25
Wide-heeled boots met the tile, and the sound echoed in the hall. A snug-fitting, sleeveless black turtleneck sat atop khaki cargos. Red-gold hair, pulled back in a French braid, exposed a face dominated by large green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth in the shape of a perfect bow. With hands held loosely at her sides, the woman stopped when she recognized the weapon held confidently in the grip of the man wearing a suit. Not any man, but the owner of this particular venture. Though she had her own weapons, she didn’t believe a contest of “I’ll put mine down if you put yours down first” was going to make the impression she’d hoped.
She tried a smile. “Hello. You must be William Randal. I’m—”
“Teagen Westbrook,” Piper said, setting her gun on her desk as she read the text and looke
