by Addison Fox
Oddly enough, the boxer reference fit. As did his dark black suit jacket, over what appeared to be a rather fit frame.
“Excuse me?”
She flipped open the leather billfold once more, her gaze focusing on the larger type that bore his name. Knox St. Germain.
Was this guy for real?
“That’s an awfully serious name.”
“I do an awfully serious job.” His face remained set in stoic, craggy lines, but she didn’t miss the cheek in his voice. A life spent with five brothers and an endless pack of cousins had her well versed in male amusement.
His was simply veiled behind a rather delectable accent.
“Would you care to tell me why you’re here?”
“Do you work for this establishment?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t tell you.”
“Yet you were adamant about getting in.”
“It’s essential I speak with the owners.”
“They’re not here.” Gabby handed him the billfold. “So I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“When do you expect them back?”
He stepped through the door, despite the lack of invitation, but stopped just past the entrance. His gaze roamed over the mess she still hadn’t cleaned up on the counter. “You appear to be cooking.”
“It is a kitchen.”
“Does this mean you’re cooking for one or more of the individuals who owns this establishment?”
“I’m—” She broke off before changing tacks. “You’re nosy.”
“Also part of the job description.”
“They should be here in about an hour. Why don’t you come back then?”
Knox St. Germain moved past her and settled himself on a large stool at the kitchen counter. “Why don’t I just wait?”
* * *
Max had to give Reed credit—the man maneuvered a large pink van with all the panache and style of a small roadster. He’d also made what should have been about a two-hour trip back to Dallas in just over ninety minutes.
What he couldn’t get his mind wrapped around were the shadows that lurked beneath Violet’s gaze.
A bone-deep weariness seemed to settle over her like a blanket, and for the first time he sensed her ordeal was finally drawing a physical response.
She smiled at Lilah’s sweet jokes and patted Cassidy’s hand at the woman’s many small touches, but the threads beneath her composure were frayed to the point of snapping.
Reed pulled up to the delivery entrance at Elegance and Lace just as the late summer sun began its descent toward the horizon. The evening hues of gold and red reflected off the back door of the business as well as a strange white sedan.
“Whose car?” Tucker asked.
Reed shook his head, leaning forward over the dash as he pulled behind the sedan, effectively boxing it in. “No idea.”
“Is someone here?”
“Gabby’s waiting for us. Said she wanted to cook dinner.” Lilah craned her neck to look out the passenger window. “That’s not her car, though.”
Tension immediately filled up the air like a thick mist and Max already had his hand on the door. “Let’s go see who it is.”
Reed left the van running, gesturing for Lilah to take the wheel once he got out of the driver’s seat. His voice was low but firm when he instructed her to leave at any sign of trouble. Max eyed the guns in the back of the van and at a nod from Reed was nearly out of his seat to snag protection when the back door of the business opened, Gabby framed inside.
“You’re here!”
She raced down the back steps on heels that resembled ice picks and rushed to the van. She had the back door open and Violet in a tight embrace, tears flowing freely as they hugged. “You’re home, chica. You’re home.”
The urge to grab a side piece faded, but Max was itchy to move the reunion inside. “Gab. Whose car is that?”
Gabby kept Violet in her arms but laid off the tight hug. “MI5 has decided to pay you all a visit.”
* * *
Alex poked through the rubble of the battered sedan, careful in his search. He’d already towed the vehicle from the back of The Duke’s property and was even now sifting through what was in easy reach in the full privacy of the compound’s eight-car garage. The events of the day rumbled through his mind, culminating in the vision of that idiotic pink truck barreling down Main Street.
He’d almost acted—had nearly given into the thought of firing round after round of bullets into the gas tank and watching it burn—but had held back. Hasty actions never produced good results.
Never.
Take his current problem. A sedan nearly crushed beyond salvage. He’d pull out a blowtorch later and cut away what blocked the interior, confirming he hadn’t missed anything. In the meantime, he was going on a quick fishing expedition so he wouldn’t need to go into the house—and run into Lange—empty-handed.
Because that was what he was.
Damn empty-handed, with his quarry rapidly departing back to Dallas.
While he knew he’d find them again, the fact that Violet had gotten away with her protector was a slam to his pride. He’d admit that to no one else, but he could to himself.
He didn’t fail.
Ever.
Yet he’d stumbled several times over the past few weeks.
What should have been a simple job had proven to be otherwise. Far from simple, in fact.
His former associate, Trey, had lost his life in their last scuffle with Lange’s son, Reed. They’d still not been able to secure more than one of the three rubies. And he and Lange had ended up in jail.
Although the stay had been brief, any time spent in lockup was loathsome.
But the loss of Trey was the worst.
Alex had thought his partner nearly invincible. And while he knew even the best soldiers fell to an ambush, the man’s loss was keenly felt. Although dim and relatively unable to think for himself, Trey had provided considerable brute strength to their operation. He’d also followed orders to a T, more than willing to do what needed to be done. No job was too large or small; Trey would see it through.
