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  “What’s up?” I say into the phone, still trying to surface from the depths of the summary.

  “You working on something?”

  “Finishing up the summary for the Christiansen Inc. case.”

  “Leave it, and come to my office.”

  My boss, Milton Jeffries, clicks off the line without saying another word. My heart beats fast in my chest as I shove my chair away from my desk. The urgency in his voice tells me this is something new, something big, something I could hang my hat on.

  When I knock at his door, he’s hunched over his keyboard, as usual, his salt-and-pepper hair impeccably styled and his suit neatly pressed, the very picture of a detective from the old noir films, even though he’s somehow firmly rooted in the present. “Sit down,” he says without preamble, and I drop into the seat across from him. “I need you on a new case. Hand off the summary to somebody else.”

  “But—” I’ve put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into this thing, but I bite back the rest of what I was going to say. Going to battle so I can finish up some paperwork is not how I’m going to climb the ladder here…and I’ve already been climbing at a record pace. No reason to derail my progress now. “What’s the case?”

  Milton pushes a folder across the desk toward me. “Wilder Enterprises.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You wouldn’t have. They deal in energy technology, and they’re like this with the government.” He wraps two fingers around each other in a symbol of tightness. “Sensitive information, going both ways.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Someone’s stealing their tech secrets and selling them out to a contact in China. It might be the Chinese government.”

  “Shit.”

  Anything involving the illegal transfer of information between someone in the U.S. and the Chinese government would be a big, nasty deal—something way over my pay grade—and I instantly understand why as I scan over the contents of the folder, names and dates rolling along…until I see the picture.

  “Who’s that?”

  The man stares seriously out from the image, blue eyes blazing even in the still-life picture. That is one cut jaw.

  Milton cranes his neck. “Dominic Wilder. He owns the company, and he’s still in the dark about all of this. He has to be, because we don’t know yet if he’s involved.”

  I give a low whistle and flip the page, even though I want to keep staring into those eyes for the rest of my life. “Got it.”

  “Review the materials and get back to me by the end of the day with any questions. You start early next week as an employee in one of their departments—it’s all in the folder, along with your undercover identity.” Milton says briskly. “And Viv?”

  I look into his eyes, my hands tightening on the folder. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t need to tell you this, but—”

  “This is an important one.”

  One sharp nod, and I’m dismissed.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I make my way back to my desk. This could be it. This could be the case I’ve been waiting for—the one that will make all my years of hard work worth it, the one that will wipe away all the angry sneers and comments from the men who didn’t want me spending so much time at the office, the one that will make me into the kind of woman who doesn’t need a man for anything.

  All the years I’ve spent alone and lonely will finally pay off.

  It will have all been worth it—worth it to land this one case.

  1

  Vivienne

  Don’t drop the doughnuts. Don’t drop the doughnuts.

  With every precarious step I take down the New York City sidewalk, the thought repeats over and over again in my mind like the dumbest mantra I’ve ever heard. Even if I do make it to the office without dropping these doughnuts, I can tell that the phrase will have lodged itself in my mind and stick there for days, maybe even weeks.

  This all started out as a relatively simple idea: bring in treats on my first day at the office to endear me to everybody in my new department—the Executive Support department—at Wilder Enterprises, my employment home for the foreseeable future.

  It got complicated when the June weather turned upside down, whipping itself up from a calm and pleasant—though slightly overcast—day into a voracious thunderstorm when some rogue cold front smashed into the steamy heat rising above the city early this morning. I woke up to the sound of raindrops lashing against my window ledge, and I promptly snuggled deeper into my pillow.

  Rain like this means there are no cabs. No cabs means I have to take the subway. The subway means having to walk three blocks carrying an enormous box of freshly baked doughnuts.

  The box wasn’t meant to be this big, by the way. I was going to bring in a respectable two dozen, and if my department turns out to be bigger than that, tough luck. But the guy selling the doughnuts at the cute little family-owned bakery three doors down from my apartment had to be so nice. He gave me a big grin, flashing his white teeth and prominently displaying his dimples, and insisted on throwing in another dozen, artfully arranged in a box so big I ended up taking two seats on the subway.

  I shrug one shoulder upward, trying to hoist my purse strap up farther on my arm to keep it from slipping down. It’s a constant struggle, what with the bulky raincoat I’m wearing in what turns out to be a futile effort to keep my clothes dry. The collar of the neat and professional suit jacket I’m wearing underneath it is soaked—I can feel it—and one of the buttons near the throat is coming undone. Correction, it is undone, which means the front of my silk shirt is—

  I can’t think about that now. The effort it’s taking to bring in freshly baked treats on my first day of work, not to mention doing so through a rainstorm, will no doubt endear me to my future colleagues, if nothing else. It’s hard not to like someone who shows up on the first day bearing doughnuts and wearing a wet shirt, looking slightly sheepish and green behind the ears.

  It’s going to be seen as a nice gesture, even if it’s only an illusion. I’ve pulled it off so many times before, and every time successfully.

