by Calinda B
“Listen,” she said, whirling to face him. “I saw him meeting with members of ISIS. I saw him, Adam. And then he disappears, and my Iraqi handler tells me I have to leave immediately or I’d be…” She choked back a sob. “I’d have been beheaded, Adam. And Lambert had the nerve to contact SLAE and point the finger at me before he vanished.”
Adam put his free arm around her shoulder. “Honey, that’s harsh. Trust me, I believe you.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. At least someone believes me.
“Now SLAE admins are scrambling to cover themselves.”
“That’s on them, not me. I’m the one who found out about Lambert. Me. Not any other agent.”
“Yeah, well it’s become a she said, he said situation. They want to believe you, but if it turns out Lambert did as you said, the entire organization will have mud on their faces.”
“More like concrete,” she sniffed. “And I hope it sets and they sink to the bottom of the ocean.” She grabbed her heavy suitcase and, with a grunt, heaved it from the revolving belt.
Adam rushed to help her. “Let me.”
She relinquished her grip on the suitcase. “You know I’m only being used as a scapegoat.”
“I know. They have to blame someone.” Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pivoted her to face him. “I’m your friend, remember?”
She blinked, rapidly, and tried to look away from his bright green gaze.
He cupped her chin and guided her face toward his. “I’m only reporting what they told me. I’m on your side, got it?”
She nodded as best she could, restrained by his fingers.
“That’s my girl. Now, let me fill you in on our next job. A car’s waiting outside and I don’t want you to feel ambushed.”
“I already do feel ambushed,” she muttered. “More like bombed. I need sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. But tell me. What am I in for?”
He wheeled the luggage into a corner, far away from the crowd. “You’re about to meet your father.”
A grin formed on his face.
Elation fluttered in her chest. Her father had given her up for adoption when she was only three. Her mom had died from breast cancer, and he apparently wasn’t up for the challenge of raising a kid by himself. She had been shuffled from foster home to foster home, each one worse than the next. When she’d arrived at her last one—where she and Adam met—she’d become so rebellious they finally drop-kicked her from the system.
“My real live Dad?” Her voice squeaked with excitement at her stupid emotions. Like I’d meet my dad on a mission.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. No, not your real dad. Your cover dad. We’re going to infiltrate the Diamond Club.”
Savannah’s mind went six ways at once, in a flurry of competing emotions. Her heart sank, while her mind tried to piece things together. She stood staring at Adam like a blinking idiot. Of course, it’s not my real dad. He made his intentions clear twenty-three years ago. And the Diamond Club? Isn’t that the place…
“I’m sorry, Savannah. I thought you’d think meeting your dad on a mission was a joke.” Adam stood close, looming over her like a tree offering shade and support.
She flicked her hand to rid herself of senseless fantasies, like ever having a father—or, a family, for that matter. “I’m over it. What’s the dad part of this story? And isn’t the Diamond Club that impenetrable fortress of a fuck palace for the rich?”
She nibbled on her fingernail.
“The same. SLAE did a sting on the Diamond Club a few years back, before you were with the company. DC employs security rivaling the White House or Buckingham Palace. Those two institutions could learn a few things from the Club. You can’t go in with a wire or any kind of listening device. Believe me, SLAE has tried everything. Is your French still good?”
Savannah frowned at the abrupt change.
“What? Still passable. I used it in Paris for the last couple of days, why?” She pushed back her long bangs.
Adam looked at his watch. “We need to hurry. I’ve got to wrap up the intel dishing. The car will be waiting for us.”
“I need answers.”
“I know.” He secured her luggage next to his with a strap and gripped the handle. He reached for her free hand.
When she took it, he tugged her next to him and began striding toward the exit.
She hurried along, practically jogging to keep up with him.
“Marcus Weathersby, a longtime Diamond Club member, owes us his life. He was the lead dog in a DC heist. SLAE caught him in their previous sting. The D.A. made a deal with him that they’d go easy on sentencing if he got us back into the club. When you got hired, I’m pretty sure they had you in mind for this particular operation.”