Oh yes, did he miss the ever stoic and stalwart Trey.
The Duke had spent far too many years in the rarified air of order-giving to be all that useful at even the basics.
Alex kicked at the car, disgusted when his efforts failed to dislodge the back panel over the wheel.
This damn car was a perfect example.
Lange hadn’t simply made it impossible to drive. He’d pushed it beyond its limits so Alex could barely open the freaking doors to the secrets housed within.
Impulse. The Duke acted on impulse, and it’d only gotten worse of late. He wanted to be loyal—believed himself so—but the increasing lack of focus was...disillusioning.
Perhaps one day soon he’d be free of it.
Shrugging off the disloyal thoughts for fear they’d somehow show on his face, Alex refocused on his task. Unlike his boss, his temper didn’t run to the juvenile and impulsive, and that control had served him well. He’d think his way through their current problem and find a way to get back on track.
Images of the small bridal boutique on Dragon Street filled his mind’s eye as he methodically worked over the sedan. Where had he gone wrong?
What hadn’t he planned for?
Three women who owned a bridal shop. They should never have posed a threat. To him and his partner. To the Duke. Or to their overarching mission.
Yet they’d managed to thwart every planned effort at every single turn.
How?
Even as he asked himself the question, Alex knew the answer. The women had help. Help in the form of Lange’s surprisingly well-trained stepson of a c
op and the two ex-soldiers who worked down the lane.
What he hadn’t accounted for was something intangible that hovered just out of reach. Although Alex had no time for the purported curse that lay over the Renaissance Stones, he couldn’t deny they’d seen precious few dividends from all their methodical planning to ultimately possess the stones.
Curses were for fools, and only the weak-minded put any stock in them. No, Alex marveled to himself, the stones’ real power was in their many, many facets. The rubies were worth unimaginable sums.
And, therefore, people did—and would do—unimaginable things for them.
Curses meant nothing. It was action that moved the world forward. Yet none of it explained the nearly impossible run of luck that had favored the women. Although Tucker Buchanan’s discovery of Cassidy Tate the morning after her shop was broken into was simply bad luck and timing, what had ensued was so much more.
How could he have known the ex-soldiers who now owned an architectural firm would get their rocks off playing hero?
Alex kicked at the back panel of the sedan once more, irritation simmering beneath his blood like a witch’s brew. The whole damn op had been fraught with issues from the start. With another swift kick—this one for the loss of Trey—he let the zing of bone connecting with metal echo through his nerve endings.
And then again. And again.
Orders. Responsibilities. Strategies.
He’d fulfilled them all, and it had gotten him nowhere. He believed in the old ways. Believed in following his leader.
Yet here he was, unable even to dislodge a damn car part because his leader had acted like a child.
With one final kick, the hard crunch of metal gave way, the back door of the car tilting on its hinge. Alex stepped forward, working the metal frantically as he sought whatever might have been left behind in the car.
The hard screech of metal on metal echoed off the cavernous garage, but he ignored it, now manic to find whatever lay inside. As the door finally came off with a hard wrench, Alex threw the metal aside and leaned forward. The front passenger seat was nearly flush with the back bench, but after a quick search, he saw the dark army-green material covering the floor of the backseat.
Dragging the thick duffle free of its mooring between the now-ruined seats, Alex stumbled momentarily before righting himself.
Dropping to the garage floor, he dug through the layers of female clothing, bottles of water and energy bars before his hand closed over something small.
Perhaps their luck had finally taken a turn.
He threw the bag aside, several silky items floating to the floor along with the hard thud of several water bottles. Alex ignored it all and instead watched as a bright light flooded the face of a sleek black cell phone.
Chapter 12
What the hell sort of name was Knox St. Germain?
The thought had stuck in Max’s craw since inspecting the Brit’s credentials, and he still hadn’t managed to come up with a satisfactory answer. Reed’s affirmation that the badge looked legit had helped, but it was St. Germain’s production of a card that gave a business address of Thames House, London, and the number for his supervisor that had sealed the deal.
None of it changed the fact that Max would have preferred to bundle Violet up in the back of the van and whisk her home instead of dealing with an interrogation. Sadly, the choice wasn’t his to make.
Violet had slipped into her office after arriving and had changed into a new outfit. He suspected burning wasn’t good enough for the clothing she’d been wearing, but the bonfire would have to wait. Instead, her smile was firmly in place when she returned to the broad seating area of Elegance and Lace, clad in slacks and a fresh blouse, her hair twisted up in a clip.
Worn.
The thought struck as Violet settled into the large, oversize couch in the main sitting area. The woman appeared worn to the bone. Their adventure had taken its toll. Worse, the shadows he’d noticed in the van had only become more pronounced, especially with her hair upswept, displaying the fragile bones of her face.
