by Beverly Long
He stared at her, his eyes unreadable. “I suppose we’re both pretty different than we were eight years ago,” he said.
Was she? A better leader, she hoped. Broader knowledge of the pharmaceutical industry, for sure. Her butt a little less firm? Ick.
He was even more handsome. She liked his short hair. It showed off the high cheekbones, the wide jaw. He’d been very tan eight years ago and that was still the same. Back then, she’d thought the tan came from his time in the service. He’d said it was from his trip from Texas to New York. “Do you still have a motorcycle?” she asked.
He looked surprised at the question. “No. I sold it. Needed the money for school.”
“School?”
He nodded. “Texas A&M. Bachelor’s in business, master’s in finance.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
He frowned at her. “Didn’t think I had it in me?”
“Of course not. You were always incredibly bright. You just never talked about going to school.”
There was a long silence. “Maybe we should have talked more,” he said finally. “Maybe I’d have realized that it wasn’t over between you and Bryson.”
She felt a pain in her chest, as if a knife had gone deep. It had been over. But by admitting that, she would be opening a door that she wasn’t ready for. She put down the wine list. “I’ll be in my room. I’ve got a lot of work to do.” She moved to grab her briefcase but then heard Charity’s door open.
The girl came down the hall, wearing the green dress she’d worn earlier. Her wet hair hung down to the middle of her back. She was carrying her cat.
JC only wanted to escape to her room, where she might have a good cry, but she knew that she needed to have this conversation first. “Do you have a minute?” she asked her.
“Sure.” The girl sank down on the couch and put her bare feet on the edge of the glass coffee table. Hogi took a spot on the chair, lying on the beach towel that Charity had left there earlier.
“I have something that I want to tell you. I don’t want it to scare you but forewarned is forearmed.”
“Okay,” Charity said.
“Royce and I had some excitement today. After my meeting at the hotel, as we were leaving, we were almost hit by stray bullets.”
Charity’s dark eyes got even bigger. “A drive-by?”
JC didn’t correct her. “I got a little cut. Nothing serious,” she said, lifting up her bangs.
“You think you’ll have a scar?”
“Hope not. Anyway, it is possible that a news reporter may have gotten a picture. If they discover that I’m the CEO of Miatroth, it’s also possible the picture could get some play. If you saw it, I didn’t want you to be surprised.”
“Did they get the shooter?” Charity asked.
“Not that I know of,” JC said. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you about this before you heard the information somewhere else. I wanted you to get the facts from me.”
Charity pointed at Royce. “Where were you when this happened? I thought you were security,” she accused.
“Royce pushed me down,” JC said quickly, automatically defending him. “He saved my life.”
“Wow. Just like that old movie, the one my mom always watched.” She snapped her thin fingers. “I know. The Bodyguard. The one with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner.”
As she recalled, Kevin Costner had loved Whitney Houston. “Trust me on this, not exactly that. I can’t sing,” JC added.
“My mom thought Kevin Costner was so hot,” she said.
She was happy that Charity didn’t seem to be freaking out. Had Linette White also thought Joel Cambridge was hot? The idea made JC’s empty stomach cramp up. But it was the opening she’d hoped for. She didn’t necessarily want to have the conversation in front of Royce, but this was a natural segue.
“I think my mom thought he was hot, too,” JC said. “Our moms probably had a lot in common. Did your mom like to read?”
“I guess. She worked part-time in a bookstore. Checking people out.”
That information had been in the report that she’d requested. It was a minimum-wage-type job. How had Linette White supported herself and her daughter? During their first conversation, after JC had expressed sympathy over Charity’s mom’s death, she’d asked about Charity’s father and the girl had shared that she’d never known him.
With that information, a thousand other questions had popped up in JC’s mind and she’d known that nothing short of meeting Charity in person was going to make her happy.
The private investigator she’d hired had confirmed that Linette White had never married. It had not answered the question of how the woman had managed to support herself and her daughter on a part-time salary.
Was it possible that Linette White had gotten financial help from Joel Cambridge? Was it possible that her father knew about Charity but had never acknowledged her? How could he have done that?
But then, JC had never expected her own mother would send a message from her grave. Well, not exactly. As best as JC could tell, the message had been written just weeks before her death. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been found for another nineteen years.
Old secrets.
Charity remembered that her mom worked at a bookstore. But she’d also worked as a secretary at the bank. What did Charity know about that? “My mom had really good organizational skills,” JC said. “Really good at remembering details. I have a great assistant and I know how wonderful it is to have someone like that in my office.”
“My mom was more of a hot mess,” Charity said. “I was the kid who never got her school supplies bought on time and I don’t think I ever turned in a permission slip when I was supposed to.”
