Matthew Holt frowned at the photos that Riley handed him. “Considering I spend half my life looking at casting photos, you’d think I’d be better with faces, but honestly, none of these look familiar. You say they were all at the club the night we went on the research visit?”

“They were. These are from that night’s security feed.”

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. He passed them back across his desk to Riley, accidentally shifting the placement of a framed photo in the process.

From where Riley was sitting, he could see that it was a group shot, and though he only got a quick glance, something about it set his senses tingling.

“Do you mind?” he asked, though the question was for form only. He already had the photo in his hand. Now that he was looking directly at it, though, nobody jumped out at him.

“Is something wrong?” Matthew asked.

“I’m not sure. There’s something so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Where was this taken?”

“A company picnic,” Matthew told him. “The woman in white is my ex-wife, but it’s one of the few photos I have of my whole staff.” He frowned. “I keep thinking I should Photoshop her out of the image.”

Riley didn’t respond. He was too busy looking at the woman with long dark hair and full red lips. Familiar lips.

He passed the photo to Matthew. “Who is this?” he asked as he stood and crossed to the giant dry erase board that covered the far wall of Matthew’s office.

“Joanna Stein,” he said. “She’s one of my assistants.”

“She a member of the club?”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “Not as far as I know, but she went a few times with me.”

“Interesting extracurricular to share with an employee.”

“We went out socially a few times,” Matthew admitted. “But after a while, I thought better of it. Told her that I couldn’t date someone on my staff. But honestly, that was just an excuse. The truth is we didn’t connect. She was too…”

He trailed off, obviously searching for a word.

“What?”

“I’m not sure how to describe it. I just felt that she focused on me—on us—too quickly. That she’d be clingy, except that’s not right either. I guess I just had a bad feeling. Why? Surely you don’t think Joanna knows who’s stalking Natasha.”

“She knows all right,” Riley said, using the dry erase marker to draw a small mole above Joanna’s lip. Then he passed the image back to Matthew. “She is the stalker. And I think you’re the reason.”

“Me?”

“You went to the club with Tasha. She saw you. And now she’s pissed that you have a new girlfriend.”

“Dear God.”

“Is she here today? Can you call her into your office?”

“Of course.” He pressed the intercom button. “Lisa, can you ask Joanna to step into my office?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holt. She’s already left with your delivery.”

“Delivery?” He met Riley’s eyes. “What delivery?”

“The one for Mr. Tarpin. The additional research material for the erotic thriller. She’s on her way to his office right now.”

 

* * * *

 

I’m sitting on the floor with the laptop on the coffee table in front of the window and three boxes’ worth of backlogged filing spread out around me. I’m determined to get through all of this before Lyle comes back, mostly because once he does return, all of this non-priority work will get pushed to the background.

But Lyle insists on keeping old call sheets, fan mail, reviews, articles, interviews, the whole nine yards. Some of it I can save directly into our digital filing system. But some of it—like the stuff in these boxes—has to be sorted and filed. Do I scan it? Or is it cool enough that years from now, Lyle might want the actual magazine? Like the first time he made the cover of People. That’s a no-brainer. But what about the other two times? Scan or keep a hard copy?

I sit back, scowling, and am rescued from the whole decision-making conundrum by the chime on my phone that signals someone requesting access to the lobby and the elevator banks. I check the image on the app, then use the intercom feature to confirm that the arrival is the woman from Matthew Holt’s office. Joanna, one of his assistants, had called earlier to say she wanted to run by some material for Lyle to review upon his return—a sheath of research material for the new project and a revised outline.

I’d mentioned the material in my morning call with Lyle, just to be sure that he didn’t want me to have her send the stuff straight to him in Europe, but he’d said to go ahead and review it myself. “You’re sure it’s Joanna?”

“Pretty sure, why?”

“The last time I was in, he’d mentioned that he was considering letting her go. He either changed his mind or I’m thinking about a different assistant.”

I remember the conversation as I wait for the elevator to bring her up to the thirtieth floor. If she is the woman that Matthew’s thinking about firing, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. It would suck to be on the chopping block and not even know it.

Moments later, there’s a soft knock, and I climb to my feet and open the door to reveal a woman with short dark hair and bright red lipstick. “Hey, you must be Joanna. I’m Natasha. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” She glances around. “Great office.”

I explain how it used to be Lyle’s apartment. “Thus the awesome security.”

“Yeah, I wish Matthew had that. It’s a crazy world these days.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, though I don’t elaborate. “Come on. I have a pot of coffee in the sitting area if you want some. Cream, sugar, these cool little chocolate stir sticks. It’s my afternoon treat. Just ignore all the papers on the floor.”

