Author of 70 novels, she has 66 New York Times-bestsellers, juggling the historical romance and thriller genres. Coming from a very artistic family background, Coulter was raised by her mother, a concert pianist, and her father, a singer and painter. Her grandmother, who died at 37, is also a writer. She displayed an inherent talent in writing at an early age, claiming to have written her first two novels at the age of fourteen. While she is taking her undergraduate degree at the University-of-Texas, she wrote poetry and is engaged with the literary events of the university.
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She knew each one intimately, having successfully, and in excellent time, unlocked whatever her father had hid under her pillow by the age of six and a half. What she was doing now, though, it was the real deal. She was breaking and entering. The lock snicked open.
She turned on her penlight to get the lay of the land. A fine antique mahogany desk dominated the office. She flicked off the penlight, locked the door, and walked to the wall-wide window behind the desk, to make sure no one was out there.
She saw in the moonlight that Mr. Royal had a lovely view of a large groomed lawn, more like a small park, really, lined with plants, still bursting with blooms at the very end of summer.
The maple and oak woods behind the lawn stretched a good quarter of a mile and were part of Van Wie Park. She stepped to the computer that sat on the big desk. She turned the computer on. Of course it was pass-coded, but she was prepared for that. Her list had failed her only once, but that was years ago, and she started in on it now. Maybe it meant Mr. She was in. Thanks, Adler. She began searching his files.
She felt queasy and ignored it. Get it done, get it done. Schiffer Hartwin manufacturing laboratory in Bartonville, Missouri. Next came instructions to their distribution plant, Rexol, also in Bartonville. What was he doing here late on a Sunday night? She plugged in a flashdrive, and ran into another password, this one corporate.
She pressed Print File and watched as page after page flowed out of the high-speed printer. What of there were a zillion pages? Even Mr. Royal had to stop by the guard downstairs in the lobby and sign in before coming up. The printer stopped.
Thank goodness there were only nineteen pages in all. She quickly slid the pages inside her black jacket, zipped it up tight, turned off the printer, and closed down the computer. She heard voices at the end of the long corridor.
Royal and a woman coming her way. Not good. It was time for Plan B. Always have a Plan B, her father had drummed into her head, and she had one. It sounded like they were arguing.
What do we need it for? What is it? Fifteen bucks a chemo session? Fifteen bucks? Get real. What a bit of luck, good and bad. It had to be Carla Alvarez, the Production Manager.
Did anyone else know? Carla, stop worrying about it tonight. She heard hard breathing, a suck-air kiss, and raunchy groaning. Evidently the time for business talk was past, a pity. Disaster was readying itself to strike in under a minute unless they decide to have sex against a corridor wall. How the devil would she get up there? She heard the office door open. She sucked in a deep breath and jumped.
Other books in series.
Whiplash (FBI Series #14)