Page 1 of Over the Edge

CHAPTER1

LYRIC

By the endof my first day on the job, there were three things I knew for certain.

One: Monte Carlo was overrated. It was glossy but superficial, and the casino was no different from any other in the world.

Two: I looked damned good in my dress. The midnight blue silk clung in all the right places. The plunging neckline and the slit to my thigh showed just enough skin to be interesting without being scandalous. I turned heads as I moved through the hotel lobby. Or, rather,Elisa Deverauxdid. And while I generally preferred to fade into the background, Elisa loved the spotlight.

And three: Flynn Shepherd was the kind of man who made you want to commit murder. Preferably with something blunt and heavy. Arrogant, overconfident, and too damn attractive for anyone’s good, least of all mine.

But I’ll come back to him.

My earpiece crackled with static.

“Siren, your target’s shifting positions,” Kate Garner said. Also known as Lil Bit or Bitty, she served as the team’s overwatch specialist, responsible for communications and cybersecurity. She was the cool, calming voice in our ears when the shit hit the fan. “I repeat, Broker is moving to the bar. You’re clear to engage.”

I didn’t reply, but adjusted my trajectory, allowing my hips to sway with deliberate sensuality as I crossed into Nico Moreau’s line of sight. As I moved into position, I mentally reeled through everything I knew about him. Arms dealer. Black market broker. He didn’t suffer fools and would put a bullet in my head if he caught even a whisper of my true purpose.

The art of the honey trap was something my predecessor had apparently mastered.

The bitterness in that thought gave me pause. Was it wrong to be jealous of a dead woman?

When I accepted this job in the wake of Maya’s death a month ago, I knew the comparisons between us were inevitable. And the team had every right to be wary of me as the unproven outsider. But I hadn’t expected those comparisons to haunt every briefing, to linger in every sidelong glance. To them—especially team leader Ethan Voss—I wasn’t Lyric Renard, one of the best undercover assets the CIA had ever deployed, with a knack for disappearing into identities and reappearing with secrets no one else could get. Never mind that I’d run five solo extractions, walked out of war zones in heels and blood, and embedded three aliases so deep they’d landed on my own agency’s watchlists.

My resume was solid. My qualifications for this op were the best Edge Ops was going to get on such short notice.

But none of it mattered to a team still grieving the woman I’d replaced.

A woman they all loved and lost.

A woman I’d never even met.

A woman I had no hope in hell of living up to.

Amaya Thomas.

“Champagne, please,” I said to the bartender, positioning myself three stools away from Moreau. Close enough to be noticed, far enough to avoid looking like I was baiting him.

Even though I absolutely was.

Hook.

Line.

As I waited, I sensed rather than saw him approach my left side. The scent hit me first. Expensive cologne with notes of sandalwood and amber.

“Have a drink with me,” a voice said, smooth as aged cognac. He didn’t wait for my answer and told the bartender, “Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque for the lady and another Macallan 25 for me.”

And sinker.

Gotcha, asshole.

My lips curved into a small smile, but I waited several long seconds before I shifted to face him.

Up close, he radiated a threat the dossier hadn’t captured. He was handsome in that polished, European way. Olive skin, silver-streaked dark hair swept back from sharp features, and eyes so intensely blue they seemed artificial.

“I haven’t accepted your offer yet, monsieur,” I said, my accent flawlessly Parisian.

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