Chapter 1 – Sky

“New chick, it’s your lucky day,” Frank Peterson booms through Denton Uncovered’s messy newsroom. My new boss is loud enough to wake the dead, despite my being five feet away.

I force my face into a polite smile as Frank saunters toward me, his shoulders not quite filling in his sport jacket. I long to remind him I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman with a journalism degree, not a girl or a chick or whatever, but I don’t. New boss. New paper. First day. Denton Uncovered—a tabloid in remote Denton Valley, Colorado—isn’t exactly a premier paper, but after the fiasco in New York, it was the only place to give me the time of day. Part time. And I’d sent out dozens of résumés.

“My name is Skylar, Mr. Peterson,” I say. “Skylar Reynolds.”

Frank waves his hands in front of his face as if I’m an irritating mosquito and slaps a sheet with a scribbled address onto my desk. “Story for you!”

Here we go. My heart quickens, but I manage to keep from leaping out of my chair. “Yes, sir.”

Frank nods his approval. “Car accident on the corner of Main and First.”

My smile freezes on my face. Car accident. That’s not a story, that’s a police report.

Frank snorts. “Disappointed?”

Yes. “No, sir. I’m here for whatever Denton Uncovered needs.”

“Excellent. Because it’s not just a car accident, honey.” Frank leans over me, wafting his thickly sweet bug-spray-like cologne right into my personal space. Hell, maybe it is bug spray. I try not to gag. The fluorescent overhead lighting makes his bald spot shine as he moves, squaring off both hands in the air as if framing a picture. “Driver’s rumored to be Mr. Mason of Mason Pharmaceuticals, aka a lush, drunk more often than sober. Except you wouldn’t know that from his record—money talks in this town. If you hurry, maybe you can get through before he pays off the cops and walks free.”

Well, now Frank’s got my attention. There’s something that twists my gut at knowing that some rich asshole is paying off his DUIs. There are some things money should not be able to buy.

“On it, sir,” I say, already grabbing the key to my aging Toyota Corolla and begging the car gods that it actually makes it to the scene. I won’t have money to fix it until the first paycheck comes in, and that’s not for a few weeks with Frank’s payroll setup. Might not be enough even then. I took this job to build up field experience, but I’ll need to find a second one quickly if I want to eat.

I give the office one last glance. The photographer, James Dyer, bustles out the frosted door while Frank and I are talking, so I assume whatever he’s going out for has nothing to do with my story. Patrick Capaldi, the veteran sportswriter, is busy typing into his laptop behind me. I turn when the clicking of his fingers stops, and catch a smirk. Or at least I think I do. It’s gone as soon as I see it.

Weird.

But maybe I’m being paranoid. Scratch that. I know I’m being paranoid. But after the shit my ex-fiancé and his marine buddies pulled in New York, I can’t help it. While there are other female employees, I’m the lone female reporter. Still, I have no reason to believe that anyone here is misogynistic—for all his talk, Frank did hire me. I’ve had enough of that men-stick-together shit to last me a lifetime. Two lifetimes.

This is my fresh start.

My car mercifully starts on the second try, and I’m soon on Denton Valley’s main throughway. Denton Valley, Colorado, is nestled—as its name suggests—in a valley, the rugged snowcapped peaks of the Southern Rocky Mountains surrounding it like a scarf. The effect is one of protection, similar to a favorite pair of thick woolen socks. Or at least that’s the way I’m thinking about it. As I head toward the crash, I’m a little unsettled by the dense green—turning autumn orange—forest that encroaches from the side of the highway. This town isn’t tiny, but it’s nothing like my old stomping grounds in Brooklyn.

The road is curvy as hell, with the occasional deer deciding that of all the times to run across the road, doing so while I’m driving is ideal. With all my time in New York, I’m not exactly Fast and Furious when it comes to driving. Thankfully, it’s fall, so I don’t have to deal with icy road conditions. Yet. I can handle this. I can handle anything. 

