“So you really didn’t know about it?” I asked, still uncertain.
She sat up straight. “Of course not! I have to play editor and oversee security. This is a nightmare! I desperately need Parker now.” She rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache.
“How is she?” I didn’t care about Candace, the CIA, or their preparations and plans. I just wanted to know if Parker was going to be okay.
“Stable,” she said, “but serious.”
“Oh good.” I breathed out, relieved that she hadn’t used the word critical. Parker must have improved. Then I sat forward. “Where is she? Can I see her?”
Candace shook her head. “That’s not possible.”
“Why?” I demanded. “She’s my guardian here, so that practically makes me family, doesn’t it?” That was stretching our relationship, but I had to try.
“The questions never end with you, do they?” she said with the barest hint of a smile, but one that said she was reaching the end of her patience. “I can’t tell you any more. I’ve already told you too much.”
I plopped back against the chair. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?
“We need to move forward. No more drama. Your theatrics have already put this mission in jeopardy. Now that you know everything you need to, I trust you won’t question or impede my directives.”
Me know everything I needed? Hardly. But don’t worry, Candace, I’ll find out, and I’m not waiting around until someone throws me a scrap of info. “Who was the guy in the warehouse?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I’m not going to answer any more questions, and forget about him. He’s dangerous to nosy girls, got it?”
“Okay,” I agreed, even though I didn’t mean a syllable of it.
Candace held up her palms. “Good. As I have to step into Parker’s shoes, my identity as CIA is not to be discussed with anyone. Parker’s status as an operative was only known to a few people for security. And now you’ll explain how you knew about my meeting and managed to get into a locked warehouse.”
Thankfully a knock on the door interrupted us before that could happen.
“Come in,” Candace called in the modulated voice she used when she was schmoozing someone.
Varon came in holding a tray with two macchiatos and a plate of delicate-looking anisette cookies.
“Varon, Rebecca will continue to stay at the hotel, report to the office, and accompany us to the various photo shoot locations. Inform the rest of the team.”
He peered at me from under dark lashes. “Do you think that’s—” he started, but she cut him off with a slash of her hand.
“How do you think it would look if word of tonight’s little police raid made its way into the press, and then back home? Don’t you think it’s better to make sure she doesn’t have free time to instigate any more problems?”
She was right. Bad press was something none of us wanted.
Varon fixed an already perfect tie. “Right as usual, Candace. I’m sure that Bec and I will get along just fine—if she behaves.” Great. Another “personal” supervisor.
“And please get someone to fix my door.”
“Consider it done,” he said as he left.
I watched Candace. She sipped her drink, closed her eyes briefly in pleasure before they popped open suddenly and stared directly at me with a calculating appraisal. Something bad my way was coming.
“I know how people like you think. We need to set some ground rules and restrictions so you can never say you weren’t told what not to do.”
Story of my life. I’d just done this with Parker. This second time wasn’t going to be nearly as pleasant.
“The First Lady is arriving in Italy tomorrow. Besides attending the gala she’ll meet with the pope, dine with the prime minister, and spend time promoting her charity against hunger. There’s no sense canceling or postponing the magazine’s plans. Everything has to go on as normal. I will be acting editor in chief, and the issue will be produced as usual, with no indication of anything out of the ordinary. You will keep quiet about schedules and places we’ll be and cooperate with the restrictions we impose on your movements.” She eyed me. “No security breaches.”
Like I was going to agree to sit by and not find Parker and who put her in the hospital. Or who messed around with my stuff. Or who was the Man—and answers to a thousand other questions. I’d already broken the law—several times—and I was not going to stop now. I’d just be more careful.
“Absolutely,” I lied.
Begin Operation Screw Candace and Find Parker.
TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL
Sometimes just a small change can lift your confidence and spirits. Straight hair? Go curly for a day. Minimalist? Try one piece of statement jewelry. Baby steps lead to big brave leaps.
13
“What do you think she’s like?” I asked Sophie.
