She jerked her head in a nod. “I just need a minute.”
“Do you want me to call Rem—”
“No,” Zandra said sharply. “Don’t call anyone. Just close the door.”
Christine frowned, eyeing her worriedly. After another moment, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Slowly, finger by finger, Zandra released her grip on the butt of the pistol, then set it down on her desk and took a step backward, then another, until her back hit the window.
That was when the tremors began, starting deep in the pit of her stomach and spreading outward until she shook all over.
Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around her midsection, bowed her head and wept for the mother she’d lost, and the innocence she could never reclaim.
Chapter Five
Remy roared down West Grand Avenue astride a sleekly powerful MTT Turbine motorcycle, weaving through Monday morning traffic with a reckless aggression that would have made Zandra curse and shriek at him if she were riding shotgun.
He grinned at the thought. He couldn’t wait to meet her for lunch that afternoon. With any luck, they could just skip the meal and feast on each other instead.
At the next traffic light, he whipped the motorcycle around the corner and sped down a narrow street that ran through the warehouse jungles of Chicago’s manufacturing district, an area untouched by the gentrification efforts that had shined up the West Loop.
As Remy reached a nondescript brick building perched at the end of the block, he slowed down and swung onto the ramp that led into the underground parking garage. Pulling up to the security gate, he lifted his helmet shield to have his retinas scanned.
As the metal garage doors slid open, a smoky female voice intoned from the speaker panel, “Welcome back, Mr. Brand. You were missed.”
“Thanks, Magna,” Remy drawled with a lazy smile. “Who needs Siri when we have you?”
The simulated voice responded with warm laughter as Remy rumbled through to the parking garage. Swerving his motorcycle into his reserved spot, he silenced the ignition, removed his helmet and climbed off the bike.
As he strode to the elevator, the camouflage-clad security guard pressed the call button for him and offered a deferential “Good morning, sir. Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Erwin,” Remy said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “It’s good to be home.”
Though I wouldn’t have minded another week in paradise with Zandra, just the two of us.
Remy smiled to himself as he entered the elevator.
Once the doors closed behind him, his thoughts shifted to the busy day that awaited him as head of Brand Security Solutions, a multimillion-dollar global corporation that provided executive protection and investigative services to government, military and corporate sector enterprises. His itinerary for today included a series of meetings and consultations that would hopefully result in new contracts.
When he reached the top floor, his assistant was waiting for him. She had her Bluetooth headset in place and held a steaming cup of black coffee, which she handed to him as soon as he stepped off the elevator.
In her late twenties, Mona Fay Yancy had dark hair that she always scraped back into a severe ponytail, square shoulders and wide childbearing hips, though she swore she’d yet to meet a man who could sweet-talk her into “birthing his melon-head babies.” She was a sassy Southern girl whose tough, no-nonsense demeanor would have made Remy’s tobacco-chewing, ball-busting BUD/S instructors gush with pride. She kept Remy on track, ran a tight ship and suffered no fools.
“Good morning, boss. Nice to have you back.” She gave him one of her rare smiles, which faded the moment her eyes landed on his combat boots. “Good Lord, what are you wearing?”
Remy grinned, sipping his coffee. “I took the Turbine today.”
“Whatever for?” Mona demanded, falling into step beside him as he started from the lobby with long, ground-eating strides. “You’re supposed to be meeting with the top executives of a major pharmaceutical company. You can’t show up wearing an Armani suit with combat boots.”
“I’m not showing up anywhere,” Remy corrected. “They’re coming to me. So why the hell should they give a rat’s ass what I’m wearing? They’re interested in the services I provide, not my fashion sense.”
“Or lack thereof,” Mona muttered under her breath.
“I heard that.”
“Good morning, Mr. Brand. We missed you.”
Remy smiled and winked at the attractive young receptionist manning the phone from behind a futuristic-looking glass desk.
While the exterior of the old warehouse resembled every other warehouse on the block, the interior featured an ultramodern design with exposed steel beams, sleek leather furnishings and glacial white walls that formed a dramatic contrast to gleaming black granite floors.
Given his military background, Remy would have gone for something stark and functional, but when he brought Zandra to the empty warehouse and gave