With trembling hands I put down the rest of the papers and take a deep, stabilizing breath. Lander could wake up at any second. I have to get back in bed with him. But more importantly, I have to refocus and remember why I’m getting back in bed with him. I’m not slipping in there to cuddle with a lover. Getting in bed with him is nothing more than a tactic. I’m Bellona, not Venus. In the mythology, Venus just fucked Mars. Bellona’s the one who got to lead his chariot and kick some ass.

I chose the name Bellona for a reason.

When I get back to the bedroom I can’t help but notice how innocent he looks while sleeping.

An illusion, just an illusion.

I sneak into bed, my back to him. And then I feel the mattress shift beneath me as he wakes just enough to throw an arm around my waist, pulling me to him as if I’m a teddy bear . . .

. . . or as if I’m his love.

While he sleeps, holding me tight, it feels a little like love.

chapter twelve

It’s not quite seven on Monday morning and I’ve just powered down my laptop. I spent some time googling the names I found in Lander’s notepad, but I’ve come up with nothing so far. I can see that they’re all Middle Eastern, but so what? It’s not like the Gables, the kings of capitalism, are going to join forces with some radical Jihadist cause. It’s much more likely that these are the names of sheikhs, oil tycoons, and international businessmen who hold their investments with HGVB. That doesn’t interest me.

What interests me is that the Gables are the sort of people who set an innocent woman up for murder . . . It’s just not the kind of thing you get yourself involved in if you aren’t already involved in other illegal activity. I just have to figure out exactly what kind of illegal activity they’re engaged in and exploit that. And Lander . . . well, he just has to be involved. He has to be. I’ve decided.

Standing in front of my bed, staring down at several wardrobe choices I’ve laid out for myself, I want to pick wisely to set the tone for what’s next. Today will be my first day at work as Travis and Jessica Gable’s personal assistant, and dressing is a bit of a challenge. If I really want to get in with Jessica, I should wear something sweet, traditional, almost sarcastically feminine. Jessica herself always looks like she’s trying to channel Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face . . . except Audrey never looked so incredibly despondent.

I sigh and push down the bubble of sympathy that keeps threatening to emerge. From the corner of my eye I watch a small cockroach scuttle across the floor, making sure it doesn’t come near me.