  Today might be the first time my entry into a company like Wilder Enterprises goes totally off the rails.

  I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the unwieldy box of doughnuts. It will definitely be the first time I’ve worked an investigation at a company even remotely close to the size of Wilder Enterprises. So regardless, this is a whole new ballgame. Although the stakes would be a lot lower if this was only some annual sporting tournament that goes on to affect almost no one. Instead, this is my big chance to prove myself at the FBI.

  You can do this, I remind myself without the slightest hint of irony. It takes some serious cojones for a woman with no experience beyond a journalism degree with a focus on investigative reporting to do anything in the FBI, but I’ve managed to pull it off more than once. For five years, I’ve done…not to brag, but I’ve done rather well for myself.

  But it’s time to move up in the world, and Wilder Enterprises is how I’m going to do it. All I need to do is conduct this investigation exactly by the books. No funny business, no getting attached to anyone at the company—none of that. It’s cut and dried: I need to get in, get to the bottom of what’s happening, and get out, hopefully with a big fancy medal waiting for me back at the home offices.

  Not literally. But if it’s in the form of a pay raise, I’d certainly take it…

  I shake my head to gather my thoughts, a scattering of raindrops falling from my hair. The torrents of rain continue driving down around me, mixing with the downpour battering the streets and any sidewalk not concealed under the protective covering of an awning.

  I still have a block to go with the dampened cardboard box of doughnuts getting heavier by the minute when the wind starts to pick up.

  No, no, no. I tense myself, bracing myself against the sheets of wind. The last thing I need right now is for a howler to come racing between all the skyscrapers and upend t
he giant pink box I’ve been clutching in my hands for most of forty-five minutes.

  Picking up the pace isn’t an easy prospect, what with the slick sidewalks and the stilettos I’ve chosen to wear today, quite the combination considering the weather—I should have gone with the kitten heels—but I do my best, taking smaller steps and hustling.

  “Vivienne Davis,” I say under my breath, keeping my tone bright and even, which is how I will speak when I enter through the doors of my newest place of employment for the first time and introduce myself. I’ve spent the last few weeks securing my undercover identity. Vivienne Davis is close enough to my real name that I won’t forget it, but if you look up Vivienne Davis, you won’t find even the tiniest clue linking it to a woman who works for the FBI. All you’ll discover is a few random and well-placed tidbits about little old me, a graduate of NYU and former executive assistant at Farwell Limited, a company based in New Mexico that has all the makings of a real business without actually being one.

  That was my idea—the fake business, in case anyone in the HR department at Wilder Enterprises went to the trouble of researching my background. I doubt they did—most organizations of this size don’t actually bother aside from the basics—but you never know. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.

  Only half a block to go.

  The towering skyscraper that houses Wilder Enterprises headquarters has an awning, though it doesn’t span the building’s entire front face, only the area directly over the entrance.

  Get to the awning. And don’t drop the doughnuts.

  I’m almost there. I’m going to make it. I’m so going to make it that I’m almost home free.

  Ten steps. Five. Three.

  With a little whoop of triumph that I mostly manage to keep contained under my breath, I take the final step, putting me firmly—and safely—underneath the awning. The final step—the one that actually hides a crack in the sidewalk.

  The heel of my shoe slips perfectly into the crack… and snaps off like a twig.

  The sidewalk is damp enough that even though I try to balance myself, even though I try hard, I can’t quite get purchase with my other foot. My right knee twists painfully as the heel gives up on its last inch of life.

  I lose my grip on the box—then catch it again—but I’m still falling, and—shit—the street has suddenly become a giant wind tunnel, right now, right at this moment. The gust of wind coupled with the driving sheets of rain are so strong that it whistles as it seizes the clear lid of the box. I scramble to slam it down back into place, but too late I catch sight of the horrible angle of the box—too late to stop the jelly doughnut that was perched right on top from flying out and right into the opening of my raincoat, smashing its innards onto what had been until seconds ago my neatly ironed white shirt.

  My knee slams down onto the concrete, putting an end to this embarrassment, and doughnuts go scattering in all directions. There are only about a dozen survivors, and then there is me, kneeling on the sidewalk, my knee throbbing in burning pain, the heel of my right black stiletto broken, the raincoat hood blown off my head, while a car—black and sleek and by the looks of it way too expensive for me to ever dream of owning—glides up to the curb in time for whoever is inside it to witness the whole thing.

  The driver hurries out, bustles swiftly around the side of the car closest to the awning, and pulls open the back door on the passenger side, standing aside for a tall, elegant man who is so gorgeous that he must be a descendent from some kind of Greek god to step out onto the sidewalk. He fixes his flashing blue eyes on me, and then his lips appear to dip into a frown.

  I choke back a gasp. He’s that sexy.

  Worst of all, I recognize him.

  My embarrassment is only beginning.

  2

  Dominic

  I have no idea why this woman—this woman, with her emerald green eyes that are so vivid they’re almost glowing, even in the dreary gray backdrop of the storm, curves so fine I can trace their lines even under the black raincoat she’s wearing, and the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen—is walking in the rain carrying an absurdly large pink box of pastries.

