Crossing the Line (A Sinner and Saint Novel Book 1)

by Lucy Score

  He saw her wince and wrinkle her nose.

  “That brings us to you. You’re beautiful, even by Hollywood’s standards. Talented. You were born into this bubble. But instead of spoiled, I’d say smothered. Everyone pulls your strings. Everyone wants a piece of you. You learned how to get what you want the same way. You don’t trust easily because you’ve been burned too many times, been left unprotected by the very people who should have been guarding you.”

  A vision of her at five years old with the paparazzi closing in on her surfaced in his mind.

  “You’re about to get your hands on some legal and financial resources available to you, but you aren’t sure who you are without the strings. Or what you want. Besides college.”

  He saw the sidelong glance she shot him.

  “I hear things,” he said, answering her unasked question. “You’re smart, very smart. You’re observant to the point that you read people like a ninety-nine-cent book. Yet none of them have ever tried to scratch your perfect princess surface. You take your work seriously but have trouble committing to the trappings of being famous. And tonight is the only time I’ve seen you genuinely enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh, is that all?” she asked, letting grains of sand slip through her fingers.

  “One last thing. There’s something so appealing about you, like having the front row seat for fireworks or getting there seconds before the bud blooms.”

  He saw goose bumps rising on her arms. She blew out a long, slow breath. “I’ve never been assessed and boxed up so concisely before.”

  “Hazards of asking your highly trained security detail for their observations.”

  “I think I’m starting to like you, Xavier.”

  “Back at you.” Only what he felt was a lot darker than like.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Xavier had barely settled into the chair behind his desk before all six-feet five-inches of his partner ambled through his doorway.

  “I see you found your way back,” Micah said, folding himself into one of Xavier’s visitor chairs.

  “Didn’t even need the GPS,” Xavier quipped.

  “Sure is homey in here.” Micah’s gaze rolled over the blank, beige walls, the mahogany desk and matching credenza, all void of personal effects.

  Micah’s office, by contrast, had been decked out by his wife, Suzette, during her interior design phase. Handsome backlit bookcases showcased family photos and tasteful yet masculine accessories. The walls were painted a warm khaki and served as a backdrop to framed diplomas, awards, and more photographs. Micah had five potted plants in his office and a small aquarium that was usually fishless.

  “I’ll get to it,” Xavier said. “Eventually.”

  “You’ve been using that line for two years. You’re out of the service, in case you haven’t noticed,” Micah ribbed. “You don’t have to keep living like you might have to bug out in thirty seconds.”

  It was true, Xavier thought. He’d spent most of his adult life avoiding roots and any other entanglements that would pull at him. But now he was digging roots with Invictus and digging them deep. What had started as a two-man operation was now a team of forty that included experts in the fields of personal protection, investigation, and information security. Each employee had been handpicked, scrutinized, and tested before being brought into the fold. Whenever he walked through the frosted glass doors of Invictus, he felt a quick burst of pride at what they’d already accomplished.

  He kicked back in his chair and eyed his friend. “Maybe after I’m done chasing starlets, I’ll fix it up. I’m thinking about stealing one of your houseplants.”

  “That’s quite the commitment for someone who sees the inside of this place once a week,” Micah mocked. It was a running joke between them that Micah never left the office, and Xavier couldn’t find it. “The Sinners giving you any trouble?”

  Xavier raised an eyebrow at his friend and kept it light. “If by trouble you mean an obscene disregard for personal safety, then yes. A metric shit ton of trouble.”

  Micah’s grin crinkled his eyes. “You could have had a nice, quiet desk job and left the fieldwork to better swimmers.”

  “I knew I’d regret telling you that,” Xavier muttered. Micah had laughed until tears came out of his eyes after hearing Xavier’s version of his swim with Waverly. And when Xavier’s secretary, Roz, came in to check on them, Micah had repeated the story. Roz had helpfully composed an intra-office memo to relay the experience to the rest of the team.

  It was still in the lead for their monthly internal Worst Client Experience competition.

  “A few more years, and I’ll be ready to give up the field,” he promised. Maybe sooner rather than later. If last night was any indication, his control was slipping.

  Restless, he rose and crossed to the coffee maker.

  “You want one?” He held up a mug to Micah.

  “Nah.” Micah shook his head. “Wife’s got me on green tea again.”

  “Lucky you.” Xavier programmed a cup for himself.

  “Speaking of, when are you going to get yourself one?”

  “A wife?” Another old conversation between two friends. Family man Micah couldn’t comprehend a life that wasn’t crowded with commitments and responsibilities of the family sort. And just why the hell did an image of Waverly laughing up at him present itself as if it were an answer to Micah’s question?

  Xavier swiped a hand over the back of his head and felt the buzz of nerves. He’d crossed a line last night. One that was a fireable offense for anyone else on his team. And what worried him more was the fact that he was afraid it would and wouldn’t be the last time.

  “I’ll get around to one of those too someday,” he said vaguely. He stared out at the bustle of L.A. three floors below.

  Guilt divided between the original offense and now keeping a secret from his partner ate at him. He made it until the stream of coffee sputtered dry.

