Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

I’m having a big old shindig full of guests you’ve never met before. It’s going to be lavish. It’s going to be long. And on top of that, I’m going to make it formal knowing you both hate formal events and the clothes required.”

“At least it’s Thursday. Friday will be the rehearsal and a laid-back meal at your house to just chill and enjoy. Saturday’s the wedding. They’ll be off on their honeymoon, and we—”

“Will breathe a sigh of relief.” We were right outside of FBI Headquarters. I balled up my trash and shoved it in the waste bag hanging on the back of my seat.

“We can do this,” Striker said.

“Agreed. I wish, though, you didn’t call it my house. It’s our house.”

“Our house then.”

I leaned over and put my forehead on Striker’s shoulder. “We were supposed to be married already. I’m sorry.”

“Chica, it’s not your fault. It’s a party. It’s a piece of paper. What it’s not is the truth.”

I didn’t look up, but I did press a kiss into his bicep, so he knew I was listening and accepting.

Striker and his eagle eye saw a car pulling out, and he whipped us into the slot. “Ready?”

“No.” I undid my seatbelt.

“Game face.”

I sent him a vacant smile, holding my eyes wide and vacuous.

“I see that you’ve decided to go for blood. You may want to dim that sentiment just a bit.” He sent me a smile, slightly crooked, double dimples, and merriment.

I batted my eyelashes at him. “Too much?”

“A tad.”

I popped open my door and climbed out.

Finally, I was going to get some of my questions answered.

Chapter Seventeen

Finley had said he’d meet me at FBI Headquarters entrance and show me to the meeting. Instead, Finley sent this worker-bee to guide me to the meeting room while Finley finished up with a phone call.

I was glad I had chosen flats this morning. The security guard was my height, but he moved like an Olympic racewalker. His walking pace was my warm-up jogging pace. I had to shift my gait to that pre-jog glide, with my fisted hands held parallel, my elbows brushing the tops of my hips.

He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if I was still there.

He seemed exasperated that I wasn’t keeping apace.

And yet, he did nothing to slow to my comfort level. I preferred Oliver.

You know what? This is stupid.

And because I felt passive-aggressive about the last five minutes of this foolishness, I called out, “I just need a moment,” and swung into the restroom we passed by.

There, I went ahead and took advantage of the facility while I caught my breath and cooled my system. I wasn’t walking into a meeting with the task force sweaty and breathless. It was unprofessional.

I washed my hands, combed my fingers through my hair, pulled my colored lip gloss from my pocket, and applied. Having adjusted my dress, brushing my hands over the wide skirt, I took a deep breath and exited.

The guard glanced over to me with a frown and started bolting down the hall again.

By himself.

Nope. Not playing. I’ve had quite enough of these power games for today, thanks.

At the other end of the hall, the guard came to a stop and waited for me.

When people act a fool, bad drivers cutting me off on the road or what have you, I think to myself, they have a terrible case of diarrhea. If they don’t get home immediately, they’re going to foul their car. It’s understandable. Thoughts like that allow me to be kind, sympathetic even, to their discomfort and behavior.

In my mind, I couldn’t come up with a single reason—apparent or made up for the sake of charity—for his behavior.

Still, I sent him a smile. “Thank you.”

“Lynx.” Prescott looked up as I walked through the door.

“Perfect!” I called out as I caught his eye. “Just the person I needed to see.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“Hey, Finley.” I gave him a finger wave. “Prescott, can I have a moment?”

Damian Prescott was a good guy. We’d been through a lot together. But the last mission I helped him develop was the mission where I found out Angel was still alive. I saw in Prescott’s eyes, as he moved my direction, the shadow of pity in the way he held his face.

“Hi,” he said and waved me toward the corner of the room. “I was thinking about you this morning when I saw your name on my agenda. How are you?”

“Okay. Thanks. And you? How’s Raine?”

Prescott held up his left hand where a gold band gleamed. “Raine is miserable.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’ll pass. Morning sickness. We expect Baby Prescott around Christmas.”

I reached up and gave him a hug. “Wow, such great news. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” His grin fell off. “Have you heard from the judge about your divorce?”

“Nada.”

He pulled his head back, giving him double chins. “Seriously?”

“Sadly so.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Possibly. But first, let me tell you that I was at the CIA this morning.”

Prescott crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels.

“Let me preface this,” I said. “I was in a meeting. I did not mention you by name. But I saw something of interest, and I was given permission to tell ‘the right person’ about what I saw. Their hope is that you’ll give them a call.”

“Who needs the call?”

“Guy named Casper. He didn’t tell me his title or department.”

“Ah, yeah. Okay. I know him. What did you see?”

I peeked around Prescott’s shoulder to make sure that no one else in the room was listening. I’d be fine with Steve Finley, but there were