Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Study“Not a single sound, sweetheart,” a low, raspy voice whispered directly into her ear. “Or this silver pen is going to puncture your carotid artery before you can even blink.”
Grace’s muscles locked.
Every instinct she had inherited from her father—every hour spent sweating on the mats of the Bridgeport taekwondo studio—screamed to move. But her mind calculated the variables with chilling precision. The assailant was taller, heavier, and had the tactical advantage of surprise. Furthermore, the metal pressing into her skin was not a pen.
It was the barrel of a suppressed firearm.
She could feel the cold rifling ring against her skin.
“I know who you are,” Grace forced out, her voice muffled beneath the heavy grip of his hand.
The man paused, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second. “Is that so, little maid? What else do you think you know?”
“You’re not a caterer,” Grace muttered, utilizing her breathing training to lower her heart rate. “You’re too sloppy. Real operatives don’t wear off-the-rack jackets that smell like cheap dry cleaning.”
The man let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“You’ve got a mouth on you. Too bad nobody’s going to hear you scream over the string quartet in the ballroom.”
In one fluid motion, the intruder attempted to pivot her around to zip-tie her wrists. That micro-second of divided weight distribution was all Grace needed.
She stopped fighting his grip and instead leaned into it, using his own momentum against him. Her right heel came down hard, driving straight onto the instep of his polished Italian leather shoe with the force of a hydraulic press.
A sharp gasp hissed past the man’s lips. His grip on her mouth loosened just enough.
Grace didn't hesitate. She threw her head backward, striking the bridge of his nose with the hard back of her skull. A sickening crunch echoed in the dark study.
The intruder cursed, stumbling backward into a mahogany bookshelf. Books cascaded onto the Persian rug in a thunderous avalanche.
“Hey! What’s going on in there?” Marcus’s voice boomed from the hallway, accompanied by the heavy thud of running footsteps.
The man scrambled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, his gray eyes flashing with raw, venomous hatred. He didn't fire the gun—firing would draw every security guard within a half-mile radius. Instead, he shattered the side pane of the French doors leading out to the rain-slicked terrace.
“This isn’t over, maid,” he snarled, vaulting over the shattered glass into the dark, stormy night.
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Grace stood panting in the center of the wreckage, wiping a smear of blood from her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the open door where the rain poured in.
She knew this face. And more importantly, she knew who had let him into the mansion.