JC forced a smile. Linette White had moved from Brooklyn, New York, to Charleston, South Carolina, when Charity was two. That had been easy to discover. She’d received public assistance for a short time in Charleston but it had stopped by the time Charity was four.
“Lucky you,” JC said. “I played piano and my mom was excellent at keeping track of whether I’d practiced my hour every night.”
Her father had been a patron of the arts, especially the symphony. He had been the one who insisted on her musical training.
Had he wanted the same for Charity?
Charity yawned, her mouth wide-open. “I don’t play any instruments. I guess my mom—”
She was interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door.
Chapter 10
“Room service.” Royce heard.
Hogi, proving to be not much of an attack cat, jumped off the couch and ran back to Charity’s bedroom.
“Oh, good. Dinner,” Charity said, apparently happy enough to change conversations. “I’m starving.”
Royce let the hotel employee in. Nobody said a word while the young woman set the table with rolled silverware in cloth napkins, crystal water glasses, and individual salt and pepper shakers. She carefully set down the sterling silver serving dishes and removed all three covers with a flourish.
By the time Royce closed the door after her and returned to the table, Charity was already eating. Jules had waited for him.
He sat, wishing he’d had the good sense to order a drink. Something strong. Or at least the pinot noir they’d discussed.
Learning about wine had been one of the more enjoyable things he’d done these past eight years. Certainly more fun than the statistics classes he’d endured.
Conversation during dinner was pretty limited. Jules didn’t say anything directly to him. He realized that she was probably mad at him. He shouldn’t have made the remark about Wagoner and that they maybe should have talked more.
Jules had had the right to change her mind.
She’d no doubt made the right choice. That’s what he bel
ieved at the time. Would probably still be thinking that, but now that he knew the marriage had lasted only eighteen months, his strong conviction had taken a hit.
Who had initiated the divorce? How did she feel about it? And damn him, since he’d promised to never give one more thought to the arrogant Joel Cambridge, he really wanted to know what her father had thought about Jules’s marriage ending.
So he put up with her ignoring him. She did talk to Charity. About the pool, the book that Charity had been reading, even the cat who was back in the window.
Charity answered but seemed more focused on her food. She ate as if she hadn’t eaten in months, attacking her dinner.
Once Jules finished maybe half of her dinner, she pushed her chair back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll be in my room.”
Charity gave her a nod. He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant to make her angry. But he kept his mouth shut. Jules would not appreciate him giving Charity any reason to question that he was more than a hired security guard.
And really, was he? The past was the past.
He and Charity ate in silence and after she took her last bite, she pushed her plate away, got up and settled on the couch to watch television.
He finished his steak and opened his laptop. Tomorrow, Jules had her panel presentation. And even though she’d been quick to dismiss the idea that her fellow panelists could be any danger to her, he still intended to do a quick background search on both. He pulled out the speaker biographies he’d stuffed into his briefcase earlier.
Wayne Isman was listed first. He typed in his name, hit Search, and his laptop screen was immediately filled with information. Lifelong resident of New York. Married. Three daughters. Recently his name had been circulated as a possible replacement for the cabinet post for the retiring secretary of health and human services. Jules hadn’t mentioned that last piece.
Lilah Moorhead was listed last. He keyed in her name. Distinguished career, most recently appointed to the medical staff at Mass General. Nothing popped out as unusual to him.
Then he allowed himself to settle in on the middle portion of the paper. He read about Jules. Presidential committee? The Today show? He wasn’t surprised. He’d realized early on that she was destined for big things.
And he hadn’t wanted to hold her back.
With his fingers poised above the keys, he fought the impulse to type in her name. In seconds, he could have information about her marriage, her subsequent divorce, her financial situation.
It wasn’t unusual that they would do a background check on a client. Neither he nor his three partners ever wanted to be surprised by anybody.
But he knew Jules. Knew that she could not be a threat to him or anyone else. He closed his laptop and picked up his cell phone. He needed to check in with Trey. “I’m stepping out,” he said to Charity. “I’ll be right outside the door.”
She didn’t bother to answer.
The hallway was empty and he dialed his partner. “Hey,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Trey asked.
“Just hanging out. Watching Dancing with the Stars.”
“And I thought my assignment was bad,” Trey drawled. “At least I get to look at the stars,” his partner added, “when I’m on nights.”
“My client got shot at today.”
“Damn. Injuries for either of you?” Trey asked, his tone all business now.
“Jules...the client caught a glass fragment at her hairline. Got a couple stiches.” Four, to be exact. Every pinch of the needle into her delicate skin had felt like an arrow into his heart. She’d taken the treatment in stride, not making a big deal of anything. He’d been a hair away from demanding to see the doctor’s diploma and getting a sworn statement from the clinic that she was competent to provide care.
“Did they arrest the shooter?” Trey asked.