Exiting off the highway, I enter the more familiar-to-me urban area. The road flares and flashing lights guide me the final few hundred yards to the accident, both the red and blue ones of the ambulance as well as the amber lights of a tow truck. The vic’s car—a Cadillac Escalade that seems pristine except for missing its front half—seems to have been wrapped around a tree.

At least the bastard didn’t hurt anyone else.

I pull into a space a few car lengths down and pop out, notes app on my phone at the ready. But first things first. Photos.

A pair of policemen standing guard, nearly at attention.

A guy in greasy coveralls hooking the abused Caddy onto a flatbed.

A muscular paramedic wearing skintight Under Armour with Trident Rescue stenciled on the back looming over an annoyed-looking guy in a business suit who holds a cloth to his bleeding head, the medical Suburban’s lights flickering in the background.

I swallow, my hand tightening around my phone as my camera zoom shows the medic’s face in full detail. His jaw is square and clean-shaven, his cheekbones chiseled, his mouth firm. Add in the mossy-green eyes full of intelligence and concern, and he’s basically an Adonis. A real live Adonis. Heat rises to my face, my thighs clenching together until I can finally force away the thought of what that medic might look like shirtless and focus on the task at hand.

Making sure my press credentials are clearly visible around my neck, I come up to one of the officers. “Good afternoon, sir. Sky Reynolds, reporter with Denton Uncovered. Can you tell me whether you’ve administered a sobriety test to the driver?”

The uniformed guy looks at me incredulously. “To Eli Mason?”

I’ll take that as a no.

“From the skid marks, it appears Mr. Mason swerved on the road before ramming a tree. Was there someone else involved in the accident? Another victim?” Or did that tree just attack him from the roadside?

“Single-car collision, ma’am.” The guy’s partner comes over with a hard expression that tells me to get the hell out if I know what’s good for me.

Except that I do know what’s good for me. The truth.

Ducking around the officers, I make a confident dash for Medic Adonis and his charge.

“You need stitches and might have a concussion.” Adonis’s voice is a rich commanding baritone that perfectly matches his chiseled body, the navy-blue cargos clinging to a taut waist. His blond buzz cut is shaved close enough that it looks like he might’ve used a ruler. Maybe even a protractor. Not a look I usually go for—too military, and I’ve had my fill of that mess—but on Adonis, it’s perfect.

“I don’t bloody need stitches.” Mason sounds like a hurt animal, his British accent and bravado masking pain. Unlike Adonis’s buzz cut, Eli’s unruly copper hair flops onto his brow. His white button-down business shirt is spotted with blood all down his left arm. “I don’t have a concussion either.”

I step up to the men, extending a hand. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Skylar Reynolds, reporter with Denton Uncovered. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Mason squints at me as if his head aches, so I pivot toward Adonis. But then my eyes meet his, and I watch his gaze turn hard. Even hateful. Nothing like the concerned look he’d had when speaking to Eli. Is Adonis on Eli Mason’s payroll as well? The cops certainly seem to be.

I draw a calming breath. I’ve been around hateful men before, and I don’t like it. In fact, I despise it. Especially when that hard gaze is immediately accompanied by a twist of his lips. A sneer. I’m standing there like an idiot with my hand stretched out, and Adonis is too busy staring me down to even notice.

“Get off my scene,” Adonis snaps, his jaw flexing.

I read the name embroidered on his shirt. Hunt.

“I’m the press, and this is a story, Mr. Hunt. Which means it actually does concern me. If there’s a reason Mr. Mason hasn’t been tested for blood alcohol level? Or been given a breathalyzer test at least?”

Eli’s eyes flash with fury as he twists to me and winces.

Stepping around Eli, Hunt completely blocks my access to him. He has a way of taking over all the space around him. All the air.

“I don’t care if you’re the queen of England, you and Denton Uncovered…” He gnashes his teeth, as if swallowing what he wants to say before coming up with a curt “You need to leave. Now.”

I stand my ground. “The First Amendment says otherwise.”

Hunt takes a step toward me, his shoulders spreading as if he’s about to sprout wings like an archangel. His stance is pure trained authoritarian. This guy comes from either a law enforcement background or, more likely, a military one.

