Page 6 of X Marks the Stalker
A small silver pin gleams on his lapel. Not the Beacon Hill crest, but something different. A stylized flower with delicate petals.Never seen this symbol before.
His fingers twist silver cufflinks at his wrists in small, precise rotations before he catches himself and stops.
“I, uh—” My voice catches, but I recover quickly, the accent sliding into place. “I’m here for a meeting. Nova—” I catch myself. “Novaris. Oak...en Novaris.”
I’d aimed for James Bond but came out sounding like Kermit the Frog.Smooth, Oakley. Real smooth.
“Oaken. Like the tree?”
“It’s Finnish,” I say, doubling down on this rapidly deteriorating lie. “Very common in Finland. Which is where I’m from. Helsinki. The capital of Finland.”
Why am I still talking? Someone please hit my mute button.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. There’s something in his eyes—amusement mixed with something harder to read.
“Right.” He smiles, and my stomach does a weird flip. “Look, I admire your commitment, but this is a private club. Members only.”
“I have an invitation,” I insist.
“From whom?”
“From...a member.”
“Which member?”
“The one who...invited me.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm and rich. “You’re persistent. I respect that.” He steps closer, and his cologne makes my brain short-circuit momentarily. “But I can’t let you in. Club rules.”
“But I need to—” I bite my lip, almost forgetting the accent again. Shit. “It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says, not unkindly. “But so are the club’s privacy policies.” He steps in front of me, effectively blocking the entrance. “Now, is there something specific I could help you with? Perhaps something that doesn’t involve breaking and entering?”
I hang my head in defeat, my eyes up and staring into his green eyes. His gaze travels from my oxfords to my suit jacket, lingering at my waist.
“This is a men’s club,” he says, his voice dropping lower, his eyes never leaving mine. “And you are definitely not a man.” His lips curl into a smile. “And I mean that in the very best way possible.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to step back. “What’s your real name? Because I’m guessing it’s not Oaken from Helsinki.”
“That’s not important.”
“On the contrary,” he says, leaning in slightly. “I find it extremely important.”
His proximity makes it hard to concentrate on anything other than the way his cologne wraps around me. He’s close enough now that I notice a small scar near his eyebrow and the slight asymmetry of his features that somehow makes him more attractive, not less.
“Oakley,” I admit, my voice betraying me by coming out softer than intended. “Oakley Novak.”
“Oakley,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “Do you know what happens to people who try to break into private establishments under false pretenses?”
His whisper sends a shiver down my spine that feels like fingertips trailing across my skin.
“They get arrested?” I suggest, painfully aware of how close he is.
“They get me,” he murmurs. “And I am considerably more thorough than the police.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.