They stepped through the sliding glass doors into the noisy, smoky pick-up area outside.
“There’s our car,” Adam said, pointing to a sleek, black limousine. “The cover begins now. That’s Marcus’s limo. We couldn’t risk anyone seeing us getting into a SLAE vehicle. You’re to be Marcus’s daughter who’s been living in France since she was a child. Apparently, he bundled her off to Paris when she was a child. He doesn’t want her to be a part of the DC lifestyle.”
“Okay, got it. Or, should I say, Oui, d’accord.” She veered past a harried family trying to corral their kids and move five huge suitcases at the same time.
“If you didn’t tell me to fuck off.” Adam turned and grinned.
She scoffed, starting to feel at ease for the first time in weeks.
“And we’re going to take down one of the biggest diamond heists the world has ever seen.”
Savannah reached for Adam’s arm. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve gone from the cover girl for operation fuck-up to somehow being an insider on one of the biggest heists in the world? Am I merely collateral? Some expendable piece to the puzzle?”
Adam pressed his lips together before answering. “It’s not like that. You’ll play a key piece. Think of it as more like the thing enabling you to keep your job. It’s been in play for some time. You weren’t informed until now. The process had to be fast-tracked while you were overseas. We got word the heist is happening soon.”
He turned and headed toward the limo.
Savannah scurried behind him, her head still grinding out question after question.
The statue-like limo driver, standing next to the sleek sedan, nodded to her. He opened the door to the passenger area, revealing a dimly lit interior and a shadow obscured figure inside.
The driver smiled. “Ms. Weathersby. How was your flight? Excuse me…Comment était votre vol?”
She side-eyed Adam.
He gave a quick, curt nod.
“C'était agréable, merci. Je suis assez fatigué.” She hoped her answer of “it was pleasant,” and “I’m extremely tired,” was sufficient.
He smiled at her, indicating she’d passed phase one.
A man’s hand extended from the back seat to assist her into the vehicle.
After taking a giant breath for courage, she took it, stepping inside the lush interior.
“Sit next to me,” a commanding voice said.
She settled onto the rich, black leather.
Adam clambered in after her.
When her eyes adjusted, she tilted her head to regard the handsome older man studying her. He bore a remarkable resemblance to her, with his gingery hair and hazel eyes. Even his lips had the same pouty look she’d been accused of having by a few jealous exes of men she’d dated.
Without looking away, he said, “Raphael, please take us to my manor.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said.
The man pressed a button, and the privacy shield between the passenger area and the driver slid shut, sealing them in.
He stroked his chin as he assessed her. “Kill the ponytail.”
She hesitated.
Adam, who sat across from her, nodded encouragingly.
She reached behind her and slid the b
and from her hair.
“Spread your hair out.”
Savannah fingered it with both hands.
“No, no, no. Like this.” The ginger-haired man reached out and ruffled her hair with his manicured fingernails.
She twitched at the sudden, intimate contact.
The man spoke to Adam without tearing his eyes from Savannah. “She’s going to have to do better than this. We have a somewhat close relationship.”
He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
She swallowed, trying not to pull away from him. As he leaned in, she breathed in a strong smell of tobacco and expensive aftershave clinging to his bespoke suit.
He sat back and studied her again.
“Better,” he said. His shrewd eyes scanned her attire. “No more ho-hum pantsuits like this one, ever. We don’t want you looking like Hilary Clinton.”
“Understood.” She swallowed again.
“You’re to be polished, elegant, and refined at all times. I’ll provide your attire. Don’t even dream of adding your own touches to it. I have impeccable taste,” he said, implying she did not.
“Do you have a name or should I call you dad?” Pressing into the leather seat, she forced a smile.
“Marcus Weathersby.” He said this coldly, as a statement of fact. “You’ll refer to me as father. Never Dad, or Pa, or Pops. Father.”
