Cat Got Your Tongue?

by Rae Rivers

  False alarm?

  With a frown, he turned toward the stairs and made a mental note to have Charles test the alarm in the morning.

  A soft thud from the library had him pausing at the bottom of the stairs. His heartbeat quickened and tilting his head, he pinned the door with a fierce stare.

  The first thing Cole saw as he pushed open the door of the darkened library was the shadow skulking at the back of the room.

  The Renoir.

  Before he could consider slipping out unnoticed and letting the cops handle it, blind rage swept through him and he slammed on the light. The room remained in darkness, the main power supply for the lights on the bottom floor disabled, but the sound was enough to alert the intruder to his presence.

  “What are you doing in my house?” Cole growled. Every nerve ending in his body was at attention and his heartbeat screamed against his chest.

  “Back off, Anderson.” The startled voice belonged to a man.

  A cat burglar. “How do you know my name?”

  “I said back off. Now.”

  “Get the hell out of my house.”

  The sound of a gun being loaded filled the brief pause. “If you play this smart, I might not have to shoot you.” The cat burglar nudged the gun toward the corner of the library. “Move over there.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Why hadn’t he thought of retrieving his gun before deciding to play Detective Clousseau? And where were the damn cops? A fierce combination of adrenaline and anger surged through his body, sending all his senses into overdrive. “Be cool.”

  “Shut up. Turn around.”

  “Not on your life.”

  The cat had one hand on the gun and the other on the wrapped Renoir. Realizing that he was about to lose either the Renoir or his life, Cole’s mind began spinning.

  “Be smart, Anderson. I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

  Cole’s shoulders heaved more so from anger than from fear. “I will hunt you down, you thieving piece of crap.”

  His words seemed to aggravate the thief who struggled with the weight of the Renoir. Although the gun didn’t waver, the cat looked away for a brief second but that’s all it took for Cole to charge forward, knocking him off his feet.

  The gun went off as it fell to the ground and both men froze for the briefest of moments, staring at each other in the darkness. In sudden unison, there was a mad scramble for the weapon but the cat was closer. He grabbed it and whirled toward Cole who stood in the doorway of the library.

  Cole’s stomach lurched as he realized the cat’s intentions and he backed into the hallway.

  Without a sound, the thief raised an arm, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  The air was smacked out of Cole’s lungs a split second before the gun went off as a force came out of nowhere and shoved him hard, pushing him to the ground and out of the aim of gunfire.

  A quick scuffle of feet and the cat was gone; leaving Cole sprawled on the floor beneath a heavy weight.

  What the hell?

  “Who the hell are you?” he growled into the darkness and shoved against the weight, his fist connecting with flesh and bone.

  He heard the sharp intake of breath as the intruder rolled off him and straightened in a swift, smooth motion.

  “Open up! Police!” a voice bellowed from the front door.

  “They’re here!” Cole shouted and scrambled to his feet.

  The butler’s voice could be heard as he rushed to unlock the front door. The police burst inside the townhouse, their loud voices echoing through the house.

  The intruder edged backward and Cole stepped forward, closing in. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  A strong shove to the chest had Cole reeling back. “I had nothing to do with this, you ass. I just saved your life!” the figure said in a fierce whisper.

  And ran.

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning

  Eddie Jones scratched his crotch and gave an unattractive yawn as he made his way to the kitchen. He opened the rickety fridge, pulled out the milk, and gulped straight from the bottle.

  “Need a glass?”

  Eddie choked on the mouthful he was about to swallow and whirled around in surprise, dropping the bottle and spilling milk everywhere. He cursed when he saw Alex standing in the corner of the kitchen, her arms folded across her chest, amused that he hadn’t noticed her presence. Through his coughing fit and gasping air, he continued cussing her.

  “Jeepers, Eddie, catch your damn breath,” Alex goaded, her lips twitching at the sight of her mother’s fence struggling for air.

