Page 7 of X Marks the Stalker
“I’m the guy they call when something goes wrong with their fancy security system.” He gestures to the building with a self-deprecating shrug. “Not exactly James Bond, more like Q with better hair and worse social skills. I once spent an entire weekend debugging a security protocol instead of attending my cousin’s wedding. Sent the happy couple a surveillance system as a gift. They haven’t called since, oddly enough.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “So you’re a tech geek.”
“I prefer ‘security consultant,’” he says, “though ‘tech geek’ is probably more accurate.” His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. “I once reconfigured an entire building’s security grid during a power outage using just a—” He stops, seeming to remember he’s supposed to be intimidating me, not sharing his tech achievements. His hand finds his cufflink again, twisting it once.
He gestures to the building. “In short, I make sure peoplewho aren’t supposed to get in—” he gives me a pointed look “—don’t get in.”
“And how’s that working out for you today, Mr. Security Consultant?”
“Well, I caught you before you made it through the door, so technically my record remains unblemished.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Though I will admit, trying to sneak in is a bold choice. Points for creativity, minus several million for execution.”
“I could have got in,” I argue, taking the card. It’s sleek and minimalist, with just a phone number and a small logo.
“I’m sure,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You just need to improve your cover story, your Finnish accent, and your understanding of private club etiquette.”
I shove the card in my pocket. “I’m a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” His eyes never leave mine as he reaches toward me, his hand coming closer to my face. For a wild second, I think he might touch my cheek, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
Instead, his fingers dip into my suit pocket, the one right above my heart. My breath stops as his knuckles brush against my breast through the fabric.
He extracts my emergency stash of sour gummy worms with the casual precision of a pickpocket.
“How did you?—”
“Your jacket bulges,” he says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I notice things like that. Inconsistencies. Patterns.” A flash of embarrassment crosses his face. “That sounded creepier than intended. I don’t just...stare at women’s clothes. Professional habit. Observation.”
He holds up the bag of gummy worms, examining it like evidence. “Mind if I...?”
Before I can answer, he opens the package and pulls out a green and red worm. His eyes lock with mine as his tongue touches the candy first, then drags it slowly across his bottom lip before his teeth close around it.
The way his mouth moves as he chews should be illegal. Or at the very least, regulated by some sort of government agency.
“Sweet and sour,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Not unlike you, I suspect.”
My mouth turns to sand.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore how this stranger just made eating candy look like something that should require an ID to watch.
“So, Oakley Novak,” he leans against the doorframe, his posture casual while his eyes remain laser-focused. “Since I’ve crushed your undercover operation, perhaps I could make it up to you with dinner?”
The question throws me off balance.
“Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner. That meal people typically enjoy in the evening.” His mouth curves into something between a smirk and a smile that’s both teasing and tempting. “I know a place not far from here. Excellent wine list. Private booths.”
His voice caresses “private” in a way that sends blood rushing to places it has no business going right now.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my mouth says, while my body stages a mutiny.
He tilts his head. “Why not? You want information about this club. I’m a member. Perfect match.”
“Because I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Who says both can’t be enjoyable?” Another step closer brings another wave of his cologne. “Information and...other satisfactions.”
My traitorous body responds with a flutter low in my belly. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by anyone but myself that I’m practically vibrating with need. And this man—with his perfect suit and knowing eyes and the way he looks at me like I am dinner—definitely seems like the type who wouldn’t need a GPS to find my clit.
