“Bruce Rawson is my biological father. When I met him as a teenager, he blew me off. After I got my master’s, I approached him strictly for advice. He assumed I was there to blackmail him, so he hired me to shut me up. He’s never paid me a moment of attention after that.”

  And suddenly I get what drives Sloan. “You’ve given most of your adult life and your ambition to win your father’s approval?”

  The ugly cry starts again. “I’m just a poor little girl with stupid Daddy issues. Pathetic.”

  Clearly, she isn’t ready to face him—and risk his rejection again. She’s upset about that, too.

  I can’t afford to feel so sorry for Sloan that I fail to do my job, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to cut all the bastards in her life who are making her miserable. “You are not pathetic. You’re in a shitty position. Of course you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” she sobs. “I’m angry.”

  Denial. I get that. She doesn’t want to admit that she feels crushed because she’ll also have to admit weakness.

  “Baby, you have every right to be pissed as hell. None of this is your fault.” Yet I can tell she somehow feels responsible.

  “I didn’t push harder for that report sooner. I didn’t ask more questions when I noticed all the VPs acting oddly after Shane took Bruce’s position.”

  “You mean after your brother usurped your father. They’ve all made choices; none of that is your doing. If you had known and done nothing, I’d understand your regret. But you and I have been digging for weeks to get this much information. It was sheer luck that Carissa ran across something that would finally help this nightmare make sense.”

  “What good does it do me to realize the company I’ve dedicated my career to is a house of cards I can’t stop from falling?”

  The heartbreak in her voice is painful. “There are other employers. You’re no slave to Reservoir, and if the worst happens, you can soothe yourself with the knowledge that you were the only person who tried to stop its demise. If you’re worried that Daddy won’t ever love you because you didn’t save his company, that’s on him. He’ll have to live with the knowledge that he both allowed his worthless son to piss away his hard work and ignored the daughter who did her best to rescue it. But you can’t make him choose differently. All you can do is decide how to move forward for your best possible outcome.”

  She doesn’t speak for protracted moments, but her breaths turn less choppy and audible. I know she hears me, and I’m sure she’s thinking. “If you were in my place, what would you do next?”

  “Great question.” It’s really the only logical one, and I’m not surprised Sloan is already trying to think past her emotions and devise something both helpful and workable. “How much of the blackmail material do you have your hands on?”

  “Just Smith’s. Carissa only showed me the footage because she was shocked to see my boss with this woman who clearly isn’t his wife, especially given the date stamp on the video.”

  That’s not optimal, but even if she can get her boss on board, it’s a start. “Blackmail him.”

  “Shane already is, and I—”

  “Hear me out. Tell him that you’ll tell his wife about his indiscretion with the stripper if he doesn’t get you the dirt on all the other VPs and convince them to stand up to Shane collectively. If all the VPs rally to oust him, it might work.”

  “I don’t know… Someone would still have to assume the leadership position, and after this fiasco, I don’t think any of them are qualified.”

  “No.” If I ran that company for even five minutes, I would fire them all—not for their moral choices outside the office but for letting the whole ship go down so they could save their own asses. No one will convince me they didn’t drag out the release of that financial statement. They knew it wouldn’t survive scrutiny.

  Vaguely, I wonder why Bruce Rawson hired Jeremy. Did he instinctively know that he couldn’t trust Shane and wanted to implement some oversight? Did he have some inkling that the company he’d spent his life building was quickly sinking? There’s a reason he hired McBride to consult…

  “So who would run Reservoir? I love this place. You know I’ve given it my all, but…I’m not qualified.”

  Sloan is underselling herself again, but I understand why she feels that way. Being CEO would be challenging as hell for her; she doesn’t have executive experience. But if anyone could put in the mental energy and elbow grease to make it happen, it’s her.

  “I don’t know who would run Reservoir, but that’s farther down the road. The most important thing now is for you to stop the bleeding.”

  “Before it dies. Right.” She’s clearly getting a hold of her emotions now, because she sounds more determined than crushed.

  “Exactly. I hate that I’m sitting here in M—” I barely stop myself from admitting that I’m in Maui. “Maricopa County, Arizona. But whatever I can do from here, just tell me. I’ll do my best, baby. I just don’t want to hear you cry anymore.”

  “It’s not the first time; it won’t be the last. I just appreciate you listening and trying to help.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I can’t remember the last time anyone was willing to go to the mat for me. I usually do that for people, and it almost always blows up in my face. But thank you for being protective and…thoughtful.”

  If she only knew, and guilt suddenly plunges into my chest, stabbing at my heart like a blade. I can’t be totally honest with Sloan. I’ve made this fucking torture rack of a bed that I have to lie in. But I can tell her a few truths. “It’s been a long time since I really felt a connection to someone I understood. I usually gravitate to women who are…”

  “Softer? Sweeter? Less pushy?” she supplies for me. “My mom used to call me plucky and tell me that some people would like me for it. Those who didn’t just didn’t have enough spine, she’d say. But I have yet to find a man who really wants to be challenged. It’s understandable if you don’t, either. That makes you normal.”