  “I fucked up last night,” he said, ignoring the coffee and pacing in front of the windows.

  Micah gave him a look and then got up to close the door. “How many bodies do we need to get rid of?”

  “I’m serious, Micah. I crossed a line in a big way.”

  His partner sat back down and crossed ankle over knee. He looked entirely too relaxed for Xavier’s liking.

  “I kissed her.” The confession snapped out of him like a whip. And saying it out loud made it real.

  “Uh-huh.” Micah said and cocked his head waiting for more.

  “I was pissed off. She actually got away from me last night—and you tell anyone this story, and there will be a body that needs disposing—but I tracked her down, scared the hell out of her, and then just…” There weren’t words for what he’d done next. Attacked? Mauled? Seduced? Marked?

  “You’re wearing a hole in our industrial grade carpet over a kiss?” Now Micah was amused.

  “It wasn’t just a kiss it was…it was…You remember the feeling right after a bullet bites into the wall behind you or you feel the breeze of it over your head?”

  Micah nodded. No one forgot that rusty bite of fear chased by the elation of cheating death.

  “That’s what it was. This rush.” He clenched his hands into fists in front of him as if to hold on to the feeling. “She had to get me water afterward.”

  Micah put his head in his hands and his shoulders started to shake silently.

  “Jesus, are you crying or laughing at me?” Xavier demanded.

  Micah looked up and it looked like he was doing both. He hooted, and a tear escaped the outer corner of his eye.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Brother, from where I’m sitting it’s fucking hilarious,” Micah said, gasping for breath. “First, I’m expecting you to tell me that you got sick of the Hollywood princess act and held a pillow over her face, and I’m wondering how I’m gonna get you out of the country before the cops show up. Then you tell me you kisse
d her, and I’m waiting for you to say it was in the middle of some god damn red carpet spectacle, and you proceeded to do the funky monkey in front of TV cameras.” He wiped another tear away on a gasp.

  “The funky monkey? Christ, Micah, how do you even have kids?”

  “I’m sorry,” Micah made a sound like air escaping an inflatable kiddie pool. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen you rattled before. Never thought it would be over a girl. I’m prepared to take your problem seriously now.” He wiped his palms on his pant legs. “Let’s start over. What’s at issue here?”

  His friend’s shoulders were still shaking from silent laughter, but Xavier had to get it out. “I crossed a line. Rule number one: Don’t get personal.”

  “Uh-huh.” Micah nodded his dark head. “And why does that rule exist?”

  “So bodyguards don’t go sticking their dicks in every client.” Xavier’s frustration was mounting. Micah was supposed to be as appalled as he was, he told himself.

  “Exactly. We don’t want the lesser ethically minded security officers taking advantage of their position of power and responsibility. Now, given the fact that you’ve got your head shoved so far up your ass with guilt, I’m gonna save you some time and tell you that that’s not you.”

  When Xavier started to argue, Micah held up a hand. “Shut it. You started this confessional, now you get to find absolution.” He got up and snagged Xavier’s untouched coffee and took a sip. He leaned against the credenza. “The second reason for the rule is because real feelings can get all tangled up in an agent’s instincts. If you’re too worried about Princess Buffy saying she’s chilly or you’re off in the corner having a quickie, you might miss the armed assassins busting through the windows.”

  Xavier stared at Micah for a long moment. “What is it like to live inside your head?”

  “Hey, we’re making fun of you now. Not me.”

  “My apologies,” Xavier said dryly and programmed another cup of coffee.

  “Here’s the thing. You’re not the kind to take advantage of a woman. Ever. I know it, and deep down you know it. If things got out of control last night, I have no doubt that Angel helped shove you along down your path of sin. And if anyone can have tangled up feelings about someone and still maintain the level of awareness needed to do this job, it’s you.”

  “Micah, I messed up. You should be sidelining me until I can get my head on straight.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Hell no. I don’t want anyone else guarding her.”

  “Then the solution is simple, man. Don’t let it happen again.”

  “That’s it?” Xavier asked.

  “You’re not a power-hungry, pussy-hungry asshole, Saint. Just tap into that insane control of yours and don’t let it happen again.”

  Xavier slid down in the visitor chair Micah had vacated. “I’ve never fucked up like this before.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a fuck up. Maybe it was fate.”

  “For the love of God—”

  “Relax, kid. I’m messing with you. Nobody died, and from your latest report it sounds like she could use some up close and personal support.”

  “I can roll your body up in this carpet and have Roz drag you down to the dumpster,” Xavier threatened. But he felt lighter. The weight was off his chest with Micah’s absolution. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world.

  And if it never happened again, he could just forget about it and move on.

  Micah must have considered the case closed because he moved on to more entertaining subjects. “So, she snuck out on you last night, huh?”

  “Dressed up like her damn assistant and left in her SUV.” Xavier let his head tip back against the seat back. “She freaking waved to me on her way down the driveway.”

  Micah cackled and took another sip of the forbidden coffee. “How do you know she’s staying put today while you’re here?”

  “She wouldn’t dare pull a stunt like that again.” But to be on the safe side, he pulled out his phone and rattled off a text to Waverly.

