Page 10 of You Found Me
He’d started this agency only a year ago and had established the office with a budget in mind. It consisted of a closet-sized reception area, an open space big enough for two miniaturecubicles army surplus desks, and the conference room. It huddled at one end of a generic strip mall in a section of Los Angeles tourists didn’t visit, which meant cheap rent and privacy.
He was a huge fan of both.
While he’d brought in enough jobs to keep the lights on and entice his two employees to buy into the business, they hadn’t made enough to take the next step to a bigger, better office. Yet.
Hopefully, their next job would change all that.
Today’s new principal client, Della Bellamy, was not only wealthy, she was backed by a record label that could afford to pay whatever it took—and proved it by immediately wiring a retainer big enough to get him out of bed and into gear faster than the bugle during basic training.
To sweeten the deal, Renic offered a long-term contract—to go into effect once his star was safe, of course—that would mean Storm Security would take a giant leap forward. Their bottom line would stop digging a hole in the basement.
Hell, it might even move into a respectable one-bedroom apartment.
He’d be able to get his training program off the ground. They’d be able to hire more people, build a respectable street team, and maybe lease offices with actual offices.
It was a great deal. Exactly what he’d been looking for.
Funny thing about carrots. They always dangled just out of reach and there was always some bastard of an obstacle in the way.
In this case it was a stalker and a blonde.
“Why did it have to be a celebrity?” He muttered as he carried breakfast across to the conference room.
Beggars don’t get to be choosers, he reminded himself. They got to work damn hard for the breaks that came their way.
Time to earn that deal.
Annie Laurence, his field expert, looked up when he entered the room. Her sleepy, dark eyes widened with delight when she saw what he carried. As a former model, she still survived on coffee and very little else. She took it straight up, no cream, no sugar, no nonsense.
Annie was an expert strategist, escape artist, and proud night owl.
Her chocolate-brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and she’d managed to apply makeup in a way that turned her extraordinary bone structure into something forgettable. She wore strategically distressed jeans, a plain blue T-shirt, and sneakers. No one would ever know she had owned the runways from New York to Milan.
“Morning, sunshine,” Ward said.
Annie made a disgruntled sound and pointed at the cups in his hand. “It’s way too early for the sun to shine.”
He handed the starter fuel to her. “No problems last night, I take it?” Ward deposited the rest of the breakfast on the table and worked his way around the tight space to the empty chair by the window.
“None I couldn’t handle.” Annie sniffed at her coffee suspiciously, then sipped. “Mr. Salazar really doesn’t need company for that night deposit. Pretty sure he thinks he’s Richard Gere inPretty Woman, which makes me the hooker.”
Spencer Mathews, his cyber-ops specialist, reached for the Red Bull first, then grabbed the bag of muffins. He was in his mid-twenties and already had two PhDs, one in electrical engineering and the other in computer technology. He was working on a third in psychology. He had the metabolism and eating habits of a pre-adolescent and sharp, androgynous bone structure. Between that and his age, he’d caught a lot of grief at the security company Ward had poached him from a year ago.
They hadn’t appreciated or respected Spencer’s brilliant technical and analytical skills. They should have. He could easily destroy someone’s life in five minutes or less using nothing but a cell phone.
What he lacked in cool factor he more than made up for with a genius IQ and a nearly eidetic memory.
Spencer’s dark-blond hair fell a little past his ears and shouted “Professor,” while his tall, lean frame said “Runner.”
Neither was true.
“Did he get handsy?” Spencer asked as he selected a muffin from the bag.
“He always tries.” Annie’sMona Lisasmile was secretive with hints of danger. “But nobody knows how to dodge grabby hands like someone who had to stand naked backstage at a runway show.”
Ward turned to Spencer. “What have you got?”
“You gave me less than six hours to do a full workup,” Spencer said around a mouthful of cranberry-orange muffin. He sounded defensive, but the way he tilted his chin with pride told a different story. “I still have some digging to do, but there’s enough to get started with.”