I send over the banking details, then close out of my site. I swap over to begin the search for my new target. For some reason, my palms start to sweat uncharacteristically. My fingers click against the keyboard as I type in her name.
Results pop up instantly, and it only takes a moment of searching to narrow it down to the correct person. Her information coincides with the few details left by the sender, confirming my suspicions.
Rayvn Porter.
34-year-old, female.
Criminal Defense Attorney at Attenborough Law in Denver, Colorado.
Graduated top of her class from the University of Colorado at Boulder.
Grew up in a middle-class neighborhood less than an hour from her current residence.
Raised by a single father, Harris Porter, who was a fireman for the majority of his adult life. Harris retired ten years ago and still lives in their family home.
Though she doesn’t have any social media accounts, and a lot of her information is blocked more than likely due to her high profile/high-risk job, it’s not hard to find what I need. In fact, in less than an hour, I could have access to every single facet of not only her life, but everyone she cares about as well.
A few more clicks and I gain access to her banking details. It seems Ms. Porter makes a significant amount of money at her job, and is using a large portion of it to take care of her father. My brows furrow. Is he ill? Why would she give him more than half of her income?
I pull up the official site for her law office and get my first look at her. It’s a standard photo in a long line-up of employees and partners, putting a face to the high-priced name. However, Rayvn is anythingbutstandard.
She’s perfect.
The image is nothing more than a professional headshot, but it’s enough. Enough to give me a glimpse—a taste, ofher. I do a cursory once over, noting every detail in rapid succession, committing her traits to memory.
Her—no...Rayvn’sskin is rich brown and smooth like polished moonstone. Her inky black hair is in tiny braids and pulled up into a tight bun, showing off her slender, regal neck. My mouth waters at the sight of it. She sits tall in her seat with an air of superiority, like she wants everyone to know she’s the shit, but at second glance, it’s easy to see it’s a façade. A well-perfected mask, much like my own.
Leaning in, I take her features apart, piece by tantalizing piece. Her eyes capture me first, making my breath stutter and catch in my chest. They’re large, almost disproportionately so. Wide and animal-like. They’re dark, nearing pitch black, though it could just be the lighting in the photo. They smolder like hot coals, burning so hot I can damn near feel the flames licking up my skin. There’s a curiosity to them, almost as though she’s trying to figure me out.
Her full, red lips are tipped up at the corners, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s mocking me. Through miles of space, and unfathomable time, between myself and her picture, it still feels like she knows something I don’t. My skin prickles with irritation as though I’ve been insulted. It makes my gut clench with the need to defend myself against her attack, her vitriol. I ignore it, knowing the knee-jerk reaction has far more to do with my past than with her. Still, anger and agitation claw against my skin like a crow digging its talons in.
“Ray—vn,”I breathe, testing the name on my tongue as my eyes rake over her miniaturized features on the screen.
For some reason, the sight of her inspires images of a dark forest, illuminated only by the soft white glow of the moon. The sound of branches snapping beneath my feet and heavy panting breaths fill my ears. My muscles tense and burn as though they’re depleted and crying out for oxygen from overuse. My heart thumps erratically in my chest, pounding painfully against my ribcage.
The vision is so visceral, so real, that I don’t realize I’m standing, my hands braced on the edge of my desk until the wood creaks beneath my clenched fists. Shaking my head, I suck in a gasping breath.
It wasn’t my imagination. Not fully, anyway. Whateverthatwas, caused a very real reaction from my body.
“Fuck,” I grunt, wiping my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. My thumb brushes against my solid, stiff cock, and the sensation has my knees buckling. What the hell is happening to me? I have to get out of here. Clearly, I need sleep way more than I’d realized.
My eyes flit up to the screen once more, grazing across her photo. My body jolts forward in an effort to get closer. I feel like an addict getting a hit, but it’s not enough. I need more. Why? Sure she’s beautiful, but why am I having this reaction to her?
Nerves pool low in my stomach, further solidifying my decision to abandon the project for now. I don’t get nervous. More than that, I don’t havefeelingswhen it comes to my work or my marks. They’re irrelevant and nothing more than a means to an end, but as I stare into her soulful, endless, wide eyes, I know without a shadow of a doubt, this time is different.
She’s getting to me, but I can’t let her. This job is too big, too important. Too much weighs on the outcome. No matter what the sight of her does to me, I can’t let one woman stop me when I’m so close to finally reaching my goal.
I have to end this, and that means—I also have to end Rayvn Porter.
Chapter Three
August
Shit.Shit.Shit.I’mgoing to be so freaking late.
I internally chastise myself for the twentieth time in as many minutes as I slam my palm on the elevator call button again. My feet dance back and forth on the tile floor, my heels clacking with every irritated shift. When thirty seconds have passed without change, I smack it again, barely resisting the urge to punch the thing. Glancing down at my watch, I groan. At this rate, there’s no way I’ll beat the evening traffic.
When the ancient elevator still hasn’t moved after a solid minute, I say fuck it, and head for the stairwell. Already loathing the decision with every fiber of my being. I may be an avid runner, but I’ve never completed a marathon in 6-inch heels. The door reverberates off the wall behind me as I jog up the steps. My hand squeezes the railing in a death grip, praying I don’t trip and sprain an ankle or break my face.