She wanted friends. She wanted a say in how she lived her life. She wanted this. Unfortunately, this came with a jumbo side-serving of compromise.
Looking around the sprawling back lawn of a diplomat’s house, she wasn’t sure she could call it living her life. The daily grind, perhaps. Witness of excess, even more. Babysitter to the disgustingly rich and entitled.
It was four p.m. and the children’s birthday party was almost over. Her partner from Nightingale Securities, Damien Holden was manning the opposite end of the lawn, watching the only other exit to the festivities. He got the good side, the side backing onto the rear private parking lot. Bailey got the exit leading up to the mansion, meaning she got to witness excess in its purest form.
This was the one percent. Their trees were green and their sky was blue, but they lived in a different world.
From her vantage point at the middle of the marble steps, Bailey had one eye on the apex of the stairs, and one eye at the base where children shrieked, chasing a dog with a balloon tied to its tail. Little shoes slapped loudly on the pavement. The dog barked several times and managed to escape under a bush, leaving the tear-stained clown an opening to start his balloon show. Between lulls in the party noise, the soft lull of adult conversation and music came from inside the house. Unfortunately, at the top of the majestic steps stood a tall graying man slurping from a grubby glass of bourbon. To the right, on a balcony overlooking the party, was a group of women sipping wine and champagne without even the occasional glance at their darling children interacting with a clown from a horror movie.
The bourbon-drinker’s attention was on Bailey. His lazy eyes drifted to her every so often, then back to the glass he twirled in his fingers, clearly contemplating something she’d hear about soon.
He obviously didn’t think she noticed him through her Aviator sunglasses, but that was the beauty of mirrored lenses. Those without a sense of self-preservation would only think she watched the direction her head was pointed. She gave him a veiled look of disgust. The top buttons on his collar were popped, giving everyone a flash of hair on his chest. The tie was loosened, and the jacket and pants were crinkled. His gold watch and cufflinks looked tarnished, and he had a chain around his neck. He wore expensive clothes badly.
Tony Lazarus on the other hand. Now there was a man who pulled off luxury without making it look extravagant. There was something about the way Tony presented himself. It was both casual and elegant at the same time. To be honest, he could throw on any old t-shirt and make it look good. With those muscles—
Good Lord. She mentally smacked herself in the head. Stop thinking about Tony Lazarus. He was not the kind of person she needed to lust after.
Irritated, she tapped her microphone on her wrist sleeve and brought it to her mouth.
“Damien. We almost done here?” she asked abruptly.
From across the lawn, she saw the broad-shouldered man lift his wrist to his lips in response. “Yeah, mate. I reckon we give ‘em until the clown goes home, and then we’re done.”
Damien was one of the two Australians Max had brought with him from their home country to start the security firm in Cardinal City. Damien was tall, thickly muscled, bearded and an ex-soldier for the SAS regiment in the Australian army. Like his friends, he was a lethal addition to the team. Bailey liked the Australian men. They didn’t mince words. They said what they meant. They treated her like a friend, an equal, and they didn’t push her personal boundaries.
“Party seems to have run over time,” she noted.
“Contract’s a contract,” Damien replied.
As if he overhead the conversation, the man with the bourbon stumbled down the steps to where Bailey stood vigilant, hands clasped behind her back, jaw clenched.
“Party’s run over,” he slurred. “You need to stay a few more.”
Bailey winced at the sour fumes coming from his breath. “Sir, that would change the terms of our contract and would need to be renegotiated by the boss.”
“Only you need to stay. Not your friend. I have need of you all by yourself.”
What are you doing up here all by yourself? The slurred voice from her memory made her shiver with disgust. She tried to blink it away, but it crowded her mind. She had to remind herself that nothing had happened. She’d escaped the drunken man at her parent’s party by locking herself in her room. This wasn’t then.
“My partner and I come as a pair, sir,” she added.
“I hope you change your mind.”
Damien, having heard the exchange, coughed over the comms to hide the insult he shot at the man. Her lip twitched, and she lifted her chin. “Not happening, sir.”
“Richard.”
Damien laughed through her earpiece, making another less veiled insult about the man’s name. Fortunately, none of what he said could be heard by their client. She cleared her throat and slid her gaze back to the children.
When she didn’t respond, he kept talking. “Name’s Richard. You know that.”
The children squealed and jumped, all letting go of their red helium balloons at the same time. One by one, the little balls of landfill floated into the air, lifting into the cloudless blue sky. The kids ran circles around the lawn. So innocent. So ignorant.
For a moment, she didn’t see their backyard lawn, but her old childhood home. Her own drunk and disorderly parents. A loud bang popped.
Senses on alert, Bailey unclipped her firearm from her underarm holster and pulled out the gun. She released the safety and held her wrist mic to her lips. “You got eyes?”
A crackling came back, then Damien’s deep voice: “It was a balloon Bai, just a balloon.”
Heat flushed to her cheeks and she sheepishly holstered her weapon.
“False alarm. Got it.”
