Page 53 of Coming in Hot

“Happy birthday,” he says. On his outstretched palm is a USB flash drive, black plastic with a brand name in small red lettering and a key-fob hole at one end.

“It’s not my birthday, and whatever that is, I probably don’t want to see it.”

“Aww, go ahead—touch it,” he teases in a mock-sultry whisper. “It’s not loaded with dick pics, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He waits while my skeptical gaze moves from the flash drive to his face. “Not even curious?” he goes on. “Want an explanation?”

“Is it worth it? I’m kinda busy.”

“Too busy for the scoop of the season?”

I pluck the USB stick off his hand. “Are you angling for me to invite you in? I might be, uh… busy soon.”

I’m waiting for a call from Klaus, though we haven’t had time to see each other since arriving in Imola, aside from in a business capacity. The rare timeshe’sbeen free in the past month, I’ve been bouncing around the globe, splitting time between F1 grands prix and World Rally Championship races—Sweden to Saudi Arabia to Australia to Croatia to Italy. The schedule obstacles have created something like slow-motion extended foreplay, and the tension is almost unbearable.

Let’s just say I’m keeping my legs shaved.

Following Alexander to the sofa, I rewrap my silky robe to cover more of my chest and tie the belt tight. He pats a cushion beside himself in invitation, but I opt for the perpendicular wingchair, shielding my neckline with one hand as I set the flash drive on the glass coffee table.

“Okay, start talking.” I arrange my robe to cover my calves. “It’s rude that you showed up unannounced, and at this hour. Why didn’t you just send an email?”

“Becausethis, pet, is sensitive information. I offer it in hopes of resetting that pretty little nose you’ve stubbornly kept out of joint since the quarrel during our date last year.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I retort. “You tricked me into coming to your family’s art gallery and ambushed me with a dinner I was too embarrassed to decline.”

“Tricked? Ambushed?Tsk, such drama.” He reclines against the cushions, arms stretched across the sofa back. “I think we remember the night differently, sulky puss. No sense of fun, you.”

With a slow smile, he lazily rubs the side of his neck as if scratching an itch, but I can tell it’s actually to open his shirt a little more—already two buttons too low—so I can see his chest. His good looks—floppy auburn hair, beautiful bone structure, full lips, mischievous eyes… why has nature wasted it on this douche?

He’s such a chameleon. It’s by turns fascinating and annoying. His accent is fluid, tailored for the person to whom he’s speaking. When he’s trying to be intimidating, he’s all posh Oxford RP. When he’s going for badass, a hint of New York creeps in (a type of accent even peoplefrom thererarely have anymore—he lived in the Williamsburg neighborhood briefly and thinks it’s a good excuse). And occasionally his voice reveals a generous splash of the Lake District in Northern England, where he grew up.

“Look, it’s late,” I tell him, “and I don’t much like you even when it’s early. Tell me what’s going on.”

He perches on the edge of the sofa and stretches toward the open bag of Pan di Stelle chocolate biscuits on the table, helping himself. “It was mailed to me at theARJLondon office.” He takes a bite of cookie and continues to talk around it. “No return address. Postmark is Merton—southwest London—so that tells us precisely bugger-all.”

I stand and hold out a hand for the cookie bag, and he claims one more before surrendering it.

I fold the top down and set it aside as I sit. “Pick up the pace.”

“That, pet…” he tells me, pointing grandly at the flash drive, “is evidence that a disgruntled individual at Allonby shared engineering blueprints with someone at Emerald.” He spreads his hands. “The ‘EmerAllon’ smoking gun.”

A jet of adrenaline zaps through me. “Wait,what?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He leans back and crunches on the cookie, looking smug.

“Who are they—the Allonby employee and the person at Emerald?”

“Doesn’t include names.”

I give an indelicate snort. “Well, it’s hardly ‘evidence,’ then. Did you fish your journalism degree out of a claw machine?”

He rolls his eyes, sighing. “Read it. I trust you’ll find the information credible.”

“Sure. No names, anonymous informant, but… ‘credible.’ You’ll forgive me if I don’t dance with glee.”

Another reason I’m not exactly dancing? A sensational story like this would destroy people I care for… even if it could be huge for my career.

Alexander pops the last bite of cookie between his lips and brushes a crumb off his shirt. “Reserve your judgment until you see it.”

“Why are you giving this to me? You’re too selfish to let a scoop like this slip through your fingers, and we both know it.”

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