Linc nodded. “No problem. I’ll have plenty of chances to help out when you’re gone. I hear you’re heading back to Louisiana soon. The good news is, you won’t have to worry about Lisa because she’ll have a family here who will be happy to look after her.”

She watched as Remy’s hand closed around his beer and she prayed he didn’t break the glass, but what exactly was she supposed to say? He was leaving. It made her heart ache, but he hadn’t mentioned some miraculous change of plans. He was leaving her behind and she would need a ride. The train stop was a couple of blocks away and she worked late some nights. She wasn’t going to start up with Linc again, but she would take a ride from him if he didn’t mind.

Remy’s jaw went tight and she was almost sure he was going to start an argument when something caught his eye. He turned slightly and looked over at the lobby. “There she is.”

Lisa looked up and her day took a deep dive. She wasn’t sure who the woman was, though she looked vaguely familiar. Blonde hair and perfect makeup, the woman was tall and model skinny, a designer briefcase in her hand and sky-high heels on her feet.

But the man she was with, oh, Lisa knew who he was. Matthew Scarsdale, federal prosecutor. He was in his late forties and was every bit as labeled up as his female counterpart. Lisa recognized a designer suit when she saw one. Bridget forced Will into Brooks Brothers and Armani whenever she could. Mitch had his Tom Ford suits fitted to his big body.

Remy Guidry would probably never wear a suit and she was perfectly fine with that. He looked better in a T-shirt and jeans, and the brilliant part was if he didn’t like to dress up, she didn’t have to. It was exhausting and she liked shorts and tank tops way more. That was what she needed. A job that required shorts and sneakers and let her sleep in late.

She forced herself to stay at the bar when what she really wanted to do was walk away. Why the hell was her worst nightmare here? Okay, maybe her worst nightmare was that assassin dude, but anything that reminded her of the ax hanging over her head was bad.

“You, little brunette girl who needs mascara, I want a martini and I want it properly prepared. Do you understand what that means?” the super-aggressive woman asked as she set her briefcase on the bar.

Oh, like she’d never dealt with overly aggressive power women before. “Yep. It means you pretty much want me to put some ice in a cocktail shaker, wave a closed bottle of vermouth over the cocktail shaker, pour out the ice, and fill a martini glass with vodka and we’ll call it a martini. I’m betting no olives, but you do know a twist of lemon is pretty and contains no calories.”