One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(14)

Almost.

I’ve aged several years by the time it finally arrives. Sliding open the wooden hoistway gate, I wait for the inner metal doors to spring apart, step inside, insert my key into the panel, and breathe a sigh of relief as I feel the box jolt into motion.

I’m home.

Parker West will soon be a distant memory.

And, most importantly, I’m pretty sure I got the intel Luca needed.

A smile drifts across my face as the elevator rattles to a stop on the top floor and I step into my dark loft. Sure, the whole Parker-saving-me thing wasn’t ideal, but that doesn’t matter, now. He doesn’t matter, now. All that matters is the Lancaster financial data, proving their CEO is a lying sack of dog shit.

My grin widens as I reach into my bodice, searching for the flash drive…

…and morphs into a grimace of shock when my fingers find nothing but flesh and fabric. I go completely still, panic overriding my every sense as I realize the USB is missing.

No.

No way in hell did I drop it. It was so tight against my skin, nothing save a full body search could’ve shaken it loose.

Then again, a quiet voice at the back of my mind whispers. You do know someone who recently attempted a full search of your body… Someone with burnished blond hair and broad shoulders, who kissed like a vow and touched without hesitation… Someone who could’ve easily taken that flash drive from your cleavage without you noticing, so distracted by his touch you weren’t even aware it was gone until now…

My hands curl into fists as I realize exactly what happened to my flash drive. Or, should I say, exactly who happened to my flash drive. I hear a husky voice, still fresh in my memory, making me a promise.

This isn’t over.

Parker. Fucking. West.

I admit, I’m shocked he found it while feeling me up. I’m even more stunned he was clever enough to pocket it. I underestimated him — dismissed him as nothing but a stacked wallet, high cheekbones, and unadulterated sex appeal. And yet, he’s backed me neatly into a corner without my even realizing it.

Now, I’ll be forced to seek him out. See him again.

Kiss him again.

No! No.

There will be no more kissing.

With a groan, I flip on an overhead chandelier, basking the industrial space in soft, feminine light. The loft is my sanctuary, my safe haven, though I’m probably the only person in a ten-mile radius who’d use those words to describe it. Even disregarding the ancient elevator, it’s not in the greatest of neighborhoods. I don’t participate in a weekly potluck with my neighbors or know their first names. It’s frigidly cold in the winter months — the polished concrete floors are icy against my feet, the exposed brick walls essentially act as a meat locker. Most mornings, I can see my breath when I roll out of bed.

My little icebox.

But that’s just it… it’s mine.

When I turned eighteen, I finally gained access to the financial trust my parents left behind for me when they died. It’s not much – certainly not enough to carry me forever – but it pays my meager rent each month and keeps me fully stocked in as many chocolate peanut butter cups as I can eat. So long as I take on a few freelance programming or graphic design jobs on the side every now and then, I’m able to live and work quite comfortably.

To soften its harsh industrial lines, I decorated in lush white fabrics and delicate glasswork. Colorful art prints span the interior walls; massive floor to ceiling windows look out over the city skyline to the north. A cluster of couches flank my black wood stove. A granite-topped breakfast bar divides the range from the rest of the space. My queen-sized platform bed dominates the far side, smothered in piles of down blankets and white faux-fur pillows. And in the corner, my most cherished possession — a bank of computer monitors on a massive black desk.

I peel off my flats, toss the backpack by the door, and shimmy out of my dress. Crossing to my dresser, I pull a loose-fitting white sweater from the bottom drawer and tug it on over my underwear. It drapes to mid-thigh, stretched out after a zillion washes. I shove the sleeves up above my elbows and feed a few fire-starters into the wood stove along with some kindling before I plop down in front of my computer.

I need that flash drive back, otherwise Luca will kill me and thousands of people will continue being screwed out of their hard-earned retirement accounts. Which means… Parker West just found his way onto my hit list.

Time to dig up some dirt.

As my fingers hover over the keys, I consider what I already know about the man, besides the fact that he kisses so well it should be illegal.

Not much.

My one and only interaction with the West family happened last spring, when Parker’s younger sister Phoebe stumbled into trouble with Keegan MacDonough — head of Boston’s most notorious Irish mob family. The MacDonoughs are a nasty lot, prone to brute force, bribery, and extortion. Taking Phoebe was just another one of their schemes to manipulate her sleazy father, Milo West, and tip the many, many millions controlled by the WestTech telecommunications company in their favor.

Twenty-five years ago, MacDonough bullied his way to the top the criminal food chain and never relinquished an ounce of his control, even with the DA breathing down his neck and the FBI searching his many properties for proof of illegal activities. He was a cancer, slowly eating away at everything that makes Boston beautiful. So, when I heard through the backchannels that he was holding the West heiress in a slum-house in Charlestown last April… Luca and I couldn’t resist an opportunity to f*ck with his carefully-constructed house of cards.