Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“As you’re always working after hours, you’re the perfect candidate for the job.”
“What job?” I exclaim, exasperated.
He leans closer, tipping his fingers together. “Leon Hart wrote a program, and you’re going to steal it for me.”
CHAPTER 11
Leon
It’s dark when I finish my workout on the deck next to the pool. Sweat drips from my body. I pushed myself extra hard to work off my pent-up frustration. It didn’t help. Impatience still flows through my veins. Like before a heist, I’m alert and high on adrenaline. It’s the way I feel when a huge prize is at stake. This time, however, the prize isn’t money or invaluable jewels. The prize is Violet Starley, and I’m eager to claim her.
Still on edge and buzzing with energy, I down a protein shake and have a shower. After changing into jeans, a T-shirt, and my leather jacket, I start the Harley and drive to the address I stole from the office’s HR database.
The estate is surrounded by a wall that is topped with electrified barbwire. The only access is through a boom. Like at my complex, a code is required to unlock the boom. As an extra security measure, armed guards are stationed in the guardhouse. They rotate twenty-four-seven. I know the drill. Due to the high crime rate, most estates operate like this. The only way of getting inside is via a thumbprint scanned on the panel next to the boom, or, if you’re not a resident, typing in a code that your host provides. That means only scheduled visits are possible. In the unlikely event of an impromptu visit, the guard on duty will call the relevant house and ask the owner permission to let the caller in. I have neither thumbprint access nor a code. Dialing my boss’s house isn’t an option either, so I round the estate and park on top of a hill.
From the height, I have a good view of the double story mansions inside the walls of the estate. The properties here cost an arm and a leg. I take a pair of binoculars from my saddlebag and scan the roadmap of lit streets that lay below. It doesn’t take me long to find Gus’s house. His stands on the highest part of the estate, right next to the wall on the western border.
I round the wall and find a quiet spot in a dead-end street. The land behind the wall is undeveloped. It stretches a short distance before shouldering a smaller estate. I park and cut the engine. From here, the top floor of Gus’s house is clearly visible, lights burning in all the windows. I scan each window through the powerful lenses of my binoculars until I find what I’m looking for.
Violet enters the room in the center. The light on the left goes out. A moment later, the right side of the house goes dark as well. Only the light in her room remains, shining like a beacon in the dark. I search out her figure, following her actions as she pulls off a cardigan with jerky movements and dumps it somewhere out of sight. She paces the floor, walking with a heavy limp from left to right. Then she pauses.
My heart speeds up when she stalks to the window. The beat falls with a heavy pound between my ribs as she stops in front of the glass and looks straight at me. It’s not as much the fear of being caught than the exhilarating rush of the stolen moment. I swear I can make out the lavender color of her eyes from the distance. The shape of her figure is an alluring outline against the backdrop of the light. For an unreal instant, our gazes lock. The heavy pumping of my heart echoes in my temples as I freeze.
Her face collapses with a wretched expression. Fury twists her features. The display of emotions is naked and raw. It’s private, the grief consuming, not something meant for anyone else’s eyes. She’s not looking at me. That was only a wishful illusion. She’s not seeing the night or the stars or the dark hill where I’m parked. She’s facing outward but looking inwardly.
She wipes at something on her cheeks. Tears. The notion tightens my gut. It bothers me like a pesty thorn that’s lodged under my skin. I don’t like it. No, I hate it. My body tenses with a need for action. I want to take away those tears and kill the person who caused them. I want to make the persistent itch of that thorn go away. It’s like a noise in my ears that will drive me to madness. The feeling is new. Foreign. I know what protectiveness feels like, but this is taking the sentiment to a new level.
Surprised by the strength of my feelings, I roll my shoulders as if the physical act can expel the disturbing sensations coursing through me. Before I can get a handle on those sentiments, she grips the edges of the curtains and closes them with a violent tug. Her image is hidden behind a pink veil, her outline and distress no longer presented for my stalking.