Her running shoes sat neatly next to the bed. Oh, goody. If I need to bolt out the door, at least I'll be wearing shoes.
"Perfect timing. Pizza just arrived." Glennon, his hair still damp, dressed in a sleeveless muscle shirt and snug running shorts, motioned April to one of the two chairs set under a round chrome and glass table. "I ordered two garden salads with the house's balsamic dressing. The restaurant has the best Greek olives stuffed with goat cheese. Diet ginger ale okay?"
She quickly scoped out his powerful thighs, then what she could see of the apartment's open floor plan. They seemed to be alone. She nodded.
"This is awfully considerate. You don't even know me." Or, do you? With that body, you're one I'd certainly remember!
"I'm getting to that." He held out his hand. "Glennon Garrett, GMG Security and Surveillance.
Oh, crap. Security and surveillance. "Oh. Uh . . . Ap—Alice Green. Copywriter." Her throat tightened at revealing even that much. "I'm . . . self-employed." Really clever, motor mouth. Why don't you just blurt out everything?
"Welcome, dear Alice, to my Wonderland." He served up the pizza and handed her a plate. "Nasty-looking gash. How'd you manage it?"
His question caught her by surprise, and her heart skipped a couple of beats. She hadn't thought of a cover story for the wound. After all, who would be seeing it? "I . . .
uh . . . well . . . I went out jogging and tripped and fell on a . . . hmm . . . broken glass bottle. I'm really clumsy."
"Uh huh. I'm guessing you didn't have anyone look at the wound. It's infected."
Another frisson of panic. "Didn't . . . uh, no insurance yet."
"Alice Green, if you're not allergic to anything, I keep a supply of antibiotics. For emergencies. Are you okay with cephalexin?"
"I think so."
"Let's give it a whirl." He returned from the bathroom with a pharmacy bottle, handed it over so she could read the warnings on the label. "Take two to jump-start the meds, then take two more before bed."
April shifted in her seat, uneasy. "You're more than kind. I've already put you out—" Is he being incredibly helpful, a true Good Samaritan, or is he trying to slow me down to buy more time?
The expression on his face hardened into serious."All right, Ms. Green, let's get our signals straight. Either you take the antibiotic, or I dial 9-1-1 and you become the EMT's problem. The gash is nasty and it's infected. I cleaned it up, but you really need proper medical attention. It's either me, or the nearest hospital ER, then you can worry about how they fill out the incident report. Choose your poison."
She coughed behind her hand, her throat suddenly desert dry. Neither choice appealed. But he really doesn't seem like the goon type. He sounds on the up and up. And why would he threaten to call 9-1-1 if he was waiting for Angelo? She looked around. Considered .
I'm in a classy penthouse apartment, my wounds tended to, enjoying a hot meal with a very attractive man. If he isn't on Angelo's payroll, this is definitely an improvement over anything I could conjure. If he does belong to Angelo, it's probably too late to run.
"Alice, I never thought to ask. Do you live nearby? Is there anyone I should call for you? Family? Friends? Do you have your own physician?"
Again, her gut lurched in a panic. "Uh, not really. I'm, hmm, new in town and, well, sorta between places. I'll find a motel." Not that I'd want anyone I know to become involved in this nonsense.
"A room in some flea-bag dive is not an option. So, take the meds, chow down some pizza to keep up your strength. I can offer a guest room, or a very comfortable sofa. Again, your choice."
He leaned back in the chair, crossed his long legs, then fielded a perfect, gooey-cheesy slice of pizza, properly folded long-ways.
"Damn, hot!" He wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned. "Good pizza with real mozzarella is best when it's hot enough to scorch the roof of your mouth. So, you'd better get to it."
April relaxed, and worked on her pizza between bites of salad. "Okay, you're right. The pizza is really good, it's hot, and I'm hungrier than I realized. Mr. Garrett, I don't know how to thank you."
"Glennon. Not to worry."
Suddenly feeling more shy than worried, she responded with a hesitant smile.
He squinted. "Two eyes the same color are a definite improvement."