  “No, it made me blind.” And it’s true. I always wanted to help Becca. She seemed sad and lonely, so fragile—everything Sloan isn’t. Suddenly, I can’t remember why I was drawn to a woman so unsure of herself, one with no aspirations and no grasp of the fact every person has one life, so what they make of it is up to them. Becca waited for everyone to make her life for her. Evan tried. I would have tried, too, if I wouldn’t have been betraying my best friend.

  Suddenly, I wonder…would Becca and I have made each other miserable? Or do I only wonder that because I have a woman so opposite, so vibrant, to compare her to?

  “McBride…” She sighs. “Jeremy, you don’t have to—”

  “Be nice?” I snap, mostly because I hate her calling me by a name that isn’t mine. It’s not her fault; I did this to myself. But that only makes me hate it more. “Say things I don’t mean? I don’t bother with that shit. And look, I know this is a professional relationship, and I have no business making it personal, but the truth is I’ve never met a woman more fascinating than you. If we didn’t work together and we didn’t live in different states…”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  I laugh, mostly at my own eagerness. “Oh, I fucking would. In a heartbeat. Baby, I’m in your corner. I’m on your side.” Well, except when it comes to the Wynam project. “You’re going to succeed, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

  She exhales. The sound is choppy and full of emotion again. “That might be the kindest thing any man has ever said to me. For the record, if we didn’t work together and we didn’t live in different states, I fucking would, too. In a heartbeat. Thanks.”

  April 2

  * * *

  “Bas?” Evan snaps his fingers in my face. “Projections for European growth if Wynam doesn’t choose us? I’m leaving for London on Friday for this face-to-face, but that hardly means we’re a shoo-in for this account. We need to know our cash position in a worst-case scenario.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I rifle through the papers in front of me, mostly to stall for time while I yank my thoughts back in line. The prospective client invited Evan across the pond, which is great. But that makes everything critical now…and I can’t seem to focus.

  Usually, I would know the answer to his question off the top of my head. If I could stop thinking about Sloan for two seconds put together, I’d be able to answer my boss and best friend, no problem. But on a Monday following a sleepless Sunday night? It’s not happening.

  “What’s up with you? You’ve been distracted all day.”

  I haven’t told Evan anything about my last call with Sloan, and it’s eating at me. Normally, I would have spilled the juicy details about Reservoir’s uncertain future. I would have coughed up every morsel of information about what might be their impending financial collapse if no one steps in. Their loss is our gain.

  So why are you withholding?

  I already know the answer. Evan is a good guy, sure. But he’s a damn smart man. He would never want me to create a competitor’s misfortune so he could benefit…but he’d be pissed if I ignored trouble already brewing because I’d suddenly grown a conscience—or a heart.

  I’m in a fucking quandary, and I shouldn’t be. In a competition of who I most owe my allegiance to, the guy I’ve been friends with for a dozen years definitely wins out over my ball-busting phone-a-friend. Sloan is the target I’m supposed to hustle. She’s the ticket to Evan’s expansion dreams. I’m not supposed to care about her.

  I need to stop hesitating and finish this job.

  “Bas?” Evan prompts.

  “There’s something going on with Sloan.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You want to roll that past me again?”

  He’s pissed. I can’t figure it out until I replay what I said in my head. Shit, it sounds like I’m having a fling with the competition. Technically, I’m not—no matter how much I wish otherwise.

  “That didn’t come out right. I mean that Sloan is acting oddly, and I’m trying to figure out what’s up.”

  “And how best to use it to our advantage? Gotcha.”

  Is there a way to do that without throwing Sloan to the wolves?

  I don’t even question why I’m desperate to make such a thing possible. It’s not because I’m worried about karma or ethics. Right or wrong, everything screams at me to protect her. Sloan can’t go down with the ship she’s trying so hard to right. It isn’t fair. Yeah, I know life isn’t…but if I can give her some equity and justice this one time while giving Evan the European expansion I owe him? What’s the harm in that?

  “More or less,” I manage.

  “When you figure it out, let me know. Until then…those projections?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pull my head out of my ass long enough to give Evan the information he needs and finish the rest of our meeting. When he tells me I look like shit and I’m acting even worse so I should go home, I don’t argue.

  Except when I get there, I have nothing to do but stare mindlessly at the TV, wonder how Sloan’s day went, and hate that she didn’t call. I can’t appear too pushy. I can’t insist that she give me more insider information. She’ll be suspicious. But I can just picture her singlehandedly trying to slay metaphorical dragons and save the dying company from perdition.

  I just hope she doesn’t die on her sword.

  And instead of figuring out what the fuck to tell Evan, I spend the evening thinking of ways to save her.

  But I don’t come up with any grand solutions by Tuesday. Or Wednesday.

  Nor have I heard from Sloan. It worries me.

  Finally, on Thursday morning, my phone rings and her number pops up on my display. I hold up a finger to signal Evan to pause the strategy meeting we’re in to finalize our follow-up to Wynam and answer. “Sloan?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice sounds shaky. She swallows.

