name flashing green in the top left-hand corner. She was in.
Lifting her cramping fingers from the keyboard, her hands so stiff they’d locked into
claw position, she hesitated. One single click on the return key, and she’d learn
the identity of the man who’d fathered her baby.
A tingle—not a pleasant one—ran the length of her spine. Her taste buds shriveled
at the sudden sourness drying her mouth. Slowly flexing her forefinger, she leaned
forward and jabbed a key, then leaped back.
The screen flickered, twice, three times, maybe five, before settling into silent
snowstorm mode, angry swarms of black dots like tormented ants fracturing a total
whiteout. Jesus, someone had wiped her from the system. Not just wiped—she could have
traced a simple erasure and reinstalled the files. They’d obliterated her, sending
in a Trojan to gobble all trace of her existence.
What the hell had she gotten herself and her baby into?
…
In the two weeks since she’d thrown Nick out of her apartment, the anonymous gifts
had stopped as abruptly as they had started, and there’d been no further acts of violence
against her. Probably because Nick had refused to order her security detail to stand
down. She’d repaid his stubbornness by carrying on life as normal, just as she’d promised,
working late into the night and keeping every damned meeting in her diary. Even when
morning sickness gripped and all she really wanted to do was curl up in a darkened
room and hug misery.
And today’s lunch appointment was no different.
She had thought she was meeting with a potential investor, since he’d introduced himself
on the phone as a venture capitalist. But though lunch was pleasant enough, Niva Antila,
the Finn plying her with the finest food London had to offer, could not have cared
less about Hinterland Heroes. On the other hand, he seemed remarkably interested in her as a woman, which was nothing
out of the ordinary. She’d always attracted male attention—even more so since her
staggering commercial success—and she’d become adept at the polite brush-off.
At the end of the meal, Antila put down his fork. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. Would
you like to take a drive and continue our conversation?”
No. She’d rather force matches under her nails and light them. “Thank you, Mr. Antila,
but I’m afraid I have to get back to the office,” she declined with what she hoped
was a polite, regretful smile as she lay aside the heavy damask napkin.
“It’s Niva, not Mr. Antila, as I have repeatedly corrected you…”
She tuned him out, his need to reprimand reminding her too much of Nick. She caught
the maître d’s eye and silently pleaded with the man to hurry up and bring the bill.
And then had to bite her lip to catch a giggle when the man shot her a knowing wink.
“…and you have no appointments this afternoon. I checked. There is a matter about
which we must speak. If not a drive, how about a stroll through the gardens? They
are very private, so we won’t be disturbed by those rather irritating men you have
following you.”
For a moment she couldn’t swallow. Damn Nick for his interference, and damn this man
for the sheer nerve of ferreting around in her private business. “What men?” she asked
cautiously, curious as to learn how he could possibly have made her security detail.
Fortress wasn’t just good—they were the best.
Her skin prickled. There was definitely something off about the man. Beneath the debonair
facade of silk shirt and immaculately tailored blue linen suit—which she suspected
would not dare crease—beat the heart of an utterly ruthless street fighter, she was
sure of it. And although Niva Antila was elegantly Nordic and unarguably handsome,
the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stood to attention, and not in a good way.
“The ones your ex-husband assigned to watch over you, of course. Come, let’s
Lifting her cramping fingers from the keyboard, her hands so stiff they’d locked into
claw position, she hesitated. One single click on the return key, and she’d learn
the identity of the man who’d fathered her baby.
A tingle—not a pleasant one—ran the length of her spine. Her taste buds shriveled
at the sudden sourness drying her mouth. Slowly flexing her forefinger, she leaned
forward and jabbed a key, then leaped back.
The screen flickered, twice, three times, maybe five, before settling into silent
snowstorm mode, angry swarms of black dots like tormented ants fracturing a total
whiteout. Jesus, someone had wiped her from the system. Not just wiped—she could have
traced a simple erasure and reinstalled the files. They’d obliterated her, sending
in a Trojan to gobble all trace of her existence.
What the hell had she gotten herself and her baby into?
…
In the two weeks since she’d thrown Nick out of her apartment, the anonymous gifts
had stopped as abruptly as they had started, and there’d been no further acts of violence
against her. Probably because Nick had refused to order her security detail to stand
down. She’d repaid his stubbornness by carrying on life as normal, just as she’d promised,
working late into the night and keeping every damned meeting in her diary. Even when
morning sickness gripped and all she really wanted to do was curl up in a darkened
room and hug misery.
And today’s lunch appointment was no different.
She had thought she was meeting with a potential investor, since he’d introduced himself
on the phone as a venture capitalist. But though lunch was pleasant enough, Niva Antila,
the Finn plying her with the finest food London had to offer, could not have cared
less about Hinterland Heroes. On the other hand, he seemed remarkably interested in her as a woman, which was nothing
out of the ordinary. She’d always attracted male attention—even more so since her
staggering commercial success—and she’d become adept at the polite brush-off.
At the end of the meal, Antila put down his fork. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. Would
you like to take a drive and continue our conversation?”
No. She’d rather force matches under her nails and light them. “Thank you, Mr. Antila,
but I’m afraid I have to get back to the office,” she declined with what she hoped
was a polite, regretful smile as she lay aside the heavy damask napkin.
“It’s Niva, not Mr. Antila, as I have repeatedly corrected you…”
She tuned him out, his need to reprimand reminding her too much of Nick. She caught
the maître d’s eye and silently pleaded with the man to hurry up and bring the bill.
And then had to bite her lip to catch a giggle when the man shot her a knowing wink.
“…and you have no appointments this afternoon. I checked. There is a matter about
which we must speak. If not a drive, how about a stroll through the gardens? They
are very private, so we won’t be disturbed by those rather irritating men you have
following you.”
For a moment she couldn’t swallow. Damn Nick for his interference, and damn this man
for the sheer nerve of ferreting around in her private business. “What men?” she asked
cautiously, curious as to learn how he could possibly have made her security detail.
Fortress wasn’t just good—they were the best.
Her skin prickled. There was definitely something off about the man. Beneath the debonair
facade of silk shirt and immaculately tailored blue linen suit—which she suspected
would not dare crease—beat the heart of an utterly ruthless street fighter, she was
sure of it. And although Niva Antila was elegantly Nordic and unarguably handsome,
the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stood to attention, and not in a good way.
“The ones your ex-husband assigned to watch over you, of course. Come, let’s
Similar Books
