by G. K. Parks
Sixteen
“Dammit,” he cursed, glaring at the ringing phone.
“Go,” I urged, collecting the discarded dress from the floor. “I need to shower and get ready, anyway.”
He cast another curious look in my direction before letting out an unhappy sigh and leaving the room. Once he was gone, I grabbed the necessities and locked myself inside the bathroom. Get a grip, Parker. This hot and cold routine that I was exhibiting was driving me crazy, and I was sure he was suffering from the effects of whiplash too. Maybe I was losing it.
Emerging, showered and dressed, I went to the nightstand and fastened my thigh holster underneath the dress. Then I holstered my nine millimeter and focused on the sealed envelope containing my credentials. Leaving them here didn’t seem like a great idea, but there was no place to hide them underneath the dress. And if I put them inside my purse, there was a good chance that they’d be revealed at some time during the course of the night. Tucking the envelope inside my bag that contained Nicholson’s attire, I carried it out to the living room and took a seat on the couch.
As I flipped through the channels, Martin came down the steps. The phone was no longer attached to his ear, and he somehow found the time to change into one of his fancier suits. Turning off the TV, I stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from my dress.
“Can you tell I’m wearing a gun?” I asked.
“You’re beautiful, firearms notwithstanding.” He twirled his pointer finger, and I obliged, spinning in place and fighting against the memory of performing this precise action for DeAngelo Bard. “Okay, I have no idea where this alleged gun is supposed to be.”
“Great. Then we’re good to go.” I moved toward the door, reaching for my bag.
“Hey,” his voice was soft, and his fingers brushed against the inside of my arm, “what happened here? That looks painful.”
“Oh,” I glanced down, “I must have hit it against the corner of the nightstand or a doorknob or something. It doesn’t hurt.” I pulled my arm away and grabbed the coordinating wrap that went with the dress, making sure to conceal the remaining airbrushed bruises and puncture marks. “Are you ready? We don’t want to be late.”
“Since when do you care?” he challenged, going into the kitchen. “There’s one other thing before we go.” He came back with a black velvet box. “I thought you could use this.”
“Silver bullets?” I asked, wary to see what was inside. “I’m not planning on hunting any werewolves.”
He opened the box and removed a necklace. The only adornment to the platinum chain was a solitaire diamond. Before I could protest, he moved behind me to fasten the clasp.
“Martin, no. It’s too expensive. I don’t need this. I rarely wear jewelry, and this,” I gestured toward the diamond that felt like a noose, “is too much.”
“Well, we could have the stone placed in a different setting that could be worn elsewhere, but that seems like a conversation we should be having when you aren’t armed and dangerous.”
“I’m always armed and dangerous. But this is too much. Take it off.”
“No,” he said in that infuriating tone he only uses after reaching some unilateral decision, and his eyes twinkled. “We missed quite a few holidays recently, so that should just about cover it.”
“I’m not…” I stopped, realizing I was about to say his property and go off on a tirade about how he couldn’t supplicate me with pretty things just so he could use me in whatever manner he saw fit. Geez, that was how Nicholson felt working at the Black Cat and interacting with Francisco. That wasn’t how Parker felt, particularly when it came to Martin. “I’m not sure what to say. But thank you.” I offered a smile, determined to do my best to shake off Alexia’s hang-ups for the rest of the night. “Can we please go? I’m absolutely starving.”
The ride to the banquet hall was mostly in silence, except for the constant text message and e-mail notifications that kept sounding on Martin’s phone. Whatever was going on at Martin Technologies seemed major, and already I knew that the rest of the evening would be spent watching him work. But that was fine. I always insisted we put our careers first, and that’s all I’d been doing for the past month. Now it was his turn.
His driver dropped us off and promised to remain in the garage across the street, so we could leave once business and the proper amount of schmoozing were completed. Taking Martin’s offered arm, I snuggled against him. Truth be told, I missed him almost as much as I missed being myself. Mark was right, tonight was the break I needed.
