lets them know they’re not just a number.

“This is Pepper Quinn, she’s an external consultant we’re bringing in to help us investigate the recent security breaches."

Pepper steps forward with a genuine smile and her hand held out, proving that it is only me that her thorns are reserved for. “It’s nice to meet you, Bert.”

“You too, ma’am. Come through and we’ll get a pass printed for you.” He ushers her over to the check-in booth with flushed cheeks, which includes a high-definition camera to take her photo.

“Have you got Face Tune back there that you can hook me up with, Bert?” She jokes with the man as he flicks on the camera and she takes a seat propped against the back wall of the booth.

“Face what?” Bert peers around the camera at her in confusion.

“You know, Face Tune. Like, if you have a blemish, or if you want to look like a totally different person?” She blinks innocently at him, and then at me.

Bert turns to look for guidance, and I shrug my shoulders because I have no fucking idea what she is on about.

“Don’t look at him, that man hasn’t needed Face Tune a damn day in his life,” she grumbles, clearly irked by this.

“Uh, right. Face forward please, ma’am.” Bert turns back to the camera and lines it up. I can see the image mirrored in his computer screen, and find myself sucked down a rabbit hole. Her silver-pink locks are scrambled into a pile on top of her head, curled wisps falling around her face. The light falls on her carved jawline, cut enough that the feature looks almost androgynous. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkle under the studio-quality light, thick lashes clustered around their mahogany depths, and full lips drawn into a sensual line. She looks…perfect.

The thought makes me start, shaking myself out of whatever pothole I’ve fallen into when the printer starts to chug noisily in the background.

“Now I just need to scan your hand on this fingerprint scanner so that we can check you don’t have a criminal record.”

Those varnished eyes pop open and jump to mine. I suppress a smile and clear my throat. “That won’t be necessary today, Bert.”

The only reason she’s here is that her fingerprints are currently sitting in the New York City database, although, from what I hear from Landau, we’ve got a shot at getting them deleted.

“Of course, Mr. Walker.” The guard rushes away to collect her pass.

“A little overkill, don’t you think?” she asks quietly as she stands.

“Have you forgotten why we’re here? I’d say it was precisely the right amount ofkill. Plus, it’s part of our contract terms with the Federal Department of Defense.”

She doesn’t bother to answer that one. Once she has her laminated pass clipped to her sweater, we enter through a series of steel doors onto the main development floor—the kind where one only opens with my thumbprint after the last closes.

“This is all very Area Fifty-One.” Her gaze slides around the space, clocking the corridors sprouting out in every direction.

She’s not wrong, because I’ve been there, but I don’t tell her that. It’s a labyrinth of development labs, testing suites, and simulation banks, all sequestered away in their own designated spots behind cinderblock walls. The only reason I can tell what’s behind each glossy white door is because of the plant’s coding system that categorizes them with a number and letter. I also brushed up on the map of this place, because we have thirty similar facilities across the country and they’re all set out slightly differently.