Not much work was getting done. Even Kevin slacked off and joined us on the balcony; not that I thought he liked my company—he stood next to Sophie. And it was the primo spot to get a good look at First Lady Theresa Jennings when she came in.
“From everything I’ve read, she seems pretty down-to-earth,” Sophie said.
Candace, Varon, and Agent Case had gone to the airport to meet the First Lady’s private jet. Ortiz and Nelson stayed behind to check and recheck all entrances and make sure no one came in or out until the group returned. The only one who seemed unsatisfied with the plan was Serena. As executive editor, she had a right to go to the airport too—or so she tried to tell Candace.
“With Parker out of commission, you’re needed here, and the car’s crowded enough.” Serena clenched her fists and her furious eyes looked like they wanted to kill Candace, but Candace either didn’t see or didn’t care about Serena’s reaction, because she had walked away without another word.
After that battle of the bosses, everything seemed relatively calm, and I guessed Candace managed to keep the First Lady’s quick stop at Edge before going to the Hotel Beatrici a secret from everyone, even the polizia—in spite of me. Even the models had the day off, to keep as many people away as possible. I wondered how long the quiet would last.
I craned my neck to see outside and spotted the top of a black car glide past. “They’re here!” I said excitedly.
The staff crowded around the door and Nelson moved in to shepherd them away. Serena stood her ground. Nelson shook his head, but stayed close to her.
I ran a hand over my freshly coifed locks. Sophie bribed Joe to do our hair. Leaving the blonde roots alone, he deepened the pink at the ends, then twisted my reverse ombred locks into loose curls. I didn’t know if it was the fresh color or the springy coils, but the updated look gave me a new confidence. Braids were so yesterday.
And my clothes arrived too. Today I wore my favorite electric blue shift dress with black tights and silver Doc Martens, and with a few bits borrowed from wardrobe—a pewter fitted jacket and a pair of crystal bobby pins—it all seemed new, and would be forever known as my “meeting the First Lady outfit.”
Downstairs, the door opened.
Candace swept in with her usual flair, immediately scouring the place with her sharp eyes. She was followed by Mrs. Jennings, escorted closely by Case, two new guys, and then Varon, who walked next to a plump Asian woman in a smart navy suit and matching flats. The sharp edges of her bob haircut made a stark frame around her bright moon-shaped face. They stopped right in front of Serena, blocking her view. She would have to plow past them and Nelson if she wanted to be in the front row, but a look from Nelson squashed that idea if she was thinking about it. She stood still, frowning between their shoulders.
Theresa Jennings looked smaller than she seemed in magazines and on TV. She was petite with smooth ebony skin like Parker’s and walked easily in sky-high heels. Her flared skirt swished around her knees, and her matching fitted jacket made her look like she’d walked off the set of Mad Men. Guess that bit of gossip about her having a thing for
vintage style was true. Like Parker, her super-short dark hair accentuated her face, making her large eyes look doelike and bright. She glanced around the room and up to the balcony, smiling gracefully. When her gaze caught mine, I inadvertently gave a little wave, which she returned.
“We welcome you, Mrs. Jennings,” said Candace in the most human voice I’d ever heard her use, “to Italy and to Edge.”
“Thank you, everyone,” Mrs. Jennings said. “These are Agents Stephen Collins and Sal Mignone, and this is my personal secretary, Lidia Chay.” Ms. Navy Suit gave a curt nod. Mrs. Jennings turned to Candace, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “The next few days should be fun.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Candace as she guided her and the entourage upstairs. “We’ll do your hair and makeup in the studio. The indoor photos will be taken in there as well.”
I didn’t have anything urgent to do, so I thought I’d sneak a peek at the shoot. Mrs. Jennings was ushered into the large studio and right into Ugi’s chair. He was so excited I thought he was going to hyperventilate.
“If I was American, I would have voted for your husband!” he gushed. “This is such an honor!” His hands shook as he tried to match powders to her skin.