Just like my father. Just like Jaden. The thought of my ex-fiancé makes me shudder with revulsion.

“Cullen,” Eli says from behind the medic, the warning note in it subtle but unmistakable.

Hunt’s hands curl into a fist, anger radiating from him in waves. I back up a step. A muscle in Hunt’s jaw flexes, and he spins on his heel, slamming his palm against the Suburban with a loud clang—Eli saving his hand from getting crushed only by virtue of his uncannily quick reflexes.

All right, so maybe Eli Mason isn’t drunk.

Stomping around the medical Suburban, Hunt slides behind the steering wheel.

“Mason, shotgun.”

At first, I have no idea what Hunt’s decree means. Did he seriously just threaten me with a shotgun? But then Eli throws me a narrowed glance before snapping to like a cadet and climbing into the passenger’s side.

Ah.

I go to take another picture of the scene, my hand stilling midmotion. Not only had Eli Mason not acted intoxicated, but the way Hunt barked out orders, it was hard to imagine the medic being on his patient’s payroll. The only thing Frank’s lead had gotten correct, it seems, was the accident site.

The siren comes on, wailing so loudly that I clap my hands over my ears. Then the Suburban maneuvers into traffic, cutting off a sedan, and careens down Main. A couple of blocks down, it whips down a side street, the flashing lights strobing across the manicured landscaping of both buildings and residences alike.

Before I can register everything that just happened, the emergency vehicle and its surly occupant have vanished from sight.

Great. The only place willing to hire me had sent me on a story without the correct information, and I hadn’t been able to obtain even the briefest of interviews from anyone involved.

What now?

Chapter 2 – Cullen

“A dog? Seriously, Mason?” Cullen Hunt frowned at Eli Mason as the former SEAL balked at the sight of a suturing kit Cullen was pulling out. Cullen had already given up on the notion of taking the stubborn son of a bitch to a hospital to get a full concussion workup, but he wasn’t about to give in on this. The laceration on Eli’s arm was not bleeding much, but it was long and deep enough to develop an infection if they weren’t careful. Eli got off light. Whatever else, the Caddie had one hell of a safety system.

“You can maneuver a goddamned Humvee around mortar explosions, but a dog sends you into a tree?” Cullen asked.

“It was right there in the middle of the intersection…” Eli threw up his hands, the sudden action making him wince and grab his neck. The man’s British accent—which his London-born parents beat into him—was more pronounced than usual, as it always became under stress. “It was little and brown. Had floppy ears. So it was probably a puppy. I may be an arsehole, but I’m not gonna run over a puppy. And I don’t need a nursemaid, Cullen. Or stitches. I’m—”

“Oh, let me guess,” Cullen interrupted, speaking over him. “You’re fine.”

“I am.” Standing, Eli paced back and forth in one of the med bays at the small Trident Rescue Medical Facility, arms crossed over his chest. At least there was no one else there to watch Eli very much not practice what he preached when he was the medic on duty.

Unlike Denton Valley’s main emergency medical response operation, Denton EMS, Trident Rescue was a private company—one that Cullen owned. The SEALS had trained emergency medicine into his blood and Cullen brought the passion with him when he left the military.

He’d tried volunteering at Denton EMS, but the civilian service didn’t scratch the right itch. However, Trident Rescue did—especially once Cullen recruited Eli Mason, Liam Rowen, and Kyan Keasley, the men Cullen had befriended at the military high school their parents had shipped them off to.

Now each volunteered a shift or two a week at the Rescue, picking up any trauma calls Denton EMS sent their way. With how shorthanded Denton EMS always was, they were more than happy for the occasional help—especially for remote mountain accidents.

It was a win-win. The Tridents kept up their skills, Denton Valley got free medical assistance, and the occasional serious accidents on the mountain got a faster response. Plus, there was only so long a man could sit behind a mahogany desk before he lost his mind, no matter how good a business he ran.