Tired or not, Violet moved on the offensive the moment she took her seat. “I can’t imagine your arrival is coincidence, Officer St. Germain.”
“No, it’s not.”
Max wanted to dislike the man on sight, but the officer had proven himself above reproach. He’d also turned down Gabby’s enchiladas, which had earned Max a perverse satisfaction as the stoic officer had to watch the rest of them dig into the steaming meal.
The enchiladas had proven themselves as perfect as all of Gabby’s food, and he’d barely restrained himself from a third helping. Only the knowledge she’d made extra and was sending them home with leftovers had stilled his hand.
Violet’s plate, however, lay untouched on the coffee table where Gabby had set it earlier.
“Why don’t you tell us, then, why you’re here?”
The officer eyed everyone assembled around the room. “I’d prefer to speak to Miss Tate, Miss Castle and you, Miss Richardson, alone.”
Tucker and Reed both braced as if to argue, but Violet proved herself more than in control of the conversation. “Everyone sitting here is well aware of what’s going on. We speak together or you’ll need to take more official action to speak to us.”
“I can do that if I must.”
Violet shrugged. “I spent the last forty-eight hours under the control of or running from some rather unsavory individuals. If you think you can scare me with empty threats, you’ve picked the wrong girl.”
St. Germain nodded before settling back in his seat. Max’s overall impression was of a man who didn’t acquiesce easily, so the quick capitulation must mean he needed answers. Fast.
That focus on expedience had alarm bells clamoring in Max’s mind, lifting the hair on his nape. His days of service came back in a rush, his own experiences still shockingly fresh.
He knew the root cause of that focus.
Hell, he’d lived it himself.
Someone well above St. Germain was pulling strings and wanted answers. And as a good officer, their new friend, Knox, was expected to get them. His response only confirmed Max’s suspicions.
“Fair enough, Miss Richardson. As you might imagine, the Renaissance Stones are of considerable interest to the British government.”
“That’s a change of heart.” Max took the first jab. “Especially since the very reason the stones are on US soil is that the British monarchy couldn’t have cared less about them.”
“I wouldn’t say that is fully accurate. The Queen Mum had...concerns about the gems. When she found a way to remove them from Britain during wartime, she took the opportunity.”
St. Germain’s diplomacy earned a sizable snort from Cassidy. “If by remove you mean smuggle them out of the country with our landlady’s family, then we’re in agreement.”
“Removal of the gems was a sanctioned event, Miss Tate. I’d hardly use the term smuggle.”
“I would.” Cassidy refused to back down. “I’d also add that our landlady is so upset about this that she had a heart attack and subsequently had to go into hiding.”
The delicacy that had imbued the officer’s actions up until that point faded in the face of Cassidy’s comments. “We’re aware of the removal of the stones but not the illness. Where is the landlady now?”
“She’s safe.” Max interjected once more, the comment as much a response as a warning to his assembled friends. He might give St. Germain the leeway to ask questions, but he’d be damned if any of them were giving up the location of their loved ones.
Reed’s subtle nod of agreement only added reinforcement to the approach.
Max Senior and Mrs. B. might want out of their confinement on the ranch, but Reed’s mother’s life depended on the secrecy. She hated going into hiding as
much as Max’s grandfather, but Reed had worked hard to convince Diana she needed to stay put until they had her husband back behind bars. They’d all be damned before some nosy officer put her at risk now that she’d agreed.
MI5’s focus was three priceless rubies, and Max had no interest in his grandfather, Reed’s mother or Mrs. Beauregard becoming collateral damage as the British government worked toward their own ends.
At this point, Max trusted very few to keep the secret of where they had his grandfather in hiding. A badge and a formal British accent weren’t going to change that.
Max’s gaze drifted over Violet once more. She’d more than held her own—on their trek to safety and now with the officer. The delicate skin around her eyes was dark with exhaustion, but her deep, honeyed voice was as firm as steel when she spoke next. “Officer St. Germain. We can bat this one around or we can get to the issue at hand. Why don’t you tell us the real reason you’re here?”
* * *
Violet took Knox St. Germain’s measure, curious to see how he’d respond. She hadn’t been kidding earlier—she was tired, and she was beyond being cowed by a government operative who knew he didn’t have the upper hand.
What she hadn’t quite figured out was why the man was dancing around the matter as if he held live snakes.
Of course the British wanted the rubies back. The individuals originally involved with the gems had wanted them off British soil, but they were all long gone, along with the threat of war. A new generation—one who valued what had been so easily brushed aside—would want the stones returned to England.
Things that were considered priceless had a way of raising interest, no matter the time or place.
What Violet couldn’t quite shake was the sense that St. Germain was here for a more urgent reason.
At the heart of the matter, she, Lilah and Cassidy had no claim to the rubies. Beyond watching them for Mrs. Beauregard and ensuring they remained in safekeeping—Lilah’s missing stone the current exception—they had no claims. MI5 had to know that.
So what was the man’s end game?