We were seated at one of the larger round tables, and after a round of greetings, business was the only topic discussed. Vivi pulled her chair closer to mine. She was the wife of one of the board members and the only other person who didn’t seem interested in the business aspect of the evening. The conversation was light. The food was good. And sounds of a dissolving merger played in the background.
After the plates were cleared, the mingling began. This event was a charity function with the price of the meal supporting one of the local homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Martin was philanthropic, and whatever the CEO of MT did so did most of his competitors. The nearby tables boasted the head honchos from Wallace-Klineman Industries, Danya International, and Hover Designs – Francesca Pirelli’s company. She was also Martin’s former fiancée whom I had consulted for on a security breach before the encounter had turned awkward and vindictive. Needless to say, I wasn’t a big fan of the Harvard alumna, and she wasn’t too keen on me either.
Excusing myself from Martin’s current discussion with Wallace-Klineman’s head of research and design, I took a seat at the bar. Obviously, my previous fear that Martin would shirk work because of me was unfounded. He was poised to strike.
Soon, more people joined the conversation. He and a few others were having a heated debate concerning which corporation owned the intellectual property rights to the recently sold product line. Once the debate began, I remained perched at the bar, my thoughts drifting to Bard and the impending raid. After checking my phone and Alexia’s half a dozen times, I focused on the discussion that was taking place across the room.
Not seeing Martin in his element had made me forget how fierce he could be. While his words remained hushed, his body language demanded attention. Whenever the group finally came to an arrangement that suited everyone, a round of handshakes were exchanged and promises for paperwork to be drawn up and signed by Monday were made. And this was supposed to be a party. I stifled my internal smugness as Martin searched the banquet hall for his prize.
“I wondered where you disappeared,” he said, coming to stand in front of me.
“I was watching the fight.” My eyes sparkled. “You’re one hell of a contender.” I shifted my gaze to the other businesspeople who by now were mingling and relaxed. “But I’m sure I’m not supposed to know what any of that was actually about, so I thought I’d keep Gus company.”
“Gus?”
“The bartender.”
He rolled his eyes, unsure if I made up that last part or not. He stepped closer so as not to be overheard. “We were just determining who owns the proprietary rights to Hover Designs’ recent product line. They signed with us, but when we dissolved the merger, they relinquished their specs as part of the deal.”
“Shrewd.” I leaned in. “And I thought you made a bum deal on account of some unfortunate circumstances.”
“I told you not to worry.” That was the business trip he cut short on account of a certain news story that might have featured footage of me running into a hostage situation. “And now I’m all yours,” he purred. “Come on, I promised you a dance.”
“I hate dancing.” I leaned against him. “Wow. I didn’t realize talking business could get you that excited.”
He smiled and whispered in my ear, “I believe what you’re feeling is the gun strapped to your inner thigh.”
“Shh, don’t ruin my fantasy. How about you pay off the coat check girl, and we can play seven minu
tes in heaven instead?”
He cocked his head to the side, confused by my suggestion. I was never that forward about sex and most definitely not in public. “While I’m sure I could make you scream my name in seven minutes or less, I’d prefer not to be rushed.” He pulled away, taking my hand and leading me out to the middle of the room. “We have all night for that. Just one dance, and then maybe we can duck out early.” I crinkled my nose at him. “I know why you hate to dance. It’s because you can’t follow a lead.”
Chuckling, I shook my head. “Do you realize what you just said? I can’t follow a lead? I’m pretty sure that’s one of the only things I actually know how to do.”
“Well then, you simply refuse to follow mine. Now stop with the wordplay and being so snarky.” He held me close, whispering countless romantic sentiments in my ear as we swayed back and forth. It wasn’t exactly dancing, but it was an acceptable compromise. Just when I was starting to enjoy myself, I heard the clacking of stiletto heels approaching fast.
“Jamie,” her tone was sharp and annoyed, “I need to have a word with you.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before turning to the cause of the intrusion. “Francesca,” his voice remained professional, but I detected a weary annoyance to it, and since they had a history, she probably picked up on it as well.
