Page 22 of Hitched to My Enemy
"Later," she cut me off, though not unkindly. "When we're not surrounded by security personnel and compromised equipment."
The subtle promise in her voice—that there would be a "later"—sent a jolt through my system that had nothing to do with sabotaged machines and everything to do with the woman beside me.
The casino floor buzzed with controlled activity as Carmen Torres directed her security team around the cordoned-off high-limit area. Five more slot machines had been isolated, their access panels showing the same subtle signs of tampering we'd discovered yesterday.
"The pattern is identical," Torres explained, pulling up diagnostic readings on her tablet. "Programming altered to favor the house beyond legal parameters. But they've escalated—these machines were set to trigger only for specific player card numbers."
"Targeted victims," Harlow murmured, leaning close to examine the screen. Her shoulder brushed against mine, and I felt the contact like an electric current. "Whoever did this was planning to cheat specific players."
"High rollers," I confirmed, recognizing several of the flagged card numbers. "Our platinum-tier VIPs who regularly wager five figures per session. If they'd been systematically cheated..."
"The lawsuit would have been devastating," Harlow finished my thought. "Not just financially, but reputationally. The commission would have no choice but to suspend operations pending full investigation."
She circled the machines, her movements precise and focused despite her obvious fatigue. I found myself watching herwork—the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the methodical way she documented each detail, the quiet authority in her gestures as she directed Torres's team. Even exhausted and under pressure, she was magnificent.
"Mr. Hardwick?" Torres's voice snapped me back to the crisis at hand. "We've also discovered a server breach attempt at 2:13 AM. Someone tried to access the financial database using executive credentials."
Harlow's head snapped up. "Were they successful?"
"No. The secondary biometric authentication blocked them after three failed attempts."
"So we're dealing with someone who has executive access codes but not biometric authorization," I said, the implications settling like ice in my stomach. The list of people with that level of access was very short—and populated exclusively by those I trusted most.
"I need to see the server logs," Harlow said, her investigator instincts visibly shifting into higher gear.
For the next hour, we worked side by side in the security office, reviewing footage and access records. Every time she leaned toward my screen, her scent—subtle vanilla with something distinctly her—clouded my concentration. When our fingers brushed as we exchanged tablets, the momentary contact sent heat spiraling through me that had no place in a professional investigation.
"The timing is precise," she noted, creating a digital timeline on the main monitor. "The machine tampering occurred between midnight and 2 AM. The server breach attempt at 2:13. Whoever's doing this knows exactly when security rotations change and which systems to target for maximum impact."
"An inside job," I confirmed grimly. "Someone who knows our protocols intimately."
Her eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the professional facade slipped to reveal something softer. "I'm sorry, Easton. I know how difficult it is to consider that someone close to you might be involved."
The genuine compassion in her voice touched something deep within me. This woman who had once been my professional nemesis now seemed to understand me better than most people who'd known me for years.
"We need to check David Wilson's whereabouts," I suggested, redirecting to safer professional ground. "As IT Director, he has both the access and technical skills."
The employee records showed Wilson had badged into the server room at 1:48 AM and out at 2:32 AM—exactly when the breach attempt occurred.
"That seems convenient," Harlow said, frowning at the timeline. "Almost too convenient."
"What do you mean?"
"If Wilson wanted to breach the system, why do it while logged in under his own credentials? Why not wait until he was off-premises and use the executive codes remotely?" She tapped her pen against the tablet, her analytical mind visibly processing possibilities. "It's like he's being set up as the obvious suspect."
Her logic was impeccable, sending a chill down my spine. If someone was creating false trails and deliberate misdirection, we were dealing with a far more sophisticated adversary than I'd initially believed.
Torres returned with additional security footage, and we spent the next several hours tracing access patterns and system vulnerabilities. Throughout it all, I remained acutelyaware of Harlow's presence—her sharp insights, her methodical approach, and the undeniable attraction simmering between us despite our professional focus.
By early evening, exhaustion had settled over both of us. The saboteur had covered their tracks expertly, leaving just enough evidence to raise suspicions but not enough to identify them conclusively.
"We need to look deeper," Harlow said finally, rubbing her temples. "Financial records, personnel files, possible motivations. This level of sophistication suggests planning and insider knowledge."
"My office," I suggested. "We'll have privacy and access to the confidential systems."
The unspoken subtext hung between us—privacy to continue our interrupted conversation as well.
***
