Marie Harte: Killer Thoughts

“Thanks. I’ll call you if I need anything.” Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “Ian? Shall we go?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Ian crossed to the door. Before he could move through, Owen put a hand on his lower back. The connection seared him. Damn it . He had to stop reacting to Owen, or he’d never be able to manage him. Though Ian preferred to remain distant, now that he had to work closely with the man once more, he was determined to one-up His Millionaire Hotness. “Your orders, boss?”

“Oh, I like that.” Owen chuckled and removed his hand. “My car’s out front. I’ll even let you drive.”

Ian perked up. A chance to sit behind the wheel of Owen’s new Porsche Boxter? Hell, yeah. He practically skipped out of the gym and waited impatiently next to the car, excited to feel the wind in his hair, and ignored the fact that it was Owen, more than the vehicle, who aroused his passion.

OWEN STARED AFTER Ian, amused and satisfied more than he should have been. Ian Ryder had looks, a brain, and the ability to screw with Owen’s concentration—which in itself was a cause for alarm. But Owen hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he needed Ian’s talent.

A forger without compare, Ian could copy anything and reproduce it with such authenticity that even the original artist couldn’t tell the difference. His unique talent had never been duplicated, not even by the many scientists in Washington who’d tried so hard to make another Ian.

Owen remembered seeing Ian a decade ago, back when Ian had been a kid barely into his twenties. So handsome, a heartbreaker with brass balls. He’d been a scammer then, like he was now. But in the years that passed, Ian had grown in strength and beauty. His looks made him stand out no matter where he went. And that new haircut had nearly brought Owen to his knees.

With long black hair and bright blue eyes, a square jaw, high cheekbones, and long lashes, Ian had appeared like an Adonis. But cutting that hair short gave him a rakish appearance, showcasing the naughty side of the charmer who could get anyone to do anything he asked. Just about.

Jack, fortunately, saw through Ian’s bullshit and had often saved the slighter man from himself. The shortest male member of the PowerUp! team, as well as the leanest, Ian didn’t have the same athletic build as his teammates. Instead, he had a quick mind, nimble fingers, and the muscle tone of a man used to running for his life.

Owen watched critically as Ian waited impatiently by the driver’s side door. “You need to eat more.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “So feed me. Now can I have the keys or what?”

Owen hit a button on the key remote to unlock the doors. He opened the passenger door and tossed the keys to Ian. After seating himself next to the man who stirred his blood and challenged him in ways no one had in a long time, Owen settled back and watched Ian’s competent hands control the vehicle. The top hummed as it went down, and Ian maneuvered the car like a professional race-car driver.

“We’re not going to my office this time. I’m working straight from home now.” Not that he had to give Ian directions. The arrogant thief had already broken into the place at least three times that Owen knew of.

Soon enough they sped down the road toward Owen’s private retreat, which overlooked the Cascade Mountains and had plenty of solitude. It was a short drive but long enough to give Owen time to control his impulses and figure out a few very important things.

Like how to finally get Ian in his bed, in his home, and in his life. Permanently.

And how to catch a killer before he murdered not only Owen but Heather as well, extinguishing the Stallbridges from the earth, forever.

Owen let out a breath when they pulled into the drive.

“Man. This car is just fabulous .”

Ian ran his long-fingered hands over the red-leather-covered wheel and dash. An artist’s hands. A thief’s hands.

“Yes. Nice driving.” Competent, just a tiny bit reckless. Owen wondered what Ian would think if he knew how much he gave away about himself with the littlest details.

A huge risk taker would drive the Porsche like a bat out of hell. Ian drove over the speed limit, but not so that he lost control. He seemed to love the wind through his hair but held on to common sense by not taking the turns too fast. He tossed around words like fabulous and darling and acted like a drama queen but always followed his theatrics with a sly look Owen’s way. The affectation wasn’t the real Ian, just the one Ian wanted others to see.

Ian was gay and proud of it. Owen knew, though, that Ian couldn’t be sure about his orientation, because Owen worked hard to maintain a shred of mystery. Though he’d been with both genders, Owen preferred men. And recently, one man in particular. The press had linked him with heiresses and actors and CEOs of Fortune 500 companies of both genders. Yet nothing but speculation ever hit the tabloids. Unlike the latest A-listers, he kept his private life private and steered clear of the cameras.

Here in Bend, they pretty much left him alone. But the minute he stepped foot in LA or New York, he had the attention of the press.

After Ian parked the car, they both got out and headed toward the front door of Owen’s home. Not a place he used simply as a spot to crash when he did business, but his actual home. He loved it here, away from the crush of people who always wanted something from him. Here he could feel like a real person, a brother and friend. Not just a wallet.

Before they reached the door, it opened.

“Sir.” Tim Mallory nodded at him. “Ian.”

Ian gaped up at Tim. “Do I know you?”

“No, but he knows you.” Owen nodded at Tim. “We all set?”

“Yes, sir.” Tim stood back from the door. The six-foot-seven former ultimate fighter had accepted Owen’s offer of employment a year ago without a backward glance. While with the security division, he’d done everything Owen needed. He was efficient and discreet, two traits Owen prized, so Owen had started using him more often. Now Tim spent his time wearing several hats—bodyguard, butler, organizer. Tim did it all and without complaint. Then again, with the salary Owen paid him, Tim had nothing to complain about. But what made him worth every penny—his unswerving loyalty.

Ian frowned over his shoulder at Owen as Owen prodded him to enter.

Tim closed the door behind them and held out his hand. “The keys, Ian?”

“How do you know I have them?”

Tim said nothing, just stared down at Ian with an intimidating mien.

Owen nodded. “Tim knows and sees all. He’s my new assistant.”

Ian flushed and withdrew the car keys from his pocket and handed them to Tim. “I wasn’t planning on keeping them, you know.” He turned to Owen. “So what’s the deal with Harry if Tim’s your new guy? You fire him or what?”

Owen didn’t flinch, though inside the rage still burned. When he found his former assistant—and he would find the backstabbing asshole—he’d make him pray for a quick death. Harry Barker had been with Owen for five years, during which time Owen had given the younger man more and more responsibility, gradually letting go of his reserve to trust Harry fully. A mistake.

Harry had become Owen’s right hand, and then a month ago, he’d shown his true colors, turning on Owen for nothing more than money. Carl Kerr, that bastard, had bought Harry’s loyalty. Tim had proven his worth, taking a bullet meant for Owen.

Owen stared at Tim’s shoulder, now covered by the short-sleeved polo he wore. He could still see in his mind’s eye the bloody wound. Nothing serious, but it could have been for Owen if Tim hadn’t been present to shove him out of the way. Not to be outsmarted again, Owen had borrowed a few of Jack’s people to vet his new assistant. Deemed solid by people who could read his thoughts, Tim had joined Owen’s personal team, and Owen hadn’t looked back since.