The Negotiator Read online

  Contents

  TITLE

  RIGHTS

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DON'T FORGET

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  The

  Negotiator

  —

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ PH.maxxtiger

  Dedication

  To Crystalyn.

  The steadiest of friends.

  Who helped Miller and Christopher find their HEA.

  ONE

  Miller

  Fucking Bellamy.

  Before my eyes even opened, I knew what had happened.

  The pounding in my temples.

  The dry mouth.

  The nauseating rolling of my stomach.

  The foggy details when I tried to piece together what day, week, month it was.

  Yep.

  Fucking Bellamy struck again.

  I couldn't even remember seeing him the night before, but that was one of the many lovely side effects when he slipped something in your drink to, inevitably, kidnap you.

  Where he ever got the idea that such things were acceptable was beyond anyone, but he often struck you right when he thought you had been working too hard, or were being too uptight.

  It was his way of saying, "Hey, buddy, you need a couple drinks, and a nice weekend away."

  Or, rather, it was his way of acting on it when you refused to follow his sage advice.

  If ever there was someone guilty of working too much, it was me. I didn't exactly have a work/life balance to speak of. It was hard to develop that when the nature of your work sent you flying off on a plane with a moment's notice, not sure how long you would be gone, or even if you would make it back.

  It was hard to foster close interpersonal relationships of any sort when that was your life. And the idea to head somewhere exotic lost it's appeal when your work dragged you to every corner of the world all the time.

  What can I say?

  When I wasn't actively working, I just liked being home. Home was like a vacation for me. It was a place where I could spread out beyond scattered suitcases, a place where things actually belonged to me, and were always familiar.

  The inside of airports were more familiar than my own bedroom at this point in my life.

  Which was likely what I had tried to tell Bellamy however we ended up together the night before. That since I just got back from a particularly grueling negotiation in El Salvador between a local gang and—and you can't make this shit up—the government, yeah, I was ready for a rest in my own bed.

  I'd even been fantasizing about the idea that maybe Finn exorcised his demons by cleaning my place again, knowing I'd been gone for nearly a month. I mean, I imagined he couldn't sleep at night thinking about the dust bunnies accumulating in corners and under chairs.

  I would never make light of Finn's issues. But I figured if he had to clean—and he did—then it would be nice if it was my place.

  He did the laundry.

  The laundry.

  The worst chore in the world.

  At least in my opinion.

  Oh, yeah, stripping out of my clothes, dropping down into freshly laundered sheets that smelled a little like floral laundry detergent and a lot like bleach, then passing out? That sounded like heaven.

  Instead, I had cottonmouth, a raging headache, a rolling stomach, and absolutely no desire to force my eyes open, and face whatever the hell Bellamy had planned for me.

  I took a slow, deep breath, feeling it clear some of the cobwebs from my brain.

  I was considering saying screw it, and going back to sleep.

  But then the whole world just kind of... wobbled.

  Yes, wobbled.

  That was the only way to put it.

  It rocked a bit side to side.

  Instead of being comforting, like a contented baby in a cradle, like an old lady in a rocking chair, it was completely unsettling, making the contents of my stomach lurch alarmingly upward.

  So, I had to open my eyes and see what the hell was going on.

  Anything was possible when it came to Bellamy.

  I could be on a damn ferris wheel for all I knew.

  Hopefully with a little pig.

  I was waiting for the day I woke up from being drugged to have a little mini pig in the room with me.

  It had happened to others.

  I was just waiting for that to happen to me.

  All would be forgiven if that happened—I'm just saying.

  Forcing my eyelids open, I winced against the painfully bright light streaming in through the window above where I was lying. Fighting through the pounding in my temples, I turned my head, looking around.

  The gleaming white oak.

  The long ceiling-height windows.

  The aqua blue fabric of the couches and chairs.

  "Fucking Fenway," I growled, slowly folding upward.

  I'd seen the inside of this yacht more than a few times in the past. Usually while working. Trying to get him out of whatever international scandal he got himself into that week.

  There was no pig.

  The pig would have made my righteous anger dissipate.

  As there was nothing corkscrew-tailed and boop-able-nosed in sight, rage bubbled up, strong, seeking an outlet.

  Taking another deep breath to calm my stomach, I got to my feet, my arm swinging outward, slapping against the wall to steady myself as everything went off-kilter. Not the yacht this time, me. Another lovely side effect of the drugs.

  I was going to kill them when I found them.