  Proof of location?

  He hit send and her response was immediate.

  Gee, X, so glad we got these trust issues worked out.

  Her message included a picture of Louie waving a knife in her direction from across the island, a stack of scripts in the foreground. Xavier smiled with what he told himself was relief.

  Good girl.

  “Glad we’ve solved all your problems, Boy Scout,” Micah said. “Now listen, I’ve got some money riding in the office pool that Angel is going to leave you tied naked to a flagpole by the end of the month. Help me out, okay?”

  “This is why I don’t come into the office.”

  --------

  The Angel briefing was a lesson in efficiency. Invictus Security didn’t sit back and wait for a threat to require neutralizing. They went on the offensive. Xavier and Micah sat at the glossy, round conference table while four team members from research—affectionately known around the office as stalkers—walked through the details of Les Travis Ganim’s life.

  Ganim was thirty-seven years old, and until ten days ago, had spent the last fifteen years working as a systems analyst for a health insurance conglomerate in El Plano, Texas. His father had gone out for cigarettes when he was seven and never returned. His mother, a fundamentalist Christian, had raised him alone, leaning heavily on a church that she tithed ten percent of her income to. He’d been homeschooled, judging from the lack of public school records. He had a Facebook profile that counted twenty-two friends. On the surface, he was a lonely computer tech from a broken home.

  The deep background check painted a darker picture. His criminal history showed a disturbing pattern of escalation. Three years ago, Ganim had been charged with two counts of criminal trespass and harassment in connection with a woman in his hometown, a diner waitress. The terrified waitress had moved out of town immediately after filing the complaint and refused to pursue charges. He’d also skated a year later on criminal stalking and attempted abduction charges involving a dancer who had her own rap sheet full of possession and DUI charges.

  The charges were dropped when the dancer disappeared, sending the investigating officer an email claiming she’d made up the whole thing and was moving back to Oklahoma to take care of her mother.

  Speaking of mothers, Ganim’s had died of breast cancer five months ago. The day of Mrs. Ganim’s funeral was the day the wedding dress had arrived at Waverly’s house.

  Ganim had been the sole heir to his mother’s modest fortune, which included a small IRA, $15,000 in savings, and the two-bedroom cottage that he’d grown up in. On his tablet, Xavier flipped through the street view images of the property from a private investigator they’d hired. The PI’s write-up of her interviews with Ganim’s supervisor and cube mate were also covered.

  Every social media interaction had been combed through and examined by his team. And a three-generation family tree had been established.

  “I want to talk to the waitress and the dancer,” Xavier told Cayman, the hyper-fashionable thirty-four-year-old head of research.

  “On it,” Cayman promised, stretching his arms and revealing cufflinks shaped like magnifying glasses.

  Xavier turned to members of the advance team. “What do we have on Ganim since he came to town?”

  These results were scant at best. He’d checked in on social media at a pizza shop in Brentwood and a convenience store in Los Feliz. But those were the only traceable activities. There were also no pops on his credit report to suggest he was renting a place in town.

  “He’s probably paying cash for a motel. See if you can get me the plates and description of the car he was driving when he went to the convenience store. We don’t know if he has the one registered to him in Texas or if he’s using a different one.” Xavier said. “Hopefully their security feed wasn’t wiped yet.” The advance team tapped notes into their tablets.

 
He made a mental note to check with Waverly on her whereabouts both days to see how close Ganim had gotten to her. The Brentwood pizza shop was only a block away from her gym.

  Song, a woman they’d tempted away from the CIA when she graduated from NYU with a dual major in cyber security and computer engineering, swiveled her chair toward him. “I had a hit on a sealed juvie record, but I couldn’t get around it in any legal way.”

  The way she emphasized “legal” made it sound like she was hoping to be given the go-ahead to use any means necessary. Song’s hacking skills were terrifyingly brilliant and came in handy.

  “Let’s keep this by the book for now,” Xavier said, hiding a smile.

  “I’ll see if I can get a buddy down in the Texas court system to help us out on that,” Micah offered. Micah’s “buddies” were a revolving list of people in various law enforcement organizations who owed him favors that never seemed to expire.

  Xavier helped himself to a bottle of water from the tray in the center of the table.

  Roz, in her ice blue Chanel suit, passed him a flash drive and two printouts. She tapped them with her burgundy nails. “Copies of the report and findings that you can take to the police. I included a summary with the pertinent points and the applicable laws Ganim is in violation of in case the detective isn’t particularly interested in reading.” She had a voice that always reminded Xavier of a glass of brandy.

  He’d fallen in love with Roz from their first meeting when she’d swept into the interview. She’d ditched her calf-length cashmere coat on an empty seat, announced she was tired of retirement, and demanded he give her the job. She’d spent thirty-five years with the FBI doing admin work, the last fifteen as office manager of a field office. She’d taught Xavier and Micah more about efficiently running the business side of operations than anyone else. He’d hired her on the spot and never regretted it.

  “Thank you, Roz, everyone,” Xavier nodded at his team. “This is a good start. Let’s keep it pushing and get this guy contained.”