Kol in Baltimore 7

I stepped out of the building at 7:42 a.m., sharp as a blade: navy peak-lapel suit, crisp white shirt, tie knotted in a perfect Windsor, coat draped over my arm.

The cold December air hit my face and I felt good, focused, dangerous, ready.

Then the black Maybach glided to the curb right in front of me, like it had been waiting for my exact footstep.

Tinted window lowered halfway.

Liv Harrington leaned forward from the back seat, dark hair loose today, falling over one shoulder.

She wore a charcoal blazer open over a silk camisole the color of champagne thin straps, low enough that the soft upper curves of her breasts caught the morning light.

Tailored trousers, bare feet tucked under her, Louboutin heels kicked off on the floor mat like she owned the concept of rules.

“Morning, Kol,” she said, voice still husky from sleep, lips curved in that same patient-predator smile. “Get in. We’re going the same way again.”

The driver didn’t even