“Don’t spill anything on her dress!” hissed Joe. “And pronto! I need to do her hair. She can’t be photographed without my taking care of her!”
Everyone wanted to get their hands on the First Lady.
“Play nice,” warned Candace.
“Please! I have several styling products I want to show her—”
Varon placed a hand on his shoulder and magically, Joe calmed. “You will. Patience, she just got here.”
Mrs. Jennings laughed and everyone seemed to relax. Joe got his opportunity fifteen minutes later, and then it was going to be Angelo’s and Aldo’s turn to be nervous. She rose out of Joe’s chair and started walking toward the white background.
Bang!
Screams erupted, people started running.
Case and Mignone pulled guns and threw themselves in front of Mrs. Jennings, bringing her to the floor.
I dropped down, my heart racing. Was that what gunfire sounded like? This is not a drill … this is not a drill …
When I dared to look up, I saw Collins tackle a screaming Aldo. Sophie and Kevin were on the floor next to me, arms over their heads. Ortiz and Nelson came running up the stairs, guns drawn.
“It was an accident!” shrieked Angelo.
“Quiet!” Candace’s voice boomed through the studio, and everyone froze. “One of the lights fell over and exploded. It’s okay.”
Someone hiccupped as Mrs. Jennings was helped to her feet by a furious-looking Mignone. Case and Nelson dragged Aldo against the far wall.
Mrs. Jennings laughed anxiously. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It was an accident, no harm done.” She insisted on going over to Aldo—escorted by Case—to try and comfort the hysterical photographer’s assistant.
Slowly Sophie, Kevin, and I stood. My legs shook, my pulse pounded.
I wasn’t cut out for the in-your-face guns and death-threat stuff. First the warehouse with the guy in black shoes so close to finding me, then the standoff between the agents and armed Italian police, and now this? Tapping into a neighbor’s Internet and covering my tracks—in my jammies and surrounded by junk food—was as close to danger as I wanted to get. Even when I got caught I’d only been slapped with a warning—okay, and expulsion from school—but that didn’t happen with screaming at the end of a gun.
Everyone was too shaken for the shoot to continue. Collins, Case, Nelson, and Mignone hustled Mrs. Jennings out, and Candace sent Angelo, Aldo, Ugi, and Joe home, saying that she’d reschedule the session. So much for going on as normal. It wasn’t a good day to be in Candy-land—but at least the disaster wasn’t my fault.
“Let’s do something constructive,” Kevin mumbled, and he gave me a stack of filing to do. I headed down to the common area, away from the mess upstairs. At least I was near the kitchen. With trembling hands, I made myself a double espresso. After last night’s adventure, then the drama so far today, I was drained.
Walking over to a desk, I settled down to sip and file. Ortiz sat nearby, working on a laptop.
“Don’t I get one?” she asked.
Her bruises looked even darker, the purple deepened to almost black, and they looked painful. She probably didn’t want to talk about the accident, but I had to find out what happened. Maybe a little caffeine and kindness would get her to open up.
“Sure,” I said, and headed to the kitchen again.
As I switched on the monster machine, I heard Nelson open the front door and then talk to someone. A guy. I saw Ortiz go over, hand on her gun. Everyone was still jumpy.
It was hard for me to see because the espresso machine was in a far corner of the kitchen. Now all three were talking. I wanted to know who it was. Leaning over to peek around the corner, I caught my breath.
It was him.
Taj.
Sunlight streaming through the huge front windows highlighted the glossiness of his short, black hair. His eyes were dark and framed by thick black lashes, his cheekbones were high, his chin, sharp. He did look better in person than in pictures. Not Adonis-beautiful like Dante, but there was something about him, in the way he talked and held himself. Dressed casually, he had a slight swagger. Too bad that smirk said “arrogant jerk.”
Candace must have heard his arrival because she hurried out of her office and down the stairs.
“Taj! I’m so glad you made it!”
I moved further into the common area across from the stairs for a better view.