She follows me in, and I pour us both coffee while she explains what she brought over. “The BDSM research is really pretty interesting. We can go over it if you want.”

I shoot her a sideways glance, wondering if she’s flirting with me. Because, honestly, I’m capable of reading research materials all on my own. But I decide I’m imagining things, because she’s not even looking at me anymore. Instead, she’s tapping her lip with the stir stick as she flips the pages in the folder. A nervous habit, I presume, but there’s something so familiar about it, I start to think that maybe I have met her before. One day at Matthew’s office, maybe?

I’m about to ask her if we’ve crossed paths before when my phone rings, the display announcing that it’s Aly. “I’m really sorry,” I say, grabbing my phone. “But it’s my best friend, and she’s pregnant.”

“Oh, no worries.” The stir stick has left a chocolate mark on her lip, which for some reason bothers me more than it should, but since the call has just connected, I don’t mention that she needs to wipe it off.

“Hey,” I say. “Listen, I’ve got someone in the office with me. I just answered to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m totally fine. But I have a doctor’s appointment later today and Ben can’t drive me. Do you think you can?”

I glance toward Joanna, wondering how long she’s going to stay. And then realize it doesn’t matter. I can’t drive her without a car. More than that, I wouldn’t drive Aly even if my car wasn’t in the shop. What if my stalker decided to upshift the action? No way am I putting Aly and the baby in the stalker’s line of fire.

I’m about to tell her as much and suggest she call someone else, when the words catch in my throat as I notice her mole and realize where I’ve seen Joanna before—She’s the guest of the gray-haired man.

And while that might be a completely freakish coincidence, as far as I’m concerned, that means that she’s my stalker.

A woman. Why the hell had we never thought that the stalker was a woman?

I shove the question aside. Right now, that’s really not important. The bigger questions are what does she want right now? How am I going to get out of here? And how the hell do I get in touch with Riley?

For the last, at least, I have an idea.

“That’s so scary,” I tell Aly, who makes a confused sound on the other end of the line as I barrel on. “You need to call them right now and tell them to send you the right blade. Honestly, someone could get hurt.”

“What the hell?”

“I mean it,” I say in a no-nonsense voice. “Call and chew those bastards out right now. Make them send you a new blade immediately because that old one is just going to hurt someone.”

“I—Oh, shit. Right.” She hangs up, and I continue talking.

“Good, you do that. And yeah, I can come over later. We can have virgin piña coladas and watch bad movies. See you later. Okay. Bye.”

I hang up, certain that Joanna saw right through my ruse. But she’s just sipping her coffee and appearing completely bored.

What if I’m wrong?

What if I’ve got this all wrong and Aly’s calling Riley?

I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. Better safe than sorry, right? And I’m certain that’s what Riley would say.

But what should I do in the meantime? Is she dangerous? Do I try to get out of the apartment? Do I try to lock her in the pantry?

I decide to assume that she is dangerous. After all, stalkers stalk. Once they make actual contact, that can’t be a good thing. And since I have no idea how to cajole her into the pantry—which actually does have a lock since we converted it into a vault—I decide that it makes the most sense to just get the hell out of dodge myself.

“I just realized this is heavy cream,” I say, taking the cream pitcher and standing. “I’m going to go get some half-and-half.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she says, then lunges at me, knocking the table over and sending the coffee service and my phone flying as she catapults me backward onto the couch.

I struggle to sit up, only to find her pulling a long, thin knife from her bag and smiling at me as if we’re just two friends at a cocktail party. “I’m fine with cream. What I really want to do is talk about how you’re fucking my boyfriend. Because that’s not the kind of thing one girl should do to another.”

“Mr. Holt?” I say, even though I’m certain I can’t talk myself out of this. “I’m not sleeping with him. I have a boyfriend. His name’s Riley.” It’s true, I realize, and the thought of Riley strengthens my resolve.

“Don’t you dare lie, you bitch.”

“I’m not.” I keep my voice low and level. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I only want—”

She lunges, proving that all those long negotiation scenes in movies are just bullshit. I roll sideways and tumble off the couch, then kick up, knowing it won’t stop her, but hoping it buys me a few seconds to get to my feet so I can race for the door.

It doesn’t work. Yes, I manage to land my feet hard in her gut, sending her tumbling backward, but that’s only after she sinks her knife into my thigh. I scramble backward, lightheaded from the pain and the sight of blood. But it’s no use. She’s already back on her feet. She’s already coming toward me.

And because of the couch on one side of me and a heavy armchair a few feet from my head, there’s no place that I can go.