2. SARA

Quentin Pearce is just as good-looking in real life as he is on television: flowing silver hair, chestnut eyes, a jaw that looks like it was chiseled out of marble, impeccable Italian suit.

Charm, on the other hand… not so much.

“I’ll cut right to the chase,” he says by way of introduction after his driver, a tall, muscular German woman, silently ushers me into the back of the limo. “You’re on the clock as of right now. In a few minutes, we’ll be in a board meeting at Atlas Security. Ever heard of it?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say in my business voice. “Should I have?”

“No,” he says. “In fact, if you said you had, I would have accused you of lying and told you to get out.”

Like I said, charming. But his money’s as green as anyone else’s, and right now, Bishop needs it. So does the “& Associates,” so she’ll stop bumming money off of her sister.

Pearce flips through a stack of papers for a few moments, so I check out the limo’s interior. It’s a late-model Bentley with four captain’s chairs, two on either side facing a workstation in the center. This is a mobile office, not one of those party buses that college girls rent for a twenty-first birthday weekend in Vegas.

I see my reflection in the tinted glass and marvel at how together I look: my auburn curls somehow managed to not tangle themselves into a rat’s nest overnight, and the undersides of my baby blues are remarkably bag-free. I’m batting a thousand.

“Atlas Security is a multi-billion-dollar company,” Pearce says, eyes still on his papers. “They work with governments and corporations to handle the kinds of problems that are too messy for most people.”

“Such as?”

He glances up at me and cocks an eyebrow. His eyes wander over me for a moment before looking back down at his papers.

“You’re hot,” he says. “Good for you.”

Easy, Prince Charming, I might swoon.

“Atlas specializes in humanitarian paramilitary work,” he continues. “Yes, I know, that sounds like an oxymoron. It started out as a typical defense contractor in 2005, in the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq. In 2010, it refined its focus to handle crisis situations – hostage negotiations and extractions, protection duty for aid workers and refugees in war zones, post-disaster security – basically anything that might require a soldier, outside of actual warfare.”

I nod. Private security companies have been a reality since before 9/11, though I’ve never heard of one with a humanitarian focus.

“Since then, the company’s value has soared,” Pearce says. “That’s why Empire Group is going to buy it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “But I still don’t see where Bishop & Associates fits into the equation.”

He slides the papers back into a slim leather briefcase and snaps it shut as the limo comes to a stop. Outside the window is the familiar bustle of Michigan Avenue.

“You’re a private investigator,” he says. “You specialize in digging up dirt, right?”

Actually, I specialize in locating and helping abused girls. But for what he’s offering, I’m willing to do just about anything.

“It’s in my wheelhouse,” I say. “Now let’s discuss my fee.”

“Later,” he says, grabbing the door handle.

“Now,” I say.

My heart and head are pounding with adrenaline – I’m taking a risk by pushing the money, I know, but I can’t shake the feeling that Pearce is the kind of shark who senses weakness. And exploits it.

He gives me another appraising glance before opening the door.

“Five thousand a day, plus expenses,” he says. “One hundred and fifty grand and change for thirty days. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” I say as I slide out of my seat and step onto the avenue.

I play it cool, but inside my heart is doing backflips. That kind of money will pay our bills for the whole year and then some, so we’ll be able to take on the kind of cases that really matter.

I smooth my skirt, but Pearce is already opening the door to the building’s lobby, so I jog to catch up, or as close to jogging as I can get in these heels. I get the sense the world is always five minutes behind Quentin Pearce.

“Now, the question is: what do I have to do?” I ask.

“Follow my lead,” he says, stabbing the button for the elevator. “And keep your mouth shut.”