Today’s traffic accident was not the usual kind of thing the Tridents responded to, but once Cullen heard the radio report of a totaled vehicle matching Eli’s Escalade, he’d snatched the call. And though he’d never admit to it aloud, flashing images of Eli in a fatal crash had haunted him all the way to the scene.

Speaking of Eli, the man out-and-out refused to sit on one of the beds, despite being in obvious pain. Which figured. He’d behaved similarly when he’d broken his arm at sixteen. Actually, Eli’s father had done the breaking for him, though Cullen and the others hadn’t known it at the time. Having been wounded himself, Cullen understood. Suffering an injury in battle was one thing. To allow someone—even a brother—to hurt you when you were defenseless was an entirely different matter. Even if the hurting was for a good cause.

“Lieutenant.” Cullen infused the full command of his former rank into his tone, and Eli stilled immediately to focus on him. Technically, his friend didn’t have to obey a word he said, but after almost a decade of conditioning, giving orders and following orders still felt as natural as breathing, though they’d been out of the navy for a couple of years now. “Get your ass over here and give me your stupid arm.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jesus.

“So, Denton Uncovered has a new angle and a new face.” Cullen injected lidocaine into the wound, his own shoulder twinging in sympathy.

Eli winced. “If you want to distract me, can you pick a more pleasant topic?”

Cullen snorted. The only “news” that paper uncovered were the rumors and sensationalist gossip it created itself. The tabloid’s editor, Frank Peterson, lived for three things: power, chaos, and coming out on top. The man would do whatever it took to ensure he had all those at any given point too. And now a new low—sending in a drop-dead gorgeous reporter. Long straight strawberry-blonde hair flowing down her back like a waterfall. Fair, flawless skin. Bright blue eyes like a mountain stream. She’d been wearing a professional-looking blue pantsuit that had highlighted those eyes, and spoke with a soft and surprisingly sultry voice.

Cullen had no idea how Frank had managed to snatch Skylar Reynolds, but it likely had to do with the fact that she wasn’t from around here.

Either that or she was cut from the same cloth and was eagerly following her mentor’s footsteps. Who was Cullen kidding? Of course she was cut from the same cloth. She started planting lies right there at the scene. Drunk driving? Eli Mason, the head of the local pharmaceutical conglomerate?

It was a dick move. Though the girl seemed to actually believe her own words.

The sight of Sky’s face flushed with exasperation and her eyes flashing with reined-in temper had turned him on. Tremendously. And the visceral way in which his cock rose to attention against the zipper of Cullen’s cargos had only served to aggravate him further.

Arousal mixed with animosity proved to be an extremely uncomfortable reaction.

Besides, when it came to women and romantic entanglements, he had the worst track record imaginable. Which was probably a good thing in retrospect. Cullen had too many things fucked up with him to be fair to subject a partner to.

He’d just finished the last of Eli’s sutures when the private landline lit up next to him. Since his dispatcher was on maternity leave and his office assistant had gone out suddenly with appendicitis, there was no one to route the calls to. He snatched up the receiver.

“Trident Rescue.”

“Cullen, this is Suzy.”

Suzy Canefield, his dispatcher, thank Christ. The past three months she’d been on maternity leave had been hell. He’d been making do with temps, but none of those people had the skill set Suzy had, and frankly, the whole point of the Rescue was to have a small tight-knit group. He needed Suzy back, and he needed her yesterday. Which meant hearing her on the other end of the line filled him with relief.

“Great to hear from you, Suz. Looking forward to being back here tomorrow?” God knew he was.

“Well, here’s the thing, boss. I’m not coming back tomorrow after all.”

Cullen’s stomach sank to his knees. “Need more time off?” Please say no.

“Actually… I need to tender my resignation.”

Fuck my life.

“Mind telling me why?” he asked instead, trying to keep his tone even.

“It’s Bobby. His request to be stationed in Stuttgart has been honored, so all three of us will be settling in Germany for the foreseeable future. It’ll get him out of the Middle East, and it’s a promotion for him too. We’ll be able to be together as a family now. We just received the call this morning.”

“That is great news,” Cullen said, meaning every word. No one knew better than him what horrors abounded in Afghanistan and Iraq. Bobby coming back alive and whole to be a husband and father was worth celebrating.