  He was a short, balding man with a cranky frown and a bulging gut that had seen far too many beers. He’d put on weight since she’d last seen him but considering it had been some time since their last meet, she figured he didn’t look too bad. She’d grown up with Eddie Jones in her life. A thief, but a good man. He’d been the middleman between her mother and the buyers who paid fortunes for the paintings she stole. Jennifer seldom worked a job without Eddie being involved. She got her adrenaline fix by stealing the paintings, by pulling a job that left police and homeowners perplexed. Where the paintings went once she handed them over to Eddie was of no excitement or relevance to her, as long as she got her cut. Alex suspected that her mother had made a fortune from all the jobs she’d pulled, the money stashed away in foreign accounts. She just hoped her mother had finally retired or taken an extended vacation.

  It was a far better image as opposed to the ones Alex had been having of late. Images of her mother, beaten, trapped, dead.

  “Ever heard of knocking at the front door?” Eddie choked out. His eyes watered and he cleared his throat.

  “The likes of you don’t use front doors, Eddie, so why should I?”

  “ʼCause you ain’t one of us, remember?” he retorted and wiped his hand across his mouth.

  She glanced around the messy, dilapidated kitchen and tried not to grimace. “It’s ten in the morning. Early for you to be up.”

  “Yeah? I have things to do.”

  “The only thing that’ll haul your ass out of bed before noon is if you’re working a job.”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “With a buyer, no doubt.” Alex tilted her head, enjoying the dig. “And I bet you have just the cat to retrieve whatever he’s after. You’re still fencing?”

  He cocked a brow. “As if I’d tell you. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to ask you about the job pulled on Cole Anderson last night.”

  “You want information from me?” He jabbed a finger in her direction and shook his head. “You and me, we ain’t buttered on the same side of the bread, you know.”

  “And I intend to keep it that way.”

  “Damn shame.” He flicked a glance along the length of her. “With that body and the skills and knowledge you’ve learnt from us, you’d have made one hell of a cat burglar.”

  “I prefer my side of the bread. Do you know anything about the heist on Cole last night?”

  He eyed her with caution, sensing her agitation. “I ain’t spilling material to you.”

  “Did you send out the cat to Cole’s last night?” she demanded, straightening her shoulders and staring at him dead on.

  “You should leave, Alex.”

  His menacing tone didn’t scare her. Even though he’d avoided her since realizing she wasn’t following in her mother’s footsteps, he respected her and would never hurt her.

  “You know me well enough to know I won’t leave without answers.” She planted her weight firmly on both feet, crossed her arms, and pinned him with her most intimidating stare. “Was that your stint?”

  He sighed in resignation. “No. I had nothing to do with last night’s job. What were they after?”

  “A newly acquired Renoir painting that Cole had just purchased.”

  “Is he one of your shields?”

  “He’s about to become a client. I’m seeing him in an hour.” Alex scooped up the fallen milk b
ottle, avoiding the mess on the floor, and replaced the cap. “Steven Bryson was sent to nab the Renoir. You know anything about that?”

  “I know shit, Alex.”

  Alex clenched her jaw, agitated at the lack of answers. She’d hoped to get a lead on who had sent out Steven. Something about the failed heist did not sit well with her. “You spread the word that Cole Anderson is mine. They mark him, they mark me.” She pushed the milk bottle into his hands. “Are we clear?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He looked at the puddle on his floor. “Ah, shit, now I’ve gotta clean up this mess. Next time use the damn door.”

  “It’ll teach you to use a glass, Eddie.” She headed for the window at the back of the kitchen, out of sight from prying neighbors. “Drinking out of the bottle is just tacky.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s my house, my bottle.”

  Alex met his eyes. “You heard from my mother?”

  “Not for a couple of weeks. I’ve had to recruit a couple of other cats to replace her, but they don’t have half the chops your mother does.”

