Page 121 of Crash Course
For Cilla’s purposes, the quiet helped, but she wouldn’t have minded a busier location where she’d get lost in the crowd. This, however, was across town from her office and chances were that no one from Randolph Industries would spot her during what Allison called a dead drop. Meaning, Cilla would get up from her table, exit the shop and leave behind a tote with the various e-mails and toxicity reports she’d collected. Allison would then take over said table and pick up the tote on her way out.
No conversation.
No acknowledgment.
No interaction.
The only part of this operation to give any sort of comfort would be Cruz insisting on playing driver. He’d parked four doors down, a spot that gave him a view of the door for when she exited. In the meantime, she had strict orders to text him a 9-1-1 if she needed him.
Her hero.
For a second, her own sarcasm stopped her short. She’d neverneededa man before. Still didn’t. But the companionship, the having-someone-to-lean-on, gave her hope that perhaps she could have it all. Career. Family.
Love.
Maybe hewasher hero.
Blech. The entire thing sounded way too sappy for a girl whose idea of happily-ever-after meant avoiding everything she’d witnessed in her parents’ relationship. Up to this point, marriage had seemed a formality.
A piece of paper that legally bound two people and risked financial war when it all fell apart.
Wow. She nearly winced at how cynical she’d become.
Allison, a woman in her mid-forties with long platinum blond hair that was too white not to be dyed, strode by the plate glass window, not bothering to look inside. Acknowledgment or not, they both knew what they were here for. From the corner of her eye, Cilla watched Allison make her way along the sidewalk and enter the shop.
She wore a buttoned navy blazer over a white blouse and tan slacks. The heels of her flat shoes clacked against the scarred wood floor, reminding Cilla of the lack of a crowd.
Don’t think about it.
That’s all she had to do.
A vision of Brittney Tate popped into her mind. Yes, Cilla was about to blow the whistle on her father, a man powerful enough to wreck not only her career but her personal life. She’d tried, several times, to talk to him and, based on the evidence she’d found, ten-year-olds with cancer didn’t seem to bother him.
That alone devastated her and she let the heartbreak roll over her. Being her father’s daughter—he’d been good for certain things—she’d use it. Allow it to motivate her.
At the counter, a customer ordered some complicated triple espresso concoction Cilla had no desire to taste. A whole lot of caffeine and sugar she didn’t need in an already fried nervous system.
Seconds later, the whirring of a machine sounded, scraping against Cilla’s last functioning nerve. Her temples pounded, her stomach flipped and what little food she’d eaten threatened to evacuate itself.
Vomiting in the middle of the shop hadn’t been part of the plan so she inhaled and fought for focus, zeroing in on the next two minutes.
Get up and walk out.
But, man, her stomach twisted. She had to move. Get fresh air.
Panic brewing, she checked on Allison, now stepping up to the counter. Bile filled Cilla’s throat and her stomach clenched hard enough that she gasped. Saliva poured into her mouth and—oh no, oh no, oh no.
Air.
Get out.
She needed to go. Now. Before she vomited and completely blew the plan for a casual exchange of information.
Cilla rose from her seat, scraping the chair against the floor as she stood. She stunk at subterfuge. The woman who’d ordered the sugary coffee glanced over, meeting her eye. Her eyebrows hitched up and . . . uh-oh . . . Cilla’s frequent media spots suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea.
Had this woman recognized her?
Don’t think.