Not that many came back whole. Cullen sure as hell hadn’t. Bar Peterson—their fifth musketeer from military school—hadn’t made it back at all.

Which wasn’t to say that Suzy’s news didn’t leave the Rescue in a lurch, because it absolutely did. Suzy was Cullen’s right-hand man. Or woman. Whatever. She’d been indispensable.

“Thank you for understanding, boss. I wish I could’ve at least given you notice, but…” Her voice fizzled into nothing.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll hold down the fort till I find a permanent replacement.” He paused. “I mean it, Suz. Give my congrats to Bobby and take care of yourself. You need something, you call me from any time zone.”

Hanging up, he glanced up at Eli, who’d taken it upon himself to slap a Band-Aid over Cullen’s work, offer him a smart-assed salute, and traipse out of the room. Ingrate. Not that he didn’t love that ingrate like a brother. He’d die for the guy and knew Eli would return the favor. So would Liam and Kyan.

What none of the assholes would do, however, was restock the supply closet or file medical reports on something other than whatever scrap of paper happened to be around when they deployed. You’d think that with all four of them now heading up major businesses, administrating something as small as Trident Rescue would be easy, but the reality proved anything but. Even Liam, who owned a security company, could barely be trusted to lock the door after himself.

“Suz isn’t coming back,” Cullen hollered out to Eli, and his one-time lieutenant marched back over the threshold.

“What? Not ever?”

“No. Bobby got stationed in Germany. She and the baby are going with.”

Eli scratched his head. “You need to hire someone ASAP.”

“Oh, you think?”

Cullen scrubbed a hand over his short hair. His assistant, Catherine, should be returning within the next few days. Unless she pulled a Suzy. Catherine Falkner, a matronly lady in her sixties, hadn’t missed a single one of her workdays until she’d been rushed to the ER with a high fever and severe stomach pains that turned out to be appendicitis. So chances were she’d be back relatively soon. He hoped.

As if she’d sensed his need for her, a text bloomed across the screen of his cell.

Doctor says I’ll need to be on half days with light duty only, but I’m released for work starting tomorrow. May I come in from eight to one?

He typed his answer to her as fast as his thick fingers would allow.

You can work whenever you want. And for fuck’s sake, find me a new dispatcher.

I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, Cullen Hunt.

Cullen snorted.

Looking over Cullen’s shoulder at the messages, Eli shook his head before swatting the back of Cullen’s.

“You deserved that, asshole. But at least I trust Catherine more than I trust you to actually hire someone. I know Trident Rescue is your baby, but you need someone here. Someone who isn’t you.”

Chapter 3 – Sky

I return to Denton Uncovered to hear cackles of laughter as soon as I walk through the entrance. The photographer—whom I hadn’t ever formally met—and the sportswriter stare at me with mirth.

“So…how’d it go?” Capaldi, the sports guy, asks.

“Did you get your story on Eli Mason?” Dyer plays with his camera.

I bristle. Had the bastards known Frank was sending me on a wild-goose chase? “What’s so funny?”

“Ignore them, honey.” As if summoned from his office by my presence, Frank materializes beside me, his tone patronizing. “Boys will be boys.”

Boys will be boys. I’d heard that line before back in New York. It’d been right before my career had gone up in flames. Blood boiling, I spin to my new editor. “Why did you tell me the accident was caused by alcohol?”

“That’s what my sources said, honey. And you should never believe in other people’s sources.” His voice hardens. “A fact you’d know if you had a shred of experience or at least some common sense. Don’t like what I give you on a silver platter? Put on a short skirt and start getting your own sources. Or quit journalism. But if you’re expecting to be spoon-fed stories, you’re in the wrong fucking business.”

“I…” I opened my mouth, then shut it again.

“Have the story on my desk tomorrow,” he huffs, disappearing back into his office. When I turn back around to Capaldi and Dyer, neither of the men is laughing now. But they aren’t looking at me either.