  Clearly, it was an awful idea for Quin to add Bellamy to the team, which put him in close contact with Fenway. Two of the richest, most ridiculous, most carefree playboys the universe had to offer. Their lives were full of fun and a complete and utter lack of consequence because they had the money and influence to make any problems go away. With very minimal blowback.

  Well, unluckily for them, I was not someone whose anger could be bought off.

  They were about to face five-and-a-half-feet of angry female consequence.

  The yacht—because Fenway was too mega-rich to be caught dead on something as lowbrow as a boat—swayed again, making my stomach heave, making my tenuous grip on equilibrium loosen further.

  Ibuprofen.

  I needed ibuprofen. And some ginger lozenges. I would find those in my purse if Bellamy had been smart enough to grab it. I could also use water. But, knowing Fenway, I wouldn't find any water. Champagne, wine, hard liquor, kombucha? Sure. Water? Not likely.

  "All I know is w
e better be close to some sort of port, so I can get off, and head home," I grumbled loudly enough that they would hear me if they were a room or two away.

  The living space I woke in was on the main deck. Behind it, you could find the dining and kitchen space followed by the game room. Under the stairs and hidden behind a doorway to the side of them, was where you would find the boat captain.

  The lower deck was where the guest and staff quarters could be found.

  If I knew Bellamy and Fenway, though, they would be on the upper deck. In the blazing sunshine. Which was going to make my head pound even more.

  That said, a good, solid punching in the face of a couple of d-bags would do wonders for pain relief.

  Making slow, painful progress across the floor, I paused at a cabinet beside the stairs leading up, pulling open the door, and glancing at the mirror attached.

  It wasn't pretty.

  My eyes were puffy, my old makeup smeared, my hair limp and getting greasy. There were circles under my eyes because I was overdue for some beauty sleep, damnit.

  Just a couple more hours.

  "If I finally get back to Navesink Bank, and get a call from Quin about another job before I can unwind at home, you guys are going to suffer," I rumbled, closing and locking the cabinet, making my way toward the stairs.

  The sun streaming in from above seemed unnecessarily bright and cheerful, making a jarring contrast to the dark and grumpy mood I found myself in.

  I had a mushroom and onion pizza in my freezer that had been calling my name since before my last job. That, paired with a good, stiff drink and some comfy pjs in front of my TV, seemed like bliss.

  Meanwhile, I was in fucking paradise against my will.

  Fluffy clouds smattered across the sky.

  Brilliant blue water.

  Far-off empty islands.

  It felt vaguely familiar, but the pounding in my temples was making it impossible to focus, to drag the memory up to the forefront of my mind.

  "Could you be any brighter?" I grumbled at the sun as I took a deep breath, flooding my senses with the crisp, unmistakable scent of cool salt water.

  There was a slight breeze teasing across the open space, flirting with the ends of my hair, making them dance around my face as I looked at the covered hot tub sitting in front of me.

  Turning, I made my way up the port side of the yacht, going toward the seating area I knew I would find at the bow.

  Which was where I figured I would find Bellamy or Fenway—or both—unless they were below in the sleeping quarters still.

  But seeing as they hadn't been drugged, and it seemed to be late morning at least, I figured it was more likely that they were awake and waiting for me.

  They would be wishing they'd called a helicopter to come and pick them up, or jumped ship and risked it with the sharks, by the time I got done with them.

  It was one thing to have one—or both—of them drag me around when I hadn't been working as hard as I had been lately. But to steal away my one, small window to get time in my own place?

  That was unforgivable.

  Hell, I might throw them both overboard myself.

  I certainly felt pissy enough to do it.

  And those two assholes deserved it.

  It would be a civic service, really.

  There were a lot of women who would pay good money to see me bring them down a few notches. Hell, there was probably a whole club dedicated to it.

  Women Scorned By Mega-millionaire Playboys Anonymous.

  They likely passed out tissues and anti-depressants at meetings while someone took to the podium to go on an epic rant about their experiences being wined and dined and bedded and promptly dumped.

  They were charming men; I will give them that. Both stupidly good-looking too. And rich. Rich was an important factor for a lot of people.

  Even with all that going for them, I'd never had even an inkling of attraction. See they were roguish bad boys. They liked to have entertain and explore the world. They were both light and fun most of the time.

  Me?

  I had a thing for dark and broody. And maybe just a bit dangerous.

  Okay, fine.

  More than a bit.

  I had been trying to quit bad guys since my teens. What can I say? They were a hard habit to kick. It wasn't like they made a patch for it or something. I was on my own with nothing but my willpower. And as someone who could—and frequently would—eat a dozen donuts all by myself, let's just say self-restraint was not one of my strong suits.