Serena, who’d been talking to one of the photo editors had started to make her way over to where Taj stood, was nearly trampled by Candace. Kevin and Sophie came down the stairs together, discussing something, but they stopped when they caught sight of the new arrival. Kevin frowned, Sophie grinned. They skirted around to where I stood.
“What did I tell you?” said Sophie.
I turned to stare at her in disbelief. Was she drooling?
“Huh,” was all Kevin offered.
“Kevin likes to be the style–alpha male around here,” she whispered, fighting a grin. “I think he’s jealous of all the females hot for Taj.”
Candace steered Taj away from the door, past us. Her head snapped in our direction. “Kevin, standing there gawking is not on my schedule or yours.” She jabbed a pink nail at Sophie and me. “And not on theirs, either. I’m sure there’s work for all of you to do, especially since we’re already behind schedule. Do it.”
Kevin’s face flushed. “Of course,” he stuttered.
Gee, was it only yesterday that he was treating me that way?
Sucks, right?
Taj’s eyes roamed over each of us. “Do I need to know them?” he asked in an aside to Candace. He sounded vaguely British. Thanks to my off-grid buddy DR#4, I knew Taj of the single name was from a nice, rich Indian family, which meant UK-run schools and private tutors for when he was globe-trotting. Only the best for T-bone, the code name DR#4 had given Taj. That was all we could dig up.
Looking exasperated, with her lips pursed Candace said, “This is Kevin Clayton, Edge’s managing editor, Sophie Gaston, copyeditor intern, and Bec Jackson, short-term probationary intern, of sorts.”
Ouch. It stung more with every additional adjective.
“And I’m Francesca,” said the receptionist. She had that ability to materialize out of nowhere when she was least wanted. Francesca stepped in front of Sophie and struck a pose, putting one of her slim perfect hands on her chest. He gave her a curt nod, then turned to me.
Why didn’t I have my phone ready to capture that moment: Francesca’s expression caught between snooty—and shot down.
“Hi.” I couldn’t resist thrusting a hand at him—he deserved a handshake for that. But he didn’t take it, and only stared at my empty, open palm.
“How American.” One side of his mouth quirked up.
“Nice hair,” he added. I couldn’t tell whether his tone was was praising or mocking. People were usually easy for me to read, but not this Taj. Dropping my hand, I felt unsettled and didn’t like it.
Or him. No matter how … intriguing he was.
Candace led him upstairs to her office. Kevin turned to me, one hand on his hip, and started to open his mouth.
“I have stuff to do!” I rushed. I knew exactly what he was thinking: Candace yelled at him, so he had to pass it on to me.
“Me too!” Sophie scooted over to a table and buried her nose in a stack of copy.
Without a word, Kevin retreated to his office and quiet returned. I worked hard to get through all the filing, finishing just before lunch. I retrieved my backpack from its hiding place underneath the couch in the common room and was about to leave when—
“Bec!” Candace called.
Groaning, I hiked up the stairs.
Parker’s desk nameplate was gone. Did Candace have to obliterate her presence completely? I shifted uncomfortably as I waited for her to say something. She scrutinized me from roots to boots, all the while keeping a bland expression. She tapped an uncoordinated staccato on the desk with her long pink nails, then grabbed a folder and thrust it at me. Receipts spilled out of it.
“I think you’re underutilized. I want you to feel challenged,” she said.
Ugh. I could see where this was going; she was trying to keep me busy—too busy to get into trouble, but close enough to keep me under her pointy heel.
“Expense reports,” she said in explanation. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Every expense needs to be verified with its proper receipt. For everyone, no exception.” Her emphasis sounded a little overdone, and I had my suspicions that she was hoping to distract me from thinking about Parker—or from doing some investigating on my own. There had been no updates today.
“Sure,” I said. What else could I say?
Clutching the folders to my chest, I stole down into the kitchen. I opened the fridge to get a bottle of water and when I turned around, Taj stood there.
Blonde Ops Page 10
