Extraits

I needed to do something right for a change, after doing so many things wrong with Deidre.

No one had ever made me feel as worthless, useless, and foolish as she had.

CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW

“You’ve barely touched your barbecue.”

I looked up to find Gin Blanco, my foster sister, eyeing me over the top of the cup of lemonade she was sipping. More than half a dozen open take-out containers littered my desk, piled high with everything from coleslaw to baked beans to barbecue chicken sandwiches on homemade sourdough buns, all courtesy of the Pork Pit, the restaurant Gin had inherited from my father, Fletcher Lane.

All of the food looked and smelled delicious, especially the rich, spicy scent of the baked beans that perfumed the air. Gin was a truly excellent cook, even better than my dad had been. Any meal from her was always a treat. When she’d first arrived with the food fifteen minutes ago, she’d insisted on scooping generous portions of everything onto two large paper plates, both of which she’d pushed across the desk to me, before fixing a plate for herself. On a normal day, I would have already been scraping both plates clean and helping myself to seconds and thirds.

But things hadn’t been normal for a while now, and my appetite was the least of them.

Gin kept eyeing me, so I plastered a smile on my face and picked up my plastic fork, pretending that I was getting ready to dig back into my food.

“Sorry,” I said. “Bria cooked us a huge breakfast this morning.”

Gin snorted. “The only things Bria cooks for breakfast are toaster waffles and instant oatmeal. Try again, Finn.”

Busted.

Detective Bria Coolidge might be my lady love, but she was also Gin’s sister, and Gin knew her just as well as I did. Not to mention the fact that Gin was a little obsessive when it came to cooking. She probably knew exactly what Bria had stocked in her kitchen, down to the last bottle of spice, and could calculate all the meals Bria could potentially make with the ingredients. Gin’s attention to detail was one of the things that made her such a great assassin as the Spider.

“Well, I also stopped and got some doughnuts from the Cake Walk on my way into work this morning,” I said, still trying to steer the conversation away from my obvious lack of appetite. “You know how much I love, love, love doughnuts. All that warm, sweet, sugary glaze and soft bread that melts in your mouth bite after bite. It’s one of nature’s perfect foods.”

“So you’ve told me many times,” Gin drawled. “Funny thing, though. I saw three boxes of doughnuts sitting behind the tellers’ counter upstairs, and yet there are no doughnuts actually down here in your office.”

Busted again. Sometimes Gin was far too observant for my own good.

“Well, I had my own doughnuts at the Cake Walk before I bought those other boxes. You know how I hate to share.” I let out a loud, hearty laugh. At least, I tried to make it loud and hearty. It sounded more like an owl screeching.

“Mmm-hmm.” Gin arched her eyebrows, not the least bit fooled by my lies, false cheer, and forced chuckles. But I was thankful when she stopped the food interrogation, set down her lemonade, picked up her own sandwich, and took another bite.

It was just after one o’clock, and we were sitting in my office in the basement of First Trust of Ashland. I’d moved into the space several years ago, after proving my mettle time and time again as one of the top investment bankers. I’d been absolutely, positively thrilled when I’d finally risen high enough in the ranks to score a large corner (if underground) office, and I’d spent weeks picking out the perfect furniture, rugs, and artwork for my new workspace, along with the attached bathroom.

My antique mahogany desk gleamed like polished bronze under the lights, as did the two matching wingback chairs in front of it, including the one that Gin was perched in. The wet bar that ran along one wall was also made of the same rich mahogany, and a green leather sofa that folded out into a comfortable bed sat opposite it. Thick rugs in dark greens and cool grays stretched across the floor, while framed prints covered the gray marble walls, showcasing some of my favorite landscapes and vacation spots. The nighttime city skyline of Bigtime, New York. An aerial shot of the Midway amusement circle in Cloudburst Falls, West Virginia. The snow-covered streets and shops of Cypress Mountain, North Carolina. Since I didn’t have a window, the prints were my version of a view.

I used to love coming into my office, settling into my executive’s desk chair, firing up my computer, and getting to work, figuring out the best investments for my clients and how I could protect and grow their money for them and their families.

Not anymore. Not for weeks now.

The door was open, and a giant wearing a gray security guard’s uniform stopped in the hallway outside and peered into my office, his face pinched with suspicion.

“What’s going on in here?” he muttered.

He might be doing his usual hourly check of the basement offices, but the guard’s flat, surly tone revealed what he really thought of me: nothing good.