  As I let myself out the door, I’m aware of Evan’s gaze following me. Nia looks on with concern, too. I can’t meet their stares now. I’ll deal with them—and the guilt killing me—but that’s a problem for later.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Am I interrupting you?”

  Yes, but I don’t care. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”

  “A lot. It’s gotten ugly fast. I-I tried doing what you suggested and blackmailing Smith. I just don’t…” She lowers her voice. “I don’t dare say any more here. There are ears everywhere.”

  She sounds scared. I need to do something—fast. “How can I help?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  The uncharacteristic trembling of her voice worries me. “For your job?”

  “Yes. But that’s not all. I’m actually afraid for my safety.”

  “Someone threatened you?”

  “Shane. Not in so many words. It was veiled, but it was there. I hate to ask this of you, and if you can’t, I understand but… I really want you here.”

  Oh, fuck. I can’t go there without her knowing I’m not Jeremy McBride.

  Or can I?

  She doesn’t actually know Jeremy. They’ve never met. Hell, she’s never heard his voice. Even if she’s seen a picture, well…Jeremy and I are the same age. He’s got darker hair and he’s a little heavier, but maybe I suddenly decided to drop a few and visit a salon. I can make anything work. That BS isn’t nearly as important as saving her.

  “I can be there tomorrow.” I don’t know what I’m going to say to Evan; I’ll think of something.

  She sounds both relieved and on the verge of tears. “Thank you.”

  “Where should I meet you? And do you have someplace you can lie low until I make it there?”

  “I don’t know. Um…a hotel, maybe.”

  “Good call. I don’t think it’s wise for me to come to the offices.” For so many reasons…

  “You’re right. We have to be careful…”

  With a shaking voice, she rattles off the name of a boutique hotel north of the city, according to an internet search. It looks upscale without being pretentious. There are a couple of restaurants attached, one casual, one swanky, along with what appears to be a happening nightclub.

  It looks like a place where she might plausibly go in her home city and where I might, as a traveler, conceivably run into her—if she gets tailed and we’re caught. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it’s hard not to think about worst-case scenarios.

  I’ll never forget the awful day Becca died. Her loss seemed so surreal. One day she was there. The next… Of course I knew about the car accident. It shocked me. Logically, I knew she was gone. But her funeral didn’t give me a sense of closure. For too long, my life, my feelings have been on pause.

  If something happened to Sloan, it would be worse. Becca was driving too fast on slick streets and slid head-first into an embankment. There was nothing anyone—even Evan—could have done. But if Shane or one of the VPs decides to do whatever it takes to stop Sloan from exposing them, I’ll feel totally responsible. After all, she might never have found herself in danger if I hadn’t started this ruse and pushed her for information until she found herself ass deep in this mess.

  “I’ll be there, probably tomorrow afternoon.” I curse the multiple time zones between us, the ones she doesn’t know about.

  “Call me when you get in, okay? I-I’ll come there as soon as I can.”

  I hate the catch of fear in her voice and wish like fuck I could reach her sooner. But I’ll be hard-pressed to keep this promise as it is. It’s not merely the long flight. I’ll have to tell Evan something about why I’m going to Dallas, and I fucking don’t want to lie. But I can’t leave Sloan to fend for herself, especially now. I also have to figure out how not to tip her off that I’m not Jeremy.

  What a goddamn tangled web.

  “I’ll be waiting,” I swear. “Don’t be afraid, baby. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Bye.”

  Before I can reply, she’s gone. I hope that’s not a foreshadowing of things to come.

  April 6

  Twenty-four hours later, I finally cross the threshold of the hotel where I made a reservation. While Sloan and I were talking, it didn’t cross my mind to ask how long I should plan on staying. I tried to call back, but she didn’t answer. Anxiety clouded my thoughts as I booked a room for this weekend. If I need to stay longer, I’ll deal with it later.

  My gut is in knots as I head for the check-in desk, glancing around in case I see her. I don’t know what she looks like, not really. Just red hair and a hint of vulnerability with that strong, determined jaw.

  As the hotel clerk finishes up with another incoming guest, I try Sloan’s number once more. Voice mail. Again. I leave another message telling her to call me.

  I need to slip into problem-solving mode and find her.

  “Welcome, sir. How may I help you? Checking in?”

  “Yes,” I tell the friendly, forty-something clerk as I hand over my driver’s license and credit card.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket as the woman takes the plastic from my grasp. I rip the device from my pocket, disappointed that it’s Evan’s name on my screen.

  “I have to take this,” I tell the clerk.

  “No problem,” she assures.

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  “You there? Make contact yet?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Wine her. Dine her. Recline her—whatever it takes to find out who her spies are. If someone under our roof is providing our competitors information about our Wynam campaign, we need to deal with them ASAP.”

  That’s the cover story I gave Evan to explain my impromptu trip to Dallas. Sloan has information about our pitch that she shouldn’t, and I have no idea how she got it…but she might be willing to tell me face to face. Evan was all for getting to the bottom of the guilty party’s identity, which made talking him into this trip simple. But we really do need to know, so in one ten-minute conversation, I doubled my number of mission objectives.