“Okay…Father.” She plastered on another smile. “And my mother?”
“Dead. Cancer took her.” He spoke as if she went away on a long vacation.
Her heart twisted. My own mother died of cancer, so this won’t be a stretch.
“Oh.” She placed her hand on her breastbone. “I’m sorry.”
Marcus ignored her. He cupped her jaw with his hand and nodded.
She tried to pull away from the smell of cigarettes wafting from his skin, but his grip held tight.
“You’ll do. We’ll head to the Club tomorrow. During this whole thing, we’ll be staying at my manor in the Upper East Side. You’ll have the top two floors—the penthouse. I occupy the bottom two floors. He’ll be in adjacent rooms to you.” He inclined his head toward Adam without looking at him.
Releasing her, he picked up a tablet from a pocket in the seat and began to skim.
Savannah glanced at the screen. Flow charts and financial forecasts danced across the page.
Am I dismissed? She looked at Adam.
He lifted a shoulder in answer.
“Oh,” Marcus said, his gaze ascending from his world of numbers. “Your name is Naeva. It means ‘of the night’ in case anyone asks you.”
“Got it. Naeva.”
“You’re twenty-seven, and you’ve been in Paris since grade school. We put you up in private boarding schools. You’re an excellent skier, horseback rider, and you tried competitive fencing.”
“Understood.” Competitive fencing? At least I can muddle my way through the other two. And, I was recently in Paris for two days.
“Your handler will fill you in on the rest at the hotel.” He swished his hand at Adam without favoring him with his attention. His gaze fell to his screen. “Oh.” He lifted his head. “I hope you’re not squeamish about sex. Our members have” –he tapped the edge of his tablet— “shall we say, exotic tastes.” His lips curled into a smile.
“Not squeamish. But what are we talking here?” She clutched her hands in her lap wondering if she’d have to participate in “exotic sex” as part of her mission. And, what, exactly does it mean to have exotic tastes? Kink? Fetishes? All of the above? Savannah viewed her sexual preferences as cautiously adventurous. She’d never explored anything too wild, figuring herself to be more of a vanilla with white chocolate sprinkles kind of girl.
He slid his tongue along his upper lip. His voice became deep and rough. “That’s on a need to know basis, Naeva. And you don’t need to know.” He let out a secretive laugh. “But I guarantee you’re going to find out.”
A shiver whispered across her skin. At least I still have a job. But what am I getting myself into? She’d find out soon enough.
Tomorrow, they’d head for the Club.
2
The morning after she arrived at Marcus’s luxury manor, the soothing tone of the hotel room phone may as well have been a gunshot. Savannah awoke with a start, laying in the middle of a bed big enough for an Iraqi family. She pushed aside the thick covers, rolled over, and reached for the top half of the O-shaped land-line phone, fumbling for the handset.
“Hello?” She wiped at her bleary eyes.
“Ms. Summers, this is Margaret Callahan. SLAE hired me to be your consultant.” The voice of the woman on the other end sounded smoky-smooth and refined.
“Consultant?” Savannah sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. “For?” She reached for the glass of water she’d left on the bedside stand before falling asleep, and took a long swig.
She’d been so tired, she barely remembered arriving last night.
She recalled stepping through the double front doors, which were flanked by two stone wolfhounds.
The doors were beautiful. Made of a rich, dark wood, each door held thick, etched Normandy glass panels, which allowed light from the inside to shine through.
Inside the twelve-foot by twelve-foot foyer, she’d stepped along glossy tile, passed a sweeping staircase with mahogany banisters, that led to Marcus’s main living quarters.
Adam had been told to wait for an assistant to show him to his rooms.
Accompanied by Marcus, she advanced along a short hallway to an elevator. The lift carried her and Marcus past his two floors of living quarters. They landed on the third floor, entering a small foyer to her suite—aptly named Fleur Rouge.