Heat rose to her cheeks. With a mouthful of pizza, she shrugged and didn't attempt a response.
Her host didn't push.
After devouring her salad with the stuffed olives, plus two slices of pizza, Alice Green's eyes began to droop. She shook herself awake, then rose to stack the dishes.
Glennon stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. She flinched, moved away from him. He didn't comment on her reaction, didn't try to move any closer. "I'll clean up. I know where everything belongs. Why don't you toddle back to my room and have a snooze? I need to finish some work. I'll be one floor below, in the com center. No one will bother you up here."
About to decline the offer, but exhausted and sated with food, she gave in.
"Thanks."
* * * * *
Using clean salad tongs, Glennon picked up Alice's water glass and fork, then placed them in a plastic container. He carried the samples to his com center- cum-lab on the third floor.
He knew she lied. She wasn't good at it, but he hadn't wanted to spook her by pushing for answers over dinner. She already appeared to be dancing on the fine edge of panic. The greasy pizza made pulling prints off the water glass a snap; then he swabbed the fork for DNA.
He'd checked out her shoulder bag after he finished the bandaging, pre-pizza. A large designer bag of good quality leather, once red, dyed black, with stylized gold initials. AH, not AG for Alice Green. No ID, no cell phone, no personal papers, no receipts. What woman traveled without at least a cell phone, if not an iPod, Blackberry, or some such device? He found a hairbrush, a traveling kit with toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. About eight hundred dollars in used twenty-dollar bills tucked neatly into a red leather wallet that probably came with the shoulder bag.
Glennon hadn't made it back to his chair before one of the computers chimed.
"Well, look who we have here, Ms. April Alicia Hall of East Twenty-fifth Street in Manhattan." A file photo showed a vibrant-looking young woman, twenty-five years old, with distinctive blonde-and-reddish-streaked medium auburn hair hanging below her collarbone. Green eyes with stripes of hazel. Those are definitely her Angelina Jolie cheekbones, no matter her name. His fingers flew over touch screens. Well, now, how's this for a coincidence? She really is a copywriter—for Angelo Martone Marketing, on Madison Avenue.
He scrolled through screen after screen . "And why are you keeping company with such a major snake in the grass, Ms. Hall?"
He ran a simple Google search on her name; a news article immediately popped up. "Our reporter . . . blah-blah-blah . . . lavish party at his Saddle River estate . . . blah-blah-blah . . . to announce the engagement of Madison Avenue marketing entrepreneur Angelo Augusto Martone to April Alicia Hall, formerly of Chino, California . . . the engaged couple plans to . . . ."
Ignoring more society column drivel, Glennon settled back in his chair. Well, now, isn't this a right sticky wicket? I'm on my way to spec out a job for Martone, and his fiancée falls into my arms. Literally. His frightened and somewhat damaged fiancée. Maybe she is being followed. Damn.
During the vetting process he did on all prospective clients, Glennon had unearthed unsavory details about Martone the man, not Martone the public-relations image, more than he'd known about through the course of his work. Unless Ms. April-Alice Hall-Green was a closet psychopath, the match seemed unlikely. Martone's uncle, Antonio "Tony M" Martone, popped up frequently as a person of interest to East Coast law enforcement. The old man was already on Glennon's radar. Methinks there's some nasty business going on.
A phrase popped into Glennon's head and he rubbed his chin. Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.
* * * * *
Glennon tapped on the bedroom door; his patient was awake. He settled on the edge of the bed. "Here you go, another course of antibiotics. Two caps, twice a day, for ten days. Trust me on this. It works." He handed her a glass of water and the meds.
She felt flustered again. "If you tell me how much I owe you . . . ."
"No need, April Hall. I stockpile the stuff."
"No, really . . . let me . . . oh." She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.
"How did you find out?"
"Which part of security and surveillance didn't you understand? It's my job. I couldn't keep clients if I didn't do my job."
He smiled at her. It was a great smile, and she hoped he didn't turn out to be a total dickhead. It would be a crying shame if he did.
