"Shit," I snapped, whipping my head over my shoulder, checking out the time.
Five-fifty a.m.
I could have already missed a ship or two.
"Damnit," I grumbled, reaching for the binoculars on my lap, trying to force my still-tired eyes to focus.
Foreign ships.
But none from South America.
That meant I had just enough time for a quick shower, change, and a trip down to the first floor to grab some continental breakfast when it opened after six.
Armed with a coffee, juice, a bagel, and a single serving box of Honey Nut Cheerios to eat as a snack later, I made my way back to the room, doing an impressive balancing act to get the keycard in, if I did say so myself.
All for nothing, of course.
Because one foot inside with the door slamming behind me, I dropped everything, coffee splashing all across the ugly carpet.
Because there, sitting in my office chair like he owned the joint, was the man from the night before.
Mr. Grassi, the son.
"Seems like an appropriate place for a meal like that," he said, his voice smooth, deep, sure of himself. "Don't," he demanded, tapping his leg, drawing my gaze to the gun situated there. "Just relax, Romina," he added, and my name slipped a little too nicely off his tongue.
"Romy," I corrected, knee-jerk.
"Romy," he repeated. "Luca Grassi," he told me, cold gaze unnerving.
"Mr. Grassi," I said, hearing the quiver in my voice, knowing of all the possible ways this could go much, much worse.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what I do?"
"Yes."
"And yet you thought you could trespass on my business."
"Maybe I was meeting a guy."
"A woman like you wouldn't work the docks when she could be getting paid top dollar entertaining rich men with more than enough money to spare."
That sounded like a compliment. And with a gun on me, I shouldn't have been flattered. Yet, there was no denying I was. Well, as flattered as one could be when being called a prostitute.
"But I'm not buying you being a working girl. Would you like to feed me more bullshit, or can we get to the bottom of this?"
"I find myself fascinated by shipping containers," I tossed out, getting a raised brow. "I thrive on adrenaline surges like those you get from being chased by a security team in the middle of the night."
"Who do you work for?"
"The state of California."
"I am going to need a straight answer."
"That is a straight answer. I work for the state of California. They sign my paychecks."