  If the events of the last few seconds haven’t made her ask the very same question, I don’t know what will.

  I looked up from the deluge of emails I’d been scrolling through on my phone to see her go down hard, the hot pink box slipping and shaking in her hands, and by the pink color in her cheeks, she must know I witnessed the entire thing.

  She looks up at me from her awkward position on the sidewalk, her lips parted slightly, and I’m at a loss for words.

  A man in a sallow-colored trench coat comes up behind her, shouting into his phone. “No, you asshole.” His voice is nasal, high-pitched, and it sets my teeth on edge. “I told you to move that product or find yourself another job. If your desk isn’t cleaned out by the time I get there, I’ll kill you myself.” As he snaps angrily into his phone, he registers there is a woman splayed out on the sidewalk and steps gingerly around her, his belittling and condescending expression implying he’s sidestepping a steaming pile of garbage. My jaw clenches tight.

  I don’t really have time to perform a rescue mission, even if it is happening right outside my office building, but something about her has arrested my attention. Stopped it dead, right in this moment, and I can’t act like that prick on the phone. Not this time.

  So even though I have a meeting scheduled with some of my top executives and only about five minutes to prepare, and even though I called the meeting, I do the only thing I can think of.

  I step over to offer my hand to help her stand up.

  “Are you all right?”

  At my words, her face flushes from pink to scarlet. “Yeah. This is the best day of my life.” Her tone is rueful rather than biting, and she hesitates for a moment before she reaches up and puts her hand in mine. A zing dances up my arm, zeroing straight to the middle of my chest, and she takes in a quick little breath. Our eyes meet for another eternal second, and then she drops her gaze, grasping onto my hand a little tighter as she pulls herself up.

  When she does, she’s not quite steady on her feet. “Shit,” she says softly, and her face turns an even deeper shade of red. “Sorry.”

  “Do you have an extra pair of shoes?” It’s an idiotic thing to say, and I know it, but I have to say something, and her hand in mine is leeching all of my cool business demeanor right out of me. I’m actually finding it hard to breathe.

  She flicks her eyes upward, catching herself. “No. And now my doughnuts are all over the ground.” She squares her shoulders, seeming to will herself to gather her composure. “Thanks for the hand up. If you could forget that you ever saw this—”

  “Not a chance.”

  She shoots me a dark, but surprised look. “Why not?”

  I don’t know what it is—if it’s the storm, if it’s the way she looks, the tendrils of her dark hair escaping from the careful knot at the nape of her neck—but the next words that come out of my mouth are the pure, unvarnished truth. “You looked so good, kneeling down on the sidewalk.”

  Jesus. This is not what I had in mind when I stepped out of the car.

  Her mouth contorts, and then she presses her lips into a thin line, nodding as if all of this is predictable, commonplace, disgusting. “I think I’ve got things from here.”

  She’s pissed, and as she stoops to pick up the box, which is now only about a third full of pastries, my brain works overtime to figure out what the hell to say to fix this. In this moment, I hate myself. Dominic Wilder, billionaire and president of Wilder Enterprises, the man with all the answers—and what, I have nothing?

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say, as she wrestles the top of the box back into place. My voice is low and urgent—far more urgent than I meant for it to be—but there’s no way I can let her walk away from me like this. “That was inappropriate.”

  Her face shifts again, and she seems to make a decision, nodding once, shar
ply. “It was.” Then her expression softens. “But we can agree to forget it.”

  It’s been a long time since anyone spoke to me in such clipped tones, and it’s not pissing me off like it should. Surprisingly.

  “Is there anything—?” Christ. I have no idea why I’m pushing this hard, for some random woman on the sidewalk who I’ve never seen before in my life and will probably never see again. “Do you need a ride? To a shoe store, maybe?”

  This makes her smile, at least a little, though there’s a look in her eyes that I can’t quite place. “No, actually.” Her eyes flicker down to the sidewalk, then back up to meet mine. “I’m actually going in here. It’s my first day at Wilder Enterprises.”

  I laugh out loud. “Oh, really? What department?”

  She bites her lip. “Executive Support.”

  “I’m Dominic Wilder.”

  I didn’t know a person’s face could get so red, despite the fact that she was firing snippy responses at me a minute ago. She sighs a little. “I know. I’ve—I’ve seen your picture.”

  “I look a little different in the flesh.”

  She screws up her mouth into one of quaint disgust. “I hate that expression.” Then she remembers herself—remembers that I’m her new boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. “I’m sorry. We’re not getting off to a very good start.”

  “We can agree to forget it,” I say, because when I look into those eyes, which are already burned into my brain, into my memory, it takes me a glacial moment to think of anything else at all. Except, of course, the very inappropriate things I’d like to do with— “What’s your name, Miss—”

  “Vivienne,” she says, without hesitating. “Vivienne Davis.”

  “Ms. Davis, you’ve having a very interesting first day.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if the rest of the day was far less interesting.”