  Alex nodded. “If you hear from her, tell her to call me.” She pushed open the window and flinched at the wound in her side.

  “You hurting?” Eddie asked, noticing she favored her right side.

  “I’m fine. Just a scratch.” She put her hand over her wound. She’d been lucky the night before—the bullet had scraped past her, missing a more serious target by a fraction, claiming one of her nine lives in return. The wound was only a surface wound and she’d had several wounds like it in the past, but she’d need a few stitches, as it wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  Without making a sound, she heaved herself up and glanced back at him. “Be sure to send out my message.”

  “Loud and clear. Now get the hell out of my house.”

  ****

  Cole leaned back in his chair and blew out his breath. He’d spent the morning with the police followed by an annoying press conference. The press had picked up the story with surprising speed and descended on him like a pack of wolves, relentless in their pursuit to obtain the full details of the attack.

  Damn reporters. Damn cops. Damn thieves.

  He looked around his spacious office and frowned. Situated on the top floor of his New York hotel and furnished with the same trademark style as his other properties, the room had large floor to ceiling windows that offered a striking view of the city below and filled the office with a natural light he usually found comforting.

  But today, there was no comfort.

  Only hot, raw, blinding fury.

  There was a knock at the door and his assistant, John Farrell, stuck his head into the doorway. “Quite a night you had last night. You okay?”

  Cole opened one eye to peer at his tall, blond, and geeky assistant. Judging by the way John shuffled in the doorway, he’d already consumed a vast quota of caffeine. “I’m aggravated that some assholes broke into my house to steal an eighteen million dollar painting—one I hadn’t even unwrapped yet.”

  “Good thing you have someone from Body Armor coming around this morning.”

  Cole had been hesitant to enquire about employing a personal security agent—a bodyguard—but last night’s drama seemed to add a completely new dimension to the idea.

  “Yes.” He leaned forward and plucked a Post-it note off his office phone. “Alex Foxley,” he read and handed the note to John. “Run a background check on Alex. I know the company’s the best around, but I’d like more information before I have him in my face all day long.”

  John shoved the note in his pocket. “Might take a few days, but I’ll get it together as soon as possible.”

  “Cole,” his secretary, Julia, interrupted from the doorway. “I have Barry Jenson on the line for you. I also have Alex Foxley waiting to see you for your eleven thirty appointment.”

  John waved and disappeared.

  “Send in Alex once I’ve spoken to Barry.” Cole waited for Julia to put the call through and wondered if the annoyance he felt was directed at Barry Jenson or because of the crappy morning he’d had.

  Barry and Cole were in deep discussions about the sale of Barry’s Californian hotel Cole was interested in acquiring. The hotel was in desperate need of an upgrade but oozed potential and Cole knew that with a bit of work and money, he’d turn the hotel into a magnificent resort that would easily match his others.

  “Cole, you okay?” Barry’s voice came on the line. “Saw you in the news this morning.”

  Cole massaged his temples with two fingers, willing his headache to disappear. “I’m fine. Just mad as hell with a splitting headache.”

  “Any leads yet?”

  “We’re working on it. Are we still meeting this week to discuss the sale agreement?”

  “Still as scheduled. Have you considered my offer on your Manhattan townhouse?”

  “Yes, I have and I’ve decided not to sell.”

  Silence.

  “It’s quite a liberal offer, Cole,” Barry said quietly.

  “And I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure you’ll agree with me that I don’t need to sell.”

  Barry snorted. “And here I thought the great Cole Anderson would never pass up an opportunity to make a quick buck.”

  “We both know we’re not talking about a quick buck here. Your offer is very generous.”

  “All the more reason I’m baffled by your refusal to sell.”

  “I like the townhouse and see no reason why I should sell right now.” Cole suspected they were heading for a stalemate.

  “I’ll increase the offer.”

  Stalemate. Yip.

