ears.
Chapter 5
West Palm Beach
Tuesday morning, Eve tugged open the ornate glass doors of the Clayborne building. As she walked across the Italian marble floor of the lobby toward the bank of elevators, she steeled herself for the meeting she'd requested with Edwards. Was surprised, frankly, that he'd agreed to see her.
As she'd anticipated, she was here against her brothers' wishes. They knew better than to issue a flat-out ultimatum, but yesterday they'd come close.
"You need twenty-four-seven protection until we get this guy nailed down," Nolan had insisted after the macho level had become manageable.
"That's ridiculous." She'd pinned all three brothers with a steely glare. "I can take care of myself. You know I can," she'd restated vehemently. "He got the drop on me the first time. It won't happen again. Besides, at Club Asylum he proved that it doesn't matter how many people are around; he's not afraid to make a statement, so one of you dogging me like a shadow isn't going to make one bit of difference.
"Come on," she'd wheedled. "It's pretty clear that he's just playing with me for now anyway. Whoever it is, he wants me to sweat. He wants me to be scared. What he doesn't want is to see me dead. At least not yet. Your time would be better spent trying to figure out who he is and why he's got it in for me."
"While you do what?" Ethan had asked with a sullen frown. "Hunker down somewhere until we find him?"
"Yeah. That's going to happen. I'm going to try to get a lead on Tiffany. Don't say it," she warned when she was met by looks of uniform disgust on those three handsome and belligerent faces.
"She's my friend," she reminded them.
Dallas grunted. "She's a pain in the ass."
"And you're our sister," Ethan added with meaning.
She couldn't help it. She teared up. "I love you, too, you big dummies, but don't ask me not to do this. Besides, the more I'm on the move, the more difficult a target I'll make."
In the end, grudging and grumbling, they'd relented—at least provisionally. They agreed to start looking. Dig up enemies she might have made during her Secret Service career. Check out the possibility of grudges over some of the work she'd done for E.D.E.N. And they'd let her take care of herself—until they felt she needed their intervention.
She'd taken the offer—and she'd cross any roadblocks they threw up when the time came.
Squaring her shoulders, she ran a hand over the lapel of her pale blue silk suit jacket, felt the comforting presence of her .38 beneath her breast, then tugged down the hemline of her matching short skirt and attempted to concentrate on the upcoming meeting with Clayborne's right-hand man, Richard Edwards. And get McClain out of her head—where he'd been in some way, shape, or form since Saturday night.
It bugged the heck out of her that she couldn't shake him—more specifically that seeing him again had shaken her.
She let out a gust of air through puffed cheeks and punched the up button on the elevator that would take her to Edwards's suite of offices on the nineteenth floor. It wasn't going to do a bit of good to bemoan the fact that the bullet she'd managed to dodge all these years had finally found its mark and blasted her and McClain together again.
When the elevator finally hit the ground floor, she stepped inside and punched 19 on the polished chrome panel. She'd thought she was over the disappointment of having to resign from the Secret Service, too. So much for what she'd thought. Seeing McClain had not only resurrected her anger and humiliation over what he'd done to her; it had also gotten all tangled up with her anger and frustration over whoever was running around with stun guns and bombs and in the man who had ultimately cost her her Secret Service career: Jeremy Clayborne.
A bigger person might have been able to forget about past transgressions. But, like her brothers
Chapter 5
West Palm Beach
Tuesday morning, Eve tugged open the ornate glass doors of the Clayborne building. As she walked across the Italian marble floor of the lobby toward the bank of elevators, she steeled herself for the meeting she'd requested with Edwards. Was surprised, frankly, that he'd agreed to see her.
As she'd anticipated, she was here against her brothers' wishes. They knew better than to issue a flat-out ultimatum, but yesterday they'd come close.
"You need twenty-four-seven protection until we get this guy nailed down," Nolan had insisted after the macho level had become manageable.
"That's ridiculous." She'd pinned all three brothers with a steely glare. "I can take care of myself. You know I can," she'd restated vehemently. "He got the drop on me the first time. It won't happen again. Besides, at Club Asylum he proved that it doesn't matter how many people are around; he's not afraid to make a statement, so one of you dogging me like a shadow isn't going to make one bit of difference.
"Come on," she'd wheedled. "It's pretty clear that he's just playing with me for now anyway. Whoever it is, he wants me to sweat. He wants me to be scared. What he doesn't want is to see me dead. At least not yet. Your time would be better spent trying to figure out who he is and why he's got it in for me."
"While you do what?" Ethan had asked with a sullen frown. "Hunker down somewhere until we find him?"
"Yeah. That's going to happen. I'm going to try to get a lead on Tiffany. Don't say it," she warned when she was met by looks of uniform disgust on those three handsome and belligerent faces.
"She's my friend," she reminded them.
Dallas grunted. "She's a pain in the ass."
"And you're our sister," Ethan added with meaning.
She couldn't help it. She teared up. "I love you, too, you big dummies, but don't ask me not to do this. Besides, the more I'm on the move, the more difficult a target I'll make."
In the end, grudging and grumbling, they'd relented—at least provisionally. They agreed to start looking. Dig up enemies she might have made during her Secret Service career. Check out the possibility of grudges over some of the work she'd done for E.D.E.N. And they'd let her take care of herself—until they felt she needed their intervention.
She'd taken the offer—and she'd cross any roadblocks they threw up when the time came.
Squaring her shoulders, she ran a hand over the lapel of her pale blue silk suit jacket, felt the comforting presence of her .38 beneath her breast, then tugged down the hemline of her matching short skirt and attempted to concentrate on the upcoming meeting with Clayborne's right-hand man, Richard Edwards. And get McClain out of her head—where he'd been in some way, shape, or form since Saturday night.
It bugged the heck out of her that she couldn't shake him—more specifically that seeing him again had shaken her.
She let out a gust of air through puffed cheeks and punched the up button on the elevator that would take her to Edwards's suite of offices on the nineteenth floor. It wasn't going to do a bit of good to bemoan the fact that the bullet she'd managed to dodge all these years had finally found its mark and blasted her and McClain together again.
When the elevator finally hit the ground floor, she stepped inside and punched 19 on the polished chrome panel. She'd thought she was over the disappointment of having to resign from the Secret Service, too. So much for what she'd thought. Seeing McClain had not only resurrected her anger and humiliation over what he'd done to her; it had also gotten all tangled up with her anger and frustration over whoever was running around with stun guns and bombs and in the man who had ultimately cost her her Secret Service career: Jeremy Clayborne.
A bigger person might have been able to forget about past transgressions. But, like her brothers
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