When she lifted her sight back to Richard, he watched her with an amused and yet equally leering expression. Somehow, even though he looked at Bailey’s head, she felt his attention on the swell of her breasts pushing against her stiff, white button-down shirt. The damn shirts never fit her properly. Her waist and height were too small for a larger size, yet her breasts were too big. She clenched her jaw.
“A few more hours,” he decreed. “I’ll pay double.”
Awful, awful man.
And Damien was most likely enjoying every moment of her squirming, knowing she had to hold her tongue, or lose their paycheck. He would also be across the grass in a flash if he thought there was any serious danger to Bailey. Thankfully, she spied the clown walking toward the edge of the lawn where his trunk supplies were. The children were dispersing.
“Looks like things are finishing up here, sir.”
The man blinked, then turned to the children rushing up the steps to find their parents. A pretty brunette girl in a pink and white fluffy dress came stampeding up. A painted green butterfly covered half her face. She held a balloon animal in her hand.
“Did you see, Daddy? Did you see me make the balloon?”
He swayed. “Yeah, doll. I can see the balloon.”
The jerk’s eyes were still on Bailey.
“No, daddy, I said did you see me make it. I did it first go. No one else did it first go, but me.”
Richard blinked again. “Why don’t you show your mother?”
The little girl screwed up her face and aimed her gaze at the glass in her father’s hand. Something clicked inside the little girl and her enthusiasm disappeared, replaced by a look of pure indifference. Her arm dropped, the balloon animal lowered and fluttered to the ground. It rolled down the steps on a hesitant breeze and skipped over the limestone toward the pool, on a path to clog the filter.
The girl continued up the steps. She didn’t even turn at the balcony platform to find her mother but entered the house through the enormous open glass doors.
Bailey recognized that look of defeat. She’d seen it in the mirror many times herself as a child. Alcohol made memories disappear. It made children disappear. And when you had a lot of money, y
ou tended to spend a lot on booze. Anger burned the back of her neck, prickling her skin.
Richard leaned toward Bailey, brought another waft of his sour stench, and she snapped. “You know, sir, if you weren’t so concerned with seeing the bottom of your glass, or watching me, you may have enjoyed the brief time you’ll never receive again with your daughter.”
She checked the lawn. Most of the children had dissipated, along with the clown. “Looks like the event is over. Our contract is done,” she said. “I’m not sure what threat to your family we were protecting you from, sir, but I suggest next time you look closer to home before you call us again.”
Richard spluttered, but Bailey didn’t give him a chance to respond. She walked the last two steps down to the lawn and crossed to meet Damien. Also wearing mirrored Aviators, his head followed her as she came closer.
Dammit.
She said nothing when she arrived. Just stood there, gathering her calm.
After a few moments, he asked, “We working for this wanker again?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” He nodded, but then added, “Max won’t be happy.”
“Max can kiss my fat ass.”
“Your arse isn’t fat.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re scared of me.”
He arched a brow, tilted to the side, looked behind her at her rear, then straightened and shrugged. “Maybe p-h-a-t phat. As in, fully sick phat.”
She blinked. “What did you just say?”
“You know, fully sick. As in—never mind.” He shut his mouth and tried to look innocent. “It’s all coming out wrong.”
“Goddamn Aussie.” She cursed, but there was humor in her voice. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Good. Max needs us back at the office. He’s got another job for you tonight.”
When Bailey and Damien arrived at the Nightingale Securities headquarters, their leader waited for them. A few months earlier Max had been taken hostage by a bomb wielding terrorist. No, that wasn’t quite right. Max had been strapped with a bomb and left with a dead man’s switch attached to a ton of C4 and a cell phone detonator. Prior to that, he’d been missing for weeks. Missing whilst in the employ of the Lazarus family.
Bailey was still dark over that. Still peeved at how no one told her what had really happened during those two weeks, or what Max had really been tasked with for the family. His recent engagement to Sloan Lazarus was the only thing keeping her from commencing an all-out investigation of the suspicious family brood. But she wasn’t CIA anymore. It wasn’t her job to snoop in other people’s lives.
Live your own life, she reminded herself. Make your own choices. Be free to forge your own path.
Freedom came in all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t just the liberty of one’s body from incarceration or capture; it was the power to think and act how she desired, without manipulation, without suggestion, and without oppression. It was the ability to think for herself and make her own decisions.
Max gave that to her. The CIA hadn’t. Her family hadn’t.
But she wasn’t going to cry into her protein shake every morning over the matter. She was going to take that freedom and live her own life. Until Max’s disappearance, it had gone well. Now she was questioning things she shouldn’t.
Taking a deep breath, she faced Max—a perpetually blond, tanned and hard man. Since his near-death experience, he’d been different. Distant. Curt. Then he announced his engagement to Sloan and he became happy, and dare she say, jovial at times. She almost preferred the hard-as-nails Max.
Almost.
She’d investigated the three-person Nightingale Securities team before applying for the job, and she knew all about Max’s tragic history during his service with the Australian army. She believed he was a good man, despite his reason for being dishonorably discharged. Over the past six months, along with the rest of the small security team, he’d become the only family Bailey cared for.
Not that they knew it.