“No. It’s possible that the bullet wasn’t meant for my client. Could have been meant for the parking attendant, some sort of gang-related retribution.”
“Stay sharp,” Trey said. “I heard from Rico and Seth. They’re flying back on Friday.”
Jules was scheduled to fly out on Friday. His life would pick up where he’d left it before he’d taken this assignment.
He knew that was a lie. Seeing her again, it had changed everything. Made him realize how much he’d given up. Made him realize that all he’d been doing these last eight years was keeping busy.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he said, and ended the call. He opened the suite door. Charity didn’t even look up.
That was fine with him. He sat back down at the table, ignoring both her and the television. It wasn’t as if he didn’t appreciate the dancing. He knew it was harder than it looked. Four years ago, thirty-six sessions had taught him that. The tango had almost broken him but he’d endured, and if the teacher had been the type to give out stars, his might not have been gold but it would have been a solid silver.
He heard Jules’s door open. Within a minute, she was in the living room, holding a pillow and blankets.
“For the couch,” she said, before beating it back to her room.
“Thank you,” he called after her. He’d accepted the fact that he was going to be bunking on the couch ever since Jules had uttered the invitation for Charity to crash at the hotel.
Charity scowled at him. “You spend the night?” she asked, her tone incredulous.
You want your hair to look like you dipped it in black ink? Took everything he had not to say it out loud, in the same manner. “Yes.”
“Wow. Round-the-clock security. I guess JC is something.”
He didn’t answer. He went back to work on his computer. He’d not yet had a chance to look up information on Cole Hager. He was confident that the man had to have known that it was Jules sitting in the chair, bleeding. Why hadn’t he crossed the room, offered his help?
Afraid of blood? Maybe. Had he seen the damaged window and suspected that the shooting wasn’t over? Possibly.
All Royce knew for sure was that Cole Hager’s actions seemed odd. And anything odd or unusual needed to be looked at. It took him just a few minutes to pull up the information. There was nothing that he didn’t expect. Hager had the right education—both an undergraduate and a graduate degree from Ohio State—and the work experience—almost ten years on Wall Street—to be doing exactly what he’d done today with Jules. Royce flipped some screens. Now here was something interesting. A DUI three years ago and one seven months ago. He’d lost his license with the second offense and done ten days in jail.
But he’d kept his job. Probably told his employer some lie about needing to suddenly take a vacation, maybe a sick relative or something. He’d done the time, gone back to work and the boss was none the wiser.
Functioning alcoholics managed to hold down jobs all the time.
But jail, even short sentences, changed a person. It was a scary place. And he suspected Cole Hager might have taken a few licks or worse while he was there. He no doubt wanted to keep his nose clean and avoid other complications with the law. That might be a reason why he’d run today.
Or maybe he’d had something to do with the attack? He’d picked the location of the meeting. He’d been looking at his watch repeatedly during the conversation. Maybe his excuse that he had to meet someone else had been bogus. Had he been timing the ending of the meeting for another reason?
None of it made sense. Hager lived in New York. The same place where Jules lived. Why come to Vegas to orchestrate a hit on someone when he could have more easily done it on his own turf?
I’m watching for you, Royce thought as he looked at the man’s photo on the screen. Cole Hager wasn’t going to get anywhere near Jules.
When the show ended, Charity stood u
p, stretched and walked back to her bedroom. She did not say good-night. She took her cat, which had at some point during the evening left the window and taken a spot on the back of the couch.
Royce assumed she was going to spend the rest of the evening in her room until her door opened fifteen minutes later. When she entered the living room area of the suite, it was readily apparent that she was going out.
She wore a short black dress and black sandals that crisscrossed halfway up her calf. Her eyes were lined with black makeup and her lips were a slash of red.
She was too thin but he had no doubt that she’d catch a few eyes wherever she went.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’m meeting some friends,” she said.
He was confident that Bobby hadn’t yet made bail—otherwise, he’d have been notified. “I thought you were new in Vegas. Not a lot of opportunity yet to meet people.”
“I make friends quickly,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
She stared at him. “I can’t imagine why you think that’s any of your business,” she said, her tone icy.
“You’re a guest here. Jules is going to care if something happens to you. I’m going to care that she’s upset.”
“You like her, don’t you?” Charity said. “I can tell.”
“She’s a client,” Royce said. He owed this woman no explanations. “I happen to think that my clients appreciate me having their best interests at heart.”
Charity shook her head. “That’s not what this is. But I don’t really care.” She took another couple steps toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“I don’t get you,” he said. “You’re not in school, yet you don’t work. Aren’t you interested in doing something with your life?”
“I am doing something,” she said.
“What?”
“None of your business.” She opened the door, walked out and didn’t bother to close it behind her.