Marcus handed her a key and told her to “knock herself out, get comfortable, and he’d see her in the morning.” He’d disappeared, descending in the elevator.
When she’d entered the suite, she’d been overwhelmed by the luxurious furniture and art. The entire penthouse suite had been filled with an abundance of red flowers—roses, Ranunculus, red striped orchids, Peruvian lilies, and more—each artfully arranged inside huge crystal vases. They added an exquisite, exotic scent to each room. She’d found her bedroom upstairs and crashed. The last thing she remembered was the exquisite fragrance of flowers.
“Life as the wealthy,” Margaret said.
She stared at the phone handset, blinking. “Excuse me? Sorry, I’m a bit jet-lagged.” Savannah yawned.
“You asked what I’ll be doing for you. The wealthy—they have different norms…different standards…you’ll need to master them quickly. I’ll check in with you daily and give you tips and coaching. We’ll start today at 9am. Breakfast will arrive at 8. You’re to choose your attire from the selections I placed on the bed in the spare room.”
“When did you do that?” Savannah yawned.
“At 5am. I have a key. I let myself in.”
“You’re lucky I was exhausted, or I might have pulled a gun on you.” She smiled into the phone.
Margaret paused. Then, she said, “You were fast asleep. I checked. I knocked softly before entering.” Her tone grew rushed as if stating the obvious was paramount. “We have much to do before you leave for the Diamond Club. SLAE should have been prepping you for weeks. The timeline got rushed while you were away.”
“I wasn’t exactly away,” Savannah said. “I was on assignment.”
Being reminded of where she’d been and how she stood on shaky ground with SLAE served as a wake-up slap.
Margaret again said nothing. After a few seconds, she continued, as if set to “auto-report.”
“You’ll need to bathe before the stylist arrives.”
“I have a stylist?” Savannah got to her feet, plucked the silk robe from the chair next to the bed, and shrugged it over her satin nightgown.
“Yes, this will be a daily occurrence. You have a stylist, a makeup consultant, a…”
“Can I take a shit without help?” Savannah snapped as she s
trode across the taupe-colored carpet.
A weighty silence met her ears, followed by a breathy sigh.
“You’ll have help with diction, manners, everything…An outburst can cost us the mission.”
The reprimand stung as if she’d been smacked on her hand with a ruler.
“I…I apologize,” she finally managed.
“Never apologize to your inferiors,” Margaret said. “You’re a Weathersby now. Noble elite.”
Wow. Last week I was considered the lowest of the low—a woman in Mosul, Iraq. This week I’m noble elite.
They concluded their call. Savannah heaved a sigh, standing in the middle of her room. She had a lot to do, and she wasn’t sure where to start.
She eyed the flowers placed in each corner, taking a moment to orient. Here in the bedroom, Savannah found herself surrounded by tulips and red lilies. Inhaling deeply, she drew their luscious fragrance into her lungs. She imagined them red fairies in her new fantasy world. And what a fantasy.
She made her way into the en suite bathroom, a room as large as Adam’s studio apartment. The room consisted of marble everything. Gray-veined white marble made up the floors, the counter, and even the tub. A generously sized window looked out over Central Park, four stories below.
A tray of bath oils rested on the edge of the marble bath. After securing the gold-plated stopper in the tub, and sniffing a few of the oils, she poured her favorite one into the cascade of hot water. She settled into the two-person tub and proceeded to unwind, allowing her tight, tense muscles to melt, and the weeks of unrest on her Iraqi mission to float free. The luxurious scents helped her relax even further.
After drying off with a plush, heated towel, she opened vials and bottles, which had been arranged along the counter. She sniffed each one and then applied the lotions and creams. Reading each label, she determined there was a lotion for each part of her body—leg cream, foot cream, something called a neck toner, moisturizer for her face, eye cream, hand lotion—it was a dizzying array. Normally, she’d swipe on whatever she had purchased at the drug store. Once she’d primped and powdered like a Löwchen show dog, she donned her robe once more.
