Just the man she wanted to see.
When he turned and walked past Baulder’s open doorway, Everly said, “I’m not looking for an office job, Mr. Baulder. I’m far more qualified for a management position in the field.”
As expected, a woman’s voice with that bold statement in a man’s world stopped Bishop in his tracks. He scowled into the office. Everly gave him a flirty smile and swung her crossed leg as if she were wearing heels, not work boots. The fucker responded just like every man swayed by a grin—he turned toward the office and leaned his shoulder against the jamb.
“Those are bold words coming out of such a feminine woman’s mouth.”
Everly laughed and glanced down at herself in the most unfeminine outfit she’d ever worn—outside of fatigues, of course—an old, solid sweater, worn jeans, and steel-toed boots. “The more feminine I get, the bolder the words. Just imagine.”
Bishop grinned. “Then it’s a good thing for us you’re not in stilettos.”
“Hey, boss.” Baulder stood and stretched. He moved like a man whose body had been injured and worn.
Bishop sauntered into the office, picked up Everly’s résumé, and propped his ass against the edge of Baulder’s desk. The two men were a study in contrast, Baulder overweight, wrinkled, and worn; Bishop lean and fit, youthful for his sixty-something age.
“Miss Everly Farrell.” He let the words trail off as his gaze skimmed the paper. His amused grin transitioned into surprise. “Well, well…” He looked up, pinning her with a new expression, one of challenge. “What brings you to our humble company, Ms. Farrell?”
“Reputation, location, and work, I hope.”
“You’re a little…overqualified. Aren’t you?”
“Only if you prefer to hire bottom-of-the-barrel employees.”
He chuckled, pushed from the desk, and tipped his head toward the door. “Come on into my office. I’m sure you’ll be able to tell me exactly where you think you fit in here.”
Hooyah. She hadn’t expected to get an in with Bishop so soon.
Everly stood and offered her hand to Baulder. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
She followed Bishop to another office at the end of the hall. Still a rangy old hole with fake wood paneling and dirty industrial carpet, but bigger, with organized shelves, a clean desk, and a window that offered a truly stunning view of the jagged mountains that dwarfed Hazard.
She stood at the window, arms crossed, her back to Bishop. Couldn’t hurt to have the man a little distracted for this conversation. “What a view.”
“Sure is.”
The tone of his voice—low and gruff—made Everly smile. Mission accomplished. When she turned, she found Bishop’s gaze right where she’d wanted it—on her ass.
He looked up and met her gaze, unashamed of where his eyes had been. “Have a seat, Ms. Farrell.”
“Call me Everly.” She hated the cover name of Farrell, but she wouldn’t have it long. She eased into a chair across from his desk, rested her elbows on the arms, threaded her fingers over her lap, and smiled.
She let her gaze travel leisurely over the bookcases and filing cabinets, but she didn’t expect to see the alleged terrorist ledger here either. Sam had already scoured this place top to bottom when he’d placed the bugs.
“Everly.” His tone was silky smooth, trying the word out as if he were tasting it. “Very nice.” He tossed her résumé onto his desk and tapped a few computer keys before pulling a thumb drive from his laptop. Leaning back in his chair, he wrapped the short cord attached to the thumb drive around his wrist, then secured the bracelet by connecting the metal ends.
No fucking way. A geyser of giddy excitement pulsed through her body.
That was the ledger. He’d transferred the information from paper to computer and put it on a private drive. A drive he carried on him. No hacking. No discovery. No chance of loss. No risk. She’d bet her lovingly restored ’93 Harley Heritage Softtail on it.
“Everly?”
“Yes,” she responded, realizing she’d missed his question.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Thirty, Canadian, grew up working in the mines with my dad and brothers.”
“Looks like you’ve had your share of jobs all over the world. Canada, Dominican Republic, Mexico, Africa?” He met her gaze again, eyes sharp and narrowed. “What are you lookin’ for at our little mom-and-pop mine?”