She glanced at me, barely acknowledging my presence, before grabbing his forearm and dragging him to the corner of the room. Their words didn’t carry, but from her emphatic gestures, it was obvious she was pissed about the proprietary rights that Martin Technologies now possessed. After all, she’s the one who signed the deal. It was her fault she screwed over Hover Designs, and briefly, I wondered if the company would force their COO to resign. Frankly, the farther removed from Martin she was, the better. But that was the small voice in my head that was jealous of the woman who had bedded my boyfriend a decade ago. She wasn’t a threat, and I knew it. But that didn’t mean I had to like her. However, on the bright side, I didn’t have to dance.
I returned to my seat at the bar and drummed my fingers against the countertop. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. By the time I looked at the two of them again, they were still arguing, and it was an hour later. So much for sneaking out early.
I took another sip of seltzer, wishing for something a bit more potent, but I could be called away at any moment. Steele might want to meet if his supplies ended up raided, or Jablonsky might call to let me know we were performing evidence collection for the rest of the night. And there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d jeopardize the operation after spending the last month undercover inside that roach infested hovel.
Picking up my phone for the umpteenth time, I noticed the signal strength was a bit weak. Maybe I should just step outside and make sure I didn’t have any missed messages. Grabbing my purse, I went down the steps and out the front door. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I received a text message from Steele. God, talk about a sixth sense. Not bothering to return inside to interrupt Martin from his hundredth business meeting of the evening, I scurried across the street to the parking garage and found the black town car on the second level.
“Hey, do me a favor and put the privacy screen up,” I said to Marcal. “I need to change.”
“Where’s Mr. Martin?”
“Inside. He’s working, and apparently I need to do the same.” Once the dark tinted glass was in place, I unzipped my dress, shimmied out of it horizontally in the back of the car, unhooked my gun, and pulled on the ripped jeans and black tank top from inside my bag. Luckily I grabbed the one with the shelf bra because the dress I just discarded wasn’t conducive to practical undergarments. Opening the door, I stepped outside, zipped the dress into a garment bag I found in the trunk, and hung it from the hook, tossing the necklace into the bottom of the sealed bag for safe keeping. Then I grabbed the rest of my belongings that had been inside the trunk, shifted my gun to my shoulder holster, and slipped into my parka. “Tell Martin I was called away,” I instructed.
“Sure thing. Be careful, Ms. Parker.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.” Darting out of the garage, I hoped to find a cab outside the event hall. This was a busy area with hotels, restaurants, and bars. Finding a cab shouldn’t be challenging, but it was Saturday night.
“Alex,” Martin said, catching up to me on the sidewalk, “where are you going?”
“To work.” I noticed Francesca at the top of the steps, waiting for him to return. “I told you I might get called in tonight.”
“But it’s Saturday. And we’ve barely seen one another.” He swallowed. “Is this because I’ve spent all night doing business?”
“No.” I threw my hand up, and a cab came to a halt. “I’m sorry, but I just got called. And I have to move. Home invasions don’t wait for anyone.” At least that was the cover story that I fed him.
He narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Call in sick. Let someone else at the security firm handle it. You said you should have the night off.”
“Martin,” something about his tone made me think he didn’t believe me and with good reason, “you know I can’t do that.” I jerked my head toward Francesca. “Go finish your conversation. I have to go, but we’ll talk soon.”
The cabbie beeped, annoyed by the holdup, and Martin leaned in to tell the guy to wait a minute. He also handed him a twenty. When he surfaced, I stepped into the open car door.
“I don’t have time for this right now.”
“You haven’t had time for anything lately.”
“Well, neither do you,” I snapped. “What happened to putting our careers first?”