There’s a huge lump in my throat, but I refuse to fall apart in front of the men. What happened at the scene with Asshole Adonis and now with my boss feels far too familiar. I’d hoped to put any chauvinistic bullshit behind me, but here I am, facing it all over again. Still, this isn’t the time to show weakness.

Straightening my spine, I spend the rest of my workday shaping the actual facts I’d managed to collect into a story. Journalism is my passion. Real journalism—the kind with integrity and the power to change the world for the better. For tonight, that means writing up a traffic accident in the best way possible.

By the time I finish, everyone else has gone home. I slip my report under Frank Peterson’s door, then leave. I slide into my driver’s seat, finally allowing my head to fall forward. I let myself wallow for a grand total of sixty seconds, then, breathing through my nose, renew my resolve and drive to the dank basement apartment I’ve rented.

As I step through my door, I’m accosted by the subtle odor of mildew. My home is dark and windowless, and that may actually be real moss growing inside the crack of my door, but I’m thankful to have a roof over my head just now. If things don’t change soon, that may no longer be the case. Working part-time for Frank pays nearly nothing.

I switch on a lamp and settle onto my bed to review my job hunting progress. The only other paper in town, the Denton Valley Leader, claimed to have no open positions, the same with the more distant publications I’ve talked to virtually. The details differed, but the theme stayed the same: “We’re not hiring right now, but we’ll keep your résumé on file.”

My search outside the field is doing little better. I’ve got résumés out for secretarial duties, tutoring, even a few waitressing positions. Nothing.

In other words, I’m shit out of luck.

Opening my banged-up laptop, I go through the latest local offerings to send out résumés to anything that I might remotely qualify for. A paralegal offering and a dispatch/office manager post. Glancing at the name of the second business, I laugh out loud at the irony—Trident Rescue, Adonis’s stomping ground.

Well, too bad. Running into the man on occasion might be awkward, but so is being homeless. I hit Send on my application and résumé. Feeling drained in every way possible, I shower, throw on my comfiest nightshirt, eat some peanut butter crackers for dinner, and fall into bed.

Which is exactly when my cell phone rings, my mother’s picture flashing on the screen along with that up-and-down xylophone sound. I consider ignoring it. Conversations with my mother never leave me anything but furious—not that that stops her from starting them over and over.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. What if this is an emergency? Not her kind of emergency, but the real kind—totally possible given the temper that some of her sugar daddies have had over the years. You’d think living with my father would have taught her the signs of dangerous men. Hell, maybe it did, and she just doesn’t care.

I oscillate back and forth like a fan before finally giving in to my fears and picking up. “Mom? You okay?”

“I’m just fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re calling me near midnight.”

She giggles on the other end, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Oh, Greg and I were caught up in Bloomy’s most of the day, and then he just insisted that we visit Tiffany’s. And by the time we got home, and one thing led to another… Well, I’m just now coming up for air, and I need to know my little girl is doing okay.”

Translation: I didn’t want my newest sugar daddy getting distracted from buying me things, and finally, I have time alone to brag.

“Could you please not talk about stores like they’re your friends?” I rub my face, trying to remember whether Greg was the seventy-year-old doctor or the “happily” married real estate attorney. “Anyway, I’m fine. And I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

“Wait! I wanted to tell you that Greg is inviting us—both of us—on a cruise! He wants to get to know you, you know, and it would be such a great opportunity to spend time together. Especially after all that’s happened in New York—”

“I have a job, Mother. I can’t drop it to go on a cruise.”

“Don’t be silly. We can talk to Greg about some positions he may help you find. But that can only happen if he knows you better.”

I try not to choke on the word “positions,” because I’ve exactly an idea of which ones he’d be looking for. “Ma, I’m going to bed now. Good night.” I disconnect the line before she can answer and set the phone on silent until morning.

I’m on my way to the paper the next morning when my cell rings again. A Catherine from Trident Rescue. She sounds so competent and polite that, for a moment, I think I’m being pranked. Fortunately, I recover in time to register that I’m actually being invited to an interview.