  “Barry, thank you, but no. I’m not selling. I have to run. I have someone waiting to see me.” He hung up the phone with a little more force than intended, then walked round his desk and poured a drink. It was still early but damn, he deserved a drink considering the morning he’d had.

  There was a soft knock at the door and Alex Foxley walked into his office, dressed in a black and white striped blouse paired with figure hugging black pants, looking professional and elegant.

  And very female.

  Cole’s eyes drew together in the briefest of frowns as he recognized the woman standing before him.

  The woman from the auction.

  This was the Alex from Body Armor?

  He’d been expecting a burly man with bulging biceps, not some tiny woman dressed in Ralph Lauren and sporting a black curly ponytail.

  Hot damn. Alex is a woman?

  Alex smiled and offered her hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Anderson.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Foxley,” he said and shook her hand. Although her grip was firm, her fingers were delicate and soft, so unlike the hands of the burly bodyguard he’d been expecting.

  “Please call me Alex.”

  “Alex?”

  “Short for Alexis.”

  “Ah.” He offered her a drink and to his surprise, she accepted. “So you’re the Alex Max so highly recommends?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her confidence was alluring and he smiled, liking that about her. “He left out that part at Christie’s last night.”

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “So he did.”

  He shouldn’t be surprised. Max would’ve loved the opportunity to surprise him. “I didn’t realize Max had started dating again. He’s been pretty cut up about his divorce with Vera.”

  “We’re not dating. Max is my client.”

  Cole raised an eyebrow. It hadn’t looked like a business relationship to him. “A client?”

  Alex nodded. “Yes. I’ve been working for him for several months.”

  “Do you make a habit of going on dates with your clients?”

  Her eyes drew together in a slight frown. “As I told you, Mr. Anderson—”

  “Cole.”

  “—it wasn’t a date. Max is a client, but since we’ve been working so closely together for some time, we’ve become friends.”

  Cole noticed a
hint of annoyance beneath the professional stance she portrayed and almost smiled. “Well, he seemed to enjoy having you accompany him. Max is a good man and could use a few sincere friends right now. He’s had his hands full with his ex for quite some time.”

  “Yes, but that seems to be improving.”

  “Thanks to you?”

  Alex shrugged, her delicate shoulders rising and falling with the motion. “Maybe. Having me as a buffer between them seems to help. Even if it annoys her.”

  “I’ve seen Vera and she’s downright scary.”

  “I’m hoping to have fewer encounters with her. It’s a wonder what Max ever saw in her. I find it bizarre that so many people like Max and Vera love each other enough at one point in time to get married and then end up divorced, hating each other.” A sudden hint of sadness crept into her eyes, lingered there for a brief moment, and then disappeared.

  “You see that a lot in your line of work?” Intrigued, he motioned toward an empty chair, moved around his desk, and sat.

  “Don’t we see it in all lines of work?”

  “I suppose.” He could think of several friends or business associates that had gone through the crazy cycle of marriage and divorce. “Max spoke highly of you, but the crazy old man neglected to mention to me that you’re a woman. A form of amusement on his part, I’m sure.”

  Alex raised her eyebrows. “You have a problem with me being a woman?”

  “No. I’m simply surprised, that’s all. Most bodyguards are men. It’s not gender discrimination, merely an observation.”

  “Well, I can kick ass like the rest of them, I assure you.” She flashed him a confident smile, apparently quite able to recall many ass-kicking incidents.

  “Is that what explains the bruise on your jaw?” He’d noticed it the minute she’d walked into his office. It looked out of place on a face so delicate.

  And beautiful.

  “I was trying to protect a possible client from harm. Getting in front of a fist every now and again is part of the job.”

  “Interesting profession you’ve chosen.”

  “My job description is unconventional, but I love it.”

  “Must give you a few adrenaline rushes every now and then.”

  “Oh, several, but I’m always up for any sort of adrenaline rushes—good or bad.” A teasing grin toyed at the corners of her mouth.