He waited until she got to the door before he spoke. “I’ve got a job I need your help on.”
“No,” she said.
He just looked at her.
Her work was demanding and took up a solid eight hours a day. At night she studied, fighting for her ever-elusive accounting degree. Someday she was going to run her own accounting firm and be badass too, just in a different way than Archer. She was going to be a stable, respectable badass—in great shoes. But in the meantime, she worked herself half into the grave just to keep her head above water.
Problem was, school was expensive, very expensive. As was living in San Francisco. And great shoes. To fund herself, she took the occasional job with Archer when he needed a woman on his investigations. A distraction usually, but sometimes he prevailed on her other skills, skills she’d honed years and years ago when she’d been a street rat.
“It’s a challenging job,” he said, knowing exactly how to pique her interest. “Need an ID on a guy, and if it’s our man, we need a distraction while we . . . borrow his laptop, the one he never lets out of his sight.”
“I don’t suppose he’s the type that you could just walk up to and ask his name,” she said.
His mouth quirked in a small smile. “Let’s just say I’m not someone who would interest him.”
“Who would?”
His gaze slid over her. Slowly. “A hot blonde with legs for days in a short, tight dress,” he said.
Heat pooled in her belly and spread outward. Dammit.
“One with the stickiest pickpocket fingers I’ve ever met.”
With a low laugh, she made it to the outer reception area and had just reached for the door when it opened, so that she collided with someone.
The man caught her, keeping her upright. “I’m so sorry,” he immediately said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said and looked him over.
In his early thirties, he was about her height, medium build, and in a very nice suit. He also had a nice smile, a kind smile, and more than a little male interest in his expression. “Mike Cunningham,” he said, offering her a hand. “I’m a client of Archer’s.”
She hesitated for a beat and then let him take her hand. “Elle Wheaton.” Then she stepped back from him. “Not a client,” she said.
“Ah.” He smiled again. “A mysterious woman.”
“No,” she said. “Just a busy one.” She shot one last look at Archer. A mistake because his gaze was inscrutable and on her as always, and she felt her stupid heart do a stupid somersault in her chest.
He came into the front room, moving with his usual liquid grace in spite of being armed for a third-world skirmish. He was quick, light on his feet, and physically strong. But that wasn’t what made him so dangerous to her. It was his intelligence. The guy’s mind was razor sharp, sometimes dark, and always curious. “Mike,” he said, holding the interior door open. “Let’s go to my office.” He glanced at Elle. “Tonight,” he said, clearly certain she’d take the job.
Since she’d never yet figured out how to say no to the hot bastard, she nodded. And for a single beat, the mask fell from his eyes and his golden green gaze warmed as he nodded back.
And then the door shut between them.