"To who?"
"My assistant. Jenna. She's been with me for five years. She's like family."
I shake my head. "No one can know you're gone until we're well away. Not even family."
She starts to protest, then stops, nodding once. "You're right. Of course you're right."
"We'll find a way to let her know you're safe once we're secure."
That seems to help. She picks up her bag and moves toward me with determination in every step. "Let's go, then. I'm ready."
As she passes me in the doorway, I catch her scent. Something expensive, and subtle that reminds me of mountains after rainfall. Clean and wild and impossibly complex.
It almost makes me miss the sound.
Almost.
But ten years of training doesn't disappear overnight, and my body is moving before my brain fully registers what I've heard. The faint click of a door closing somewhere in the house.
Someone is inside.
I grab Nova's arm, pulling her behind me, my other hand already reaching for the weapon holstered at my back.
"What is it?" she whispers, and I feel her body tense as she reads the change in mine.
"Someone's in the house." I keep my voice low, barely audible. "Stay behind me. Do exactly what I say, when I say it."
She nods, and I'm impressed by the way she immediately falls into position behind me, one hand gripping the back of my jacket, her movements becoming as silent as my own.
Maybe she won't be as much trouble as I thought.
We move through the hallway toward the back stairs, avoiding the main staircase that would leave us exposed. Every sense is hyperalert. The house is too quiet, too still.
We reach the top of the service stairs, and I pause, listening.Nothing.
I motion for her to stay put and take three silent steps down, just enough to see around the corner.
That's when I spot him. A figure in black, moving through the kitchen with the confident ease of someone who's been here before. Someone who knows the layout. He's wearing a ski mask and gloves, and there's something in his hand that glints in the early morning light.
A knife.
I back up silently, returning to Nova. Her eyes are wide, but there's no panic in them. Just a grim determination that I respect.
"There's a man in your kitchen," I whisper against her ear, close enough that my lips brush her skin. "Armed. We need another way out."
"There's a private elevator in my closet," she whispers back. "It goes down to the garage."
Of course, she has a private elevator in her closet. Because this is Los Angeles, and nothing here makes sense.
"Show me."
We retrace our steps to her bedroom, moving like shadows. She leads me through a closet that's bigger than some apartments I've had, to a discreet panel that slides open at her touch.
The elevator is small, meant for one person, maybe two if they're standing very close. Which we are.
The doors slide closed with us pressed together in a space the size of a phone booth. Her body is warm against mine, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts that tell me she's fighting to stay calm.
"Your hands are steady," I observe quietly.