She sighed, feeling even more fragile."So, you know Angelo?"
"Ms. Hall, not to put too fine a point on it, aren't you engaged to the man?"
About to speak, she shook her head instead.
"I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."
She straightened a bit, returned his gaze. "And you're sure I need help? Believe me, you do not want to be involved. Anyway, why would you want to help me? You don't even know me. No one in his right mind crosses Angelo."
"Let's just say I'm a champion of the underdog. Why is Martone after you?"
"Why were you carrying his brochure?"
"Is that what spooked you this morning?"
"You didn't answer me. Why the brochure?"
"Okay, I answer one, then you answer one. Seem fair?"
He waited . . . and waited . . . until she finally nodded.
"Martone approached me about taking him on as a client. Apparently, he feels he has security issues. Knowing the firm that did the original set-up, I wasn't surprised that there were glitches in the system. I hadn't decided if I was interested."
"Are you?"
"That's not the deal. One question for one question."
She twisted her fingers in the edges of the comforter.
"Look, there are only the two of us here. I promise I won't hurt you."
She dropped her chin to her chest. "Yeah, right. Angelo promised not to hurt me."
"And?"
She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Oh boy, here we go."He drugged me, blackmailed me, burned my books—then he tried to stab me through the heart with my own fucking letter opener."
* * * * *
"He did what?"
"Angelo had just hired a big badass bodyguard as my escort, which totally pissed off his goony squad of rejects. Odd accent, sounded Scottish, if you can believe it.
Daniel drove me to the bookstore, then home. Yeah, right, home. Some home. More like a fancy prison decorated in Early Sicilian Vengeance. Going to the bookstore had become the only activity I was permitted. And only with an escort. When I got back to the estate, Angelo had flipped out, destroyed my book collection. I . . . I . . . guess I kinda freaked." She covered her face with her hands.
Glennon schooled his expression into steady and nonreactive . Daniel? Scottish?
Can only be Wyndsor. Working for Martone? I'm not buyin' it. Can't be the same guy.
"Okay, easy now. Take your time." Dealing with emotional women wasn't his forte. Please don't let her cry. "You're protected here, really."
April sniffled, then nodded. "He flew into an unholy rage. Kept screaming that my books took too much of my time when I should be paying attention to him. Only to him. He'd torn the pages, threw them in the blaze he'd started in the fireplace. Even my first edition Beatrix Potters."
The hand wringing escalated as her agitation increased. "He went berserk. I couldn't stop him. He choked me. His eyes were like, totally glazed over. I thumbed him in the side of the throat, got away. That's when he went totally bat-shit. Grabbed the letter opener from my desk, tried to stab me through the heart. Ranted and raved, swore he would do it. Right through your fuckin' cold heart, you stupid bitch! I managed to duck him. Didn't know he caught me with the blade until later."
She took a really deep breath, slowly exhaled, before she could continue. "Never mess with us farm kids. I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. When he went down, I bashed him over the head with a bronze Peter Rabbit my grandmother had given me." She finally turned her gaze directly at him. "I've been checking the news to see if I killed Angelo. I could be a fugitive. His family has big bucks, lots of influence.
Y'know, family as in family. You could be in big trouble, hiding me here."
Glennon stood, legs spread, arms folded over his chest. "Trust me, he's not dead.
He's mighty pissed off—now I know why—but the situation is still in-house. Number one, you humiliated him. Number two, you got away. And, yes, everyone in metro law enforcement knows about la famiglia. Let me worry about the legalities of harboring a potential fugitive. So far, I can't see that you're guilty of anything except having common sense and a strong degree of self-preservation."
"And you know all this, how?"
"Darlin', my business depends on staying current with such issues. I follow the chatter. Big news like Angelo Martone being taken out would be making the rounds like wildfire, with locals jockeying for position. Just be thankful you didn't run afoul of his uncle. In his younger days, Tony M made Angelo look like a Boy Scout. I hear that the old man's mellowed somewhat over the years, but I wouldn't make book on it."
Her cheeks were still flushed, but her beautiful eyes were bright and clear.