“Don’t start that again.” He let out a huff and released his grip on the door. “Just go. But try to pencil me in for sometime this year.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But it looks like I’d have to make those arrangements with your secretary.” I didn’t know why we were fighting or why I was suddenly so angry. Honestly, I think the lies and deceit were getting to me. But it was for his protection. No one could use him or hurt him if he didn’t know anything. That’s why he had to stay out of the loop, except that meant I was hurting him which in turn hurt me which made me bitchy. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if we can both somehow manage to swing it.”
“You’re not coming home tonight?” The surprise was hard to stomach.
“Probably not. It sounds like an all-nighter. Stakeouts are a pain.” I grabbed his tie and pulled him down to my level, kissing him goodbye. “Hey, we’ll figure this out. But you need to get your work stuff straightened out, and so do I.”
“Yeah, right.” He shut the door and went up the steps to Francesca.
Seventeen
On my way back to the motel, I texted Jablonsky to advise him of the current developments. The joint DEA and OIO raid was set to commence, and for all I knew, it might already be underway. Was that why Francisco texted me? His message was vague, simply listing an address and time. Hopefully, Mark could shed some light on the situation.
After a few more encrypted messages back and forth with my handler, I replied to Steele’s message, asking why he was back so soon and why we weren’t meeting in the neighborhood. In response, he reiterated the time and place and said he’d explain in person. I didn’t like it. Getting out of the cab, I paid the driver and went up to the motel room. I had about an hour until my rendezvous with Steele.
As I mentally prepared myself, the motel phone rang. It was Agent Cooper. Jablonsky was reviewing the intel, so apparently I’d been passed off to another member of the dream team. Pacing as far as the phone cord allowed, I listened to the updated plan.
“We didn’t find anything,” Cooper said. “We searched high and low, but there was no sign of a shipment. They must have moved it before we got there, or we had the wrong location. The fact that Steele wants to meet with Nicholson doesn’t bode well. We’re scrambling a back-up unit to the designated location. If things go south, we’ll pull you out.”
“Do the KXDs know a
bout the raid?” If they did, it was possible they assumed I was a mole. But then again, it wasn’t like Nicholson knew where Steele had disappeared either.
“We don’t know enough at this point to speculate. Just be careful and keep your eyes and ears open. You do remember the signals, right?”
“Yeah. Let’s just hope we don’t need them.” I rubbed my eyes, remembering I needed to alter my makeup before the meet. “The agreed upon location is a twenty-four hour diner. It’d be stupid for him to make a move in public.”
“Still, don’t let your guard down,” Cooper warned.
When we disconnected, I added a few additional layers of eyeliner and dark lipstick. It helped my skin look paler and more like an addict’s. Then I stowed my credentials into the space inside the lining of my coat, left my gun where it was, and hoped I wouldn’t need to use either of them. Maybe Martin’s night improved now that I was gone.
Fidgeting with a loose thread, I bounced slightly on the balls of my feet, working on the jitteriness. Studying my reflection in the mirror, it took some practice before the right amount of anxiety bled through my gestures and motions. Once I felt certain that I had crawled back into Alexia Nicholson’s skin, I locked the motel door and went down the street.
The motel was a good distance from the apartment and almost as far away from the Black Cat, but it was still in a sketchy area. Luckily, it was fairly early for a Saturday night and plenty of people were out. I considered flagging down a cab, but Nicholson wasn’t made of money. And I didn’t want to arrive early. The longer I could drag this out, the more time the OIO team had of getting into position, so I waited at the bus stop.
After performing a transfer six blocks away, I was close to the diner. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember ever using public transportation this much. It posed too many risks and didn’t necessarily leave many options for timely escapes, but Nicholson didn’t have a choice.
By the time I pushed the diner door open, my face and hands were numb, so the warm blast of air was appreciated. Scanning the interior, I didn’t spot any familiar faces. Where was Francisco? The two back corner booths were occupied, as were most of the tables near the windows. That meant my only option was the counter with my back facing the door. Instead of risking it, I smiled at the waitress, ordered a coffee, and continued on a path toward the restrooms. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was painting a bull’s eye on my back.
