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Firecracker is his. A nickname Mitchell Knight gave me because apparently he thinks my attitude deserves its own title.

And every time he says it in that low, amused voice, something warm curls in my stomach.

Which is pathetic. And inconvenient.

And definitely not something I'm going to examine too closely while I'm supposed to be uncovering the secrets of the man who gave it to me.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Oh my God. Will you just go?”

His eyebrows rise. Then his gaze moves over me once more.

Quick. But not quick enough.

Heat follows it.

“Don't disappear on me.”

The words are quiet.

Almost possessive.

Before I can decide what the hell to do with that, he's gone. I watch him cross the room.

For professional reasons. Obviously.

I grab a tiny pastry from the hors d'oeuvres table and study it. It's approximately the size of a quarter.

Probably costs forty dollars.

I eat it.

Good.

Not forty dollars good, but good. I reach for another. That's when I hear it.

A snicker.

Nasty.

Deliberate.

Close.

I ignore it.

I've spent enough of my life around people with money to know wealth doesn't automatically buy manners.

Another laugh.

“So, Mitchell brought you?”

I turn. A woman stands a few feet away.

Tall.

Blonde.