  "Stop wobbling." I wasn't sure if I was talking to my own stomach, the boat, the ocean, or a combination thereof, but my tone was getting increasingly sharp as I made it to the bow of the vessel, taking another deep breath at the sight of a lone male figure lounging in the u-shaped seating area made of pristine white couches. They were the kind of white that was always stark: meticulously clean despite the endless parties often held there and the pouring—and spilling—of liquor.

  A part of me wanted to vengefully smear my lipstick all over the perfect material. But, really, that would only be punishment for the staff, not Fenway or Bellamy - two men who likely didn't even know what a bottle of fabric cleaner looked like.

  "I suggest running," I called to the lone figure on the couch. "I am feeling homicidal," I added helpfully, getting closer.

  I blame the sun in my eyes.

  And the pounding in my head.

  Though, let's face it, in my profession, there was no excuse to be off your game. Not even when you were drugged and woozy. Not even if you thought you were among friends.

  That was how you got yourself killed.

  I'd had a pretty remarkable track record of staying alive so far given the clusterfucks I'd been in, surrounded by men with more ego and temper than brains.

  Yet I didn't see it.

  Until I was right on top of it.

  It wasn't Fenway.

  Or Bellamy.

  Oh, hell no.

  This man? No one would ever confuse him for light and playboyish.

  No.

  He was all dark and intense and, well, manly.

  I won't lie: my body? Yeah. It did that thing it always did when it was confronted with a man who exuded confidence, whose aura flickered with danger, whose gaze felt like it was slicing through me and examining the pieces.

  It responded.

  Strongly.

  It didn't hurt, either, that this man in particular looked like he belonged on cologne ads or something.

  If I had to pick an age, I would put him in his late thirties with deep brown hair, gooey brown eyes to match, framed with thick black lashes and overshadowed by a stern brow. He had a strong forehead, a strong jaw covered in a short beard, a straight nose, and wonderfully golden-kissed tan skin.

  And this man?

  He had the sort of body suits were built for. Much like the dark blue one that was covering his strong six-foot-three frame.

  The top two buttons on his crisp white shirt were opened. I knew men well enough to call this a power move. Because only a man who was secure in his position in life dared to break suit-wearing rules.

  He was magnificent.

  But he was there.

  A place he shouldn't have been.

  With me.

  Who had very definitely been drugged.

  Had I even seen Bellamy the night before?

  Was this yacht still Fenway's? Rich men traded expensive seafaring vessels the way some might flippantly get rid of last season's fast fashion.

  Yet, despite this being a possibly very dangerous situation, was I frantically trying to figure out if I had a weapon on me, or, in lieu of that, what was close-by that could be used as a weapon?

  Nope.

  No, I was not.

  What was I thinking, then, you might be wondering.

  If my hair was as messy as I thought, if my clothes were flattering enough, if my hangover was making me uglier?

  Because, you know, those were i
mportant things to be wondering when I could potentially be in a life-or-death situation.

  "I don't feel much like running, kopelia mou," he told me, his voice a shiver over suddenly very heated skin.

  I knew that accent.

  And I knew that term.

  Kopelia mou.

  My girl.

  Greek.

  He was Greek.

  Suddenly, the images came flooding back. The beautiful water. The white cave houses. The blue accents.

  Santorini.

  We were off the coast of Santorini.

  How the hell strong were the drugs that were given to me if we got all the way to Greece from New Jersey without me waking up?

  Following that slightly panic-driven thought, and all the possible ramifications of being that out of it—was another realization.

  He was letting me know that he was not intimidated. He wanted me to know that he was the scary one.

  He was not going to run from me.

  Not even with the threat of murder.

  Guys like this were tricky.

  Some of them responded well when you stepped up and went toe-to-toe with them. They respected your balls. And if you had the respect of men such as him, you were a hell of a lot safer than you would be if he thought you were beneath him.

  On the other hand, and especially so in countries that still had very traditional male and female roles, you had a better chance of survival if you were soft and sweet and nonthreatening.

  I'd needed to be both things to many different men in my line of work. And I played a damn good role.

  Hell, sometimes I had a hard time figuring out where the real me and the facade started if I was on a job long enough.

  This was a tricky one.

  Being Greek, he probably liked soft and pretty. Beautiful women in sundresses walking the beaches.

  But as a man in power who clearly wanted something from me, a strong front might also be very effective.

  "Well, good," said, moving over toward the seating area, taking a position as far from him as I could get without looking like I was afraid of him. "Because I am too tired and dehydrated to chase you down anyway," I told him, deciding to feel him out before I chose any particular personality trait to embody.