Striking. Glennon felt a stiffening behind the zipper of his jeans. Okay, not appropriate behavior.
"I see. Therefore, the disguise. And the fear. Actually, you've done fairly well for a rookie out on the streets for the first time. At least your eyes match again. I don't know what we're going to do about your hair. Hmm. I do know a fab ulous stylist.
Roberto may be able to do damage control. He'll consider you a challenge. He adores a challenge."
April's reactions were immediate and transparent. The jump in her level of panic was obvious. "That's not a good idea. My real hair color is too easy to spot. Mom always said I couldn't decide whether to be a redhead or a blonde, so my hair is a bit of both. In streaks. My eyes are weird, too. Green with hazel stripes. I really need new contact lenses."
"April, if I may call you April, there's no reason for you to hit the streets again until we sort this out. You're secure here, for as long as you want to stay. Feel free to camp out in the guest room."
"Mr. Garrett, you've done so much already. Trust me, you don't want to be mixed up in this mess. As soon as I find a way back to Chino—a way that Angelo can't track—I'll be gone."
"Chino? Is that where you're from?"
She cocked her head. "Let's not play games, all right? I'm not an idiot. I'm sure you know everything about me by now. Angelo prides himself in only hiring the best, so you must be top shelf, extremely good at your profession."
He shrugged. "Trying to make you feel comfortable in an uncomfortable situation."
"I'll make it easy for you." She ticked off items on her fingers."Parents, Meredith and Alan Hall. Merrygirl Organic Nursery and Farm Market, Chino, California. Raised as a happy, barefoot, farm kid with a great mom and a great dad in a small, stable, family-oriented community. Tons of kids with whom to pal around. No skeletons in any closets. No trauma or calamities. I just dreamed of seeing the rest of the world.
Went to college out there, attended a job fair on campus, got a dream gig in New York City right out of school. Totally lucked out, found a great little apartment that I could afford. New friends. A social life that didn't involve discussions about milk goats and organic fertilizers."
He took a leap. "Why didn't you just fly home? Why put up with Martone? Your family must be going crazy, worrying about you. If you're short of cash, I'd be glad to front you the ticket money."
She did it again, flashed her deer-in-the-headlights look.
"April, no need for alarm. I'm just saying . . . ."
"My parents don't know I'm missing. At least, not yet."
"Why not?
She glanced around the room at first, obviously trying to decide how much to tell him. Then, hands folded on her lap, she looked like a kindergarten kid waiting for justice to be meted out by the principal.
"Antonio took my laptop when he took my cell phone, my ID, my cards. He locked everything in his desk. When I had a chance to connect to the Internet, y'know, after I ran away, I found e-mails in my Sent box. E-mails that I never sent. He'd been emailing my parents, pretending to be me. The last message said that we were taking off for a few weeks to the French Riviera, will call when I arrive back home."
"Damn. How often were you in touch?"
"We spoke every weekend, and e-mailed during the week. Jokes, Maxine cartoons, ridiculous news reports, stuff like that. Nothing of earth-shattering importance."
"So, they have no clue what's going on."
She shook her head."I don't think so. Mom didn't warm up to him, but Dad thought he was a good guy. Well, at least he thought he was a generous guy."
"Sounds like your mom has good instincts. Do you want to call them? I can give you a secure line."
He was startled at how quickly she grew more wide-eyed and panicky.
"N-n-no. No, not yet." She wouldn't meet his gaze.
Okay, what's going on, I wonder? What else has that bastard done?
She sniffled again. "There, now you know the story of my life. All of it."
Hmm. Obviously not the whole tale. "And then . . . Martone?"
A look of pain crossed her face. "Please, can we not discuss this? I have a pounding headache. I'd like the license tag of the bus that ran over me. I'm wiped out.
This was the first real sleep I've had in . . . well, quite some time. If you're serious about your guest room, I'll take you up on the offer. At least for tonight."
Hmm. No explanation of the drugging and blackmail thing, but she seems too fragile to push right now.
Hunting April Page 2
