Page 73 of Wicked Intention

“You can inform Señor Ramos when you speak to him.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Los Angeles, California

23 Months Earlier

FINN FOLLOWED the admin into the office. Archer started to stand, but his phone rang, aborting the action. “Sorry,” he apologized, more out of politeness than any real remorse. “I need to get this.”

“Please, have a seat,” the admin invited. She was an older woman with short, salt and pepper hair. Her appearance reminded Finn of the piano teacher who’d fostered him for about four months when he’d been in grade school. “I’ll bring coffee in a moment.” The woman indicated the gray pinstripe chairs near the desk before she left, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

Archer’s office was one hell of a showplace, but Zo had given him a rundown on what to expect. The floor was white marble with gray veins running through it. The bookshelves and file drawers were behind smoked glass with lighting under the shelves. Near the windows, there was a chessboard withtwo chairs. The desk was hyper-modern with some molded white material giving it a space-age curve, but it had a wood top, and beyond it was an impressive view of downtown Los Angeles. The man turned his back to Finn, looking out at the city as he talked to whoever was on the phone.

Finn took the seat the admin had indicated, eyed a decanter of what appeared to be cognac on the round table between the pair of chairs, and shook his head. This job interview was off to a hell of a start.

Yeah. Job interview. He’d been pretty sure Zo had pressed and finagled until the Paladin League created a position for him. Archer taking a phone call reinforced Finn’s opinion that no one was excited to see him turn up here. He’d thought about telling her no, that he wasn’t interested in some made-up position, but he’d followed through on the off chance there was a real job. He couldn’t sponge off Zo much longer.

The admin returned, placing a tray on the table. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Rowland?” she asked quietly in deference to the phone call taking place a few feet away.

“Black is fine, thank you.”

To Finn’s relief, the cups weren’t fine china but strong, sturdy, stoneware mugs in navy blue. The older woman poured him a cup, placed a napkin on the table, and set the mug beside him. She prepared a second mug with a splash of cream and brought it to Archer’s desk before returning to him. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“I’m good. Thank you, ma’am.”

She nodded, retrieved her tray, and left again.

As the phone call dragged on, Finn quietly sipped his coffee. Archer swiveled around, made a vaguely apologetic gesture, and snagged his mug.

Finn identified the language as French, but he wasn’t familiar enough with it to pick out more than a word or two. Since he didn’t know what the topic of conversation was, he focused on Archer instead. The man was younger than he’dexpected, maybe a couple years older than Finn himself. His dark hair was cut short with a precision that suggested regular visits to his stylist, his cheekbones were sharp, and so was his chin. He was dressed casually in a black polo shirt and slacks, but the watch he wore cost as much as a car—Henri Silva had favored the same brand—and he had a bracelet beside it sporting two skulls with red-jeweled eyes. Charming.

Zo hadn’t mentioned her boss’s age or appearance, but she had cautioned Finn to keep his guard up, that Archer was a manipulative bastard who took any opening and exploited it. That fit a man who’d wear a skull bracelet.

“You have more patience than Zofia,” Archer said when he finally finished his conversation. “She would have taken off and gone wandering around the building.”

With a shrug, Finn declined to comment. Zo was impatient a lot of the time, but not always. He’d seen firsthand how diligent and methodical she’d been in Puerto Jardin when she’d searched for her friend.

He got to his feet as Archer rounded the desk. Zo’s boss was a couple of inches shorter than Finn was, which put him at around six-two, and he moved like an athlete. “Archer,” the man said as he offered his hand. No other name.

“Finn Rowland.” They shook briefly.

Archer retreated to his desk and leaned a hip against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “I had you checked out,” he said casually.

That wasn’t a surprise. The question was how deep he’d been able to get before he’d hit one of the walls the US military had in place. Finn resumed his seat and dropped into character. Not Tom Finley, he was too brash for the situation, but someone as much into gamesmanship as Archer seemed to be. “Find anything interesting?”

“More than you’d expect.”

“But not as much as you’d hoped for.”

Archer gave nothing away, but Finn knew he’d gotten itright. The man was used to finding a lot more intel on the people he had investigated, but the military tightly locked down Special Forces records.

“Do you play chess, Mr. Rowland?” Zo’s boss gestured toward the table.

The non-sequitur had him pausing for a fraction of a second before he recovered. “Sorry,” Finn said, his tone similar to the one Archer had used earlier—polite but not remorseful. “I never learned how to play. Have you had a match with Zo?”

“I have. She doesn’t last long before her attention wanders. I was hoping you’d be better competition.”

More like Archer was hoping to use a match to pinpoint Finn’s strengths and weaknesses, but he didn’t call him on it. “Sorry,” Finn apologized again.

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