Three days ago...

Knocking on the door, Rhonda flicked a stray piece of hair over her shoulder. Tapping her toes lightly, she tried not to fidget, but damn she hated waiting out in the open. The sound of the deadbolt being thrown open a moment later helped.

Rhonda shot a look up at him as she swept into the apartment, not relaxing until Vincent closed and bolted the door behind her. Letting out a breath, she yanked the newsboy cap off her head, tugged the clip out holding her hair up, and scraped her nails along her scalp.

“What’s up?” Vincent asked coming toward her.

“Just the usual, paranoia running rampant,” she told him as she tossed her hat and the clip onto the coffee table. Following him to the kitchen, she hopped up onto one of the stools at the little cafe-style table in the corner.

Vincent shot her a look as he poured two cups of coffee. He passed her one before settling across from her. “So, I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow?”

That had been the plan. Until word had come down from her “boss” about her needing to be on hand for some security for him the next day. “Yeah, well, Donny said all hands were needed on deck tomorrow.” Rhonda shrugged.

Donald “Donny” Hoffman was head of security for the scumbag she and the police department were trying to take down. One Gabriel Moreau, head scumbag in San Francisco for a cartel rumored to be out of Brazil. Unfortunately, they weren’t exactly the talkative sorts so Rhonda didn’t know what was truth and what was bullshit. All she knew for sure was they appeared to be buying up legit businesses. She was certain it was to launder money from their illegal activities. Unfortunately there was no proof yet what their illegal activities were.

She couldn’t even get them on extortion at the moment because they were paying fair market values on the businesses and properties. Hell, in most cases, they were paying above and beyond fair market value. The owners of the businesses being bought had nothing bad to say either. They all said that Mr. Moreau asked to purchase their business, offered a very fair or above fair value, and that was it. No arm twisting, no extortion, no blackmail. Fucking Moreau was a fucking angel in their eyes. Which wasn’t helping her case any.

“Any idea why?” Vincent asked as she sipped the strong-brewed coffee in her cup. Damn, the man knew how to make good coffee.

“Nope,” she said shaking her head. “All I know for sure is that we’re to be dressed business appropriate,” she told him as she eyed him up. He was a damn fine specimen. Six-feet-six-inches of solid muscle and sex appeal. Shaggy, sandy brown hair that constantly fell into his blue eyes and begged a woman to brush it away. He was also the type of man that could get away without shaving every day and look all the better for it. That and the little cleft in his chin made for one killer package that sent the ladies wild.