“Max,” she stated as she placed her black leather handbag on her desk. It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize for the way she’d left her previous assignment. Word would get back to Max soon, if it hadn’t already. But she didn’t want to make an excuse. That drunken asshole deserved the tongue lashing he got. Behaving like that at his daughter’s party? He should be ashamed of himself. Bailey wouldn’t apologize for sticking up for herself.
Dressed in a pair of black jeans and a tight muscle-bound T-shirt, Max was a catch. Just like the other two Bailey worked with, a fact the barista at the restaurant over the road constantly reminded her of. Bailey didn’t see it. She did, but she didn’t. Her mind had locked away those feminine emotions and feelings a long time ago.
Only one person had come close to triggering any sort of response, and it didn’t make an iota of sense. He was a poster boy for everything she despised but also the very thing every woman in the world would do anything to be with.
Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stop thinking of him. Must be. He was a conundrum. A mystery she needed to solve. A puzzle. The moment the thought entered her mind, her stomach revolted. Nope. Stay away from him.
Tony Lazarus was trouble in the shape of a gorgeous, smiling cocktail glass she didn’t need.
Max collected his keys and strode to the entrance. “I’m on my way out, but I need you to work a double shift. I have another job for you. Tom-Tom is still on assignment.”
“I’m listening.” She supposed she had nothing else to do tonight.
“Details are on the folder on the desk. They’re waiting for you, so you need to hurry.” Then he gave a two-finger salute and went out the door, at the last moment saying, “It’s the least you can do after losing us a client today.”
When Max was well and truly gone, she twisted to eye Damien as he sat heavily at his desk and pulled his Aviators off. He rubbed his eyes and then trailed his big hand over his beard for a scratch. It was a little on the ginger side, despite his short crew cut being dark brown.
“You told him?” she accused.
“Nope.”
“Is he pissed?”
Damien shrugged. “Doubt it. That sleazeball you mouthed off at was a worm.”
Bailey exhaled relief. “So. Any idea what the job is?”
“Nope. Just that you better hurry. Max said they’re waiting.”
Right. Bailey quickly made her way to Max’s desk and picked up the folder, glancing at a nearby picture frame showing the smiling faces of Max and his girl somewhere in the wilderness near a waterfall. Bailey frowned. That carefree vibe, whilst welcomed for her friend, went against her theory that the Lazaruses were keeping secrets.
She shook it off and opened the Manila folder. Inside were the job details.
Shit.
“Um,” she said to Damien. “I forgot I had plans. Can you take it?”
He leaned back in his chair, a roguish glint to his eyes.
He knew. The bastard.
“Can’t,” he stated. “Got a hot date. Tom-Tom won’t be back until late either.”
“But... my plans.”
“Can’t be too important if you forgot them.”
She darted a look back to the papers.
No.
“You’ve already lost one client today,” Damien pointed out. “You’d better hurry.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Easy for him to say, he was a man. He didn’t get leered at or propositioned by the clientele. But he was right. You don’t put your personal feelings into a job. You do the job. You get out. You get paid. She knew that. She knew that.
A frustrated growl ripped from her throat and she collected her handbag. “Why am I always the one to do overtime?”
Damien smirked. “Well, if you had a life, you’d have a real excuse not to do it.”
Stupidly, she had no reply until she was mid-way to the Cardinal Film Studios, fifteen minutes away.
Three
The very idea that Tony needed a bodygu
ard was laughable, yet he remained in his fake bloodstained T-shirt while he waited for one to arrive. He didn’t like waiting and almost wished he had an entourage to help him pass the time. With nothing else to do, he stayed in his trailer and reclined on the brown and cream checked table settee. He launched the scrunched stalker’s note across the Winnebago’s expanse and watched it hit a hanging doll near the door and bounce down to the small sofa.
Huh.
That was fun.
Again.
Rubbing his palms together, he turned to the table next to him and pulled the top leaf off the unread manuscript and balled it up. It was only a courtroom drama. He threw again. And again. And again. It might be a stretch to say this kept his battle skills sharp, but he was saying it. The alternative was to work out, or have a nap, and he had the inclination for neither.
He’d not been invited on a family mission since his return from rehab, or more accurately, since he’d missed the call to action when Max had been kidnapped. He’d not been asked to spar with any of his family—apart from when Sloan needed impromptu acting classes—and he’d not been included on any strategy talks. Not a single text message, nor a comment at the family dinner. Nada. Bupkis.
Feelings about that tried to surface, but he pushed them down instead, preferring to numb his brain in the monotonous action of paper ball throwing. While he shot at the dolls, aiming for their swinging feet, he kept one eye on the flat screen to the left of him. It broadcast the local news network, but nothing of note excited him. It rarely did.
Sliding his attention back to the dolls, he knew he’d have to get up soon and collect the trash. He was also running out of projectiles, and there was only so much manuscript he could ball up before his agent realized he hadn’t read the damned thing.
“All right. Here goes.” Tony screwed up his last piece of paper. “Two points if I hit one hard enough to make it swing and hit the ceiling.”
Gluttony Page 2