Pulling over to the side of the road, I eagerly jot down the details. Yes, today will work. Three p.m. is perfect. I will be there.

By the time afternoon rolls around, however, I’m more confused than optimistic. Trident Rescue was described as a small rural EMS service, but the building Catherine sent me to is one of the fanciest in town—right next to the Mason Pharmaceuticals tower.

With several stories of a reflective glass façade, the place looks like a high-power office suite rather than a practicing medical facility—though the building name does have the word Trident in it. Grabbing my phone, I google the address to learn that I’m at Trident Medical Group headquarters. The place administers Denton Valley Hospital and some affiliates. Perhaps Trident Rescue is just too small to be mentioned?

After circling the structure a few times, I realize I’m in danger of running late and decide to just go inside.

Stepping into the lobby with its marble columns reminds me of entering a museum, except even more opulent. My heels click loudly on the gleaming black tile floor beneath my feet as I pass two revolving glass doors and a gigantic mural of children’s handprints before coming to a stop at a circular reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” I tell the stunningly beautiful woman with raven-black hair and perfectly made-up features who mans the post. “My name is Skylar Reynolds. I have an appointment with Mr. Hunt.” I almost cringe saying the name—an ironic match to the medic’s name from the other day. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

With her chin raised, the woman peers down her pert and adorably small, straight nose at me. The placard in front of her says Rachel Arnault, and not only could she be a model, but she seems keenly aware of this. Her blouse looks silky and expensive, and her silver—or maybe platinum—necklace, earrings, and assortment of rings contrast prettily with her skin tone.

I’m reminded of what I put on this morning. While it’s pressed to within an inch of its life, my belted black dress is hardly high-end. I can’t afford much, so I’ve had to get somewhat creative when it comes to shopping for business attire. Clearance racks have long since become my best friends, and so have the occasional finds in thrift shops. I have to work not to cross my arms over my chest to cover the tide of inadequacy that washes over me.

“Of course. Ms. Richards, is it?”

“Reynolds,” I correct.

“Yes. Mr. Hunt’s office is located on the seventh floor, penthouse level. Just scurry to the elevator bank over there.” She points. “It’ll be the second door on your left. Though given that you’re late, perhaps you might wish to reconsider disturbing him?”

“I’ll risk it.”

Rachel offers me a crimson smile that’s the teeniest bit too saccharine, and, doing my best not to feel cowed by it, I turn to follow her directions.

Taking some deep calming breaths on my way up, I square my shoulders and step off the elevator. My heels sink into a thick cream carpet the moment I do, and I take note of the floor-to-ceiling windows and rich dark crown molding that line the corridor. As I close in on the second door to my left, my heart pounds harder and harder. I don’t belong here. People like Rachel belong here.

Stopping in front of a thick wooden door, I feel my whole body freeze as I read the nameplate: CULLEN HUNT, CEO. TRIDENT MEDICAL GROUP.

Cullen.

Obviously, it couldn’t be that Cullen, but just the sight of the similar name sends an unwelcome tingle along my thighs. I try to knock, only to chicken out at the last instant. Closing my eyes and pulling myself together, I lift my hand determinedly. But this time, the door opens before my knuckles can even make contact. A very large—and very, very annoyed—man with an Adonis-like body and mossy-green eyes glares at me from the threshold. It’s him. It’s that damn Cullen.

My mouth dries, everything inside me simply freezing. Shit. Holy blessed shit.

For one insane moment, I consider the idea that maybe the medic from yesterday has a twin. Certainly there’s something different about the man who stands before me now compared to the Cullen from yesterday. Instead of an Under Armour shirt emblazoned with the Trident Rescue insignia, this Cullen wears a tailored pinstriped suit cut from what’s probably exceedingly pricey and finely woven wool. His silk tie, a mossy green that resembles his eyes, likely costs more than my entire closet.

Cullen’s face darkens. “I’ve nothing to say to Denton Uncovered. Which part of that was unclear to you yesterday?”

Yep, this is definitely the same Cullen.

Continiue the story! Get Enemy Zone now and watch Sky and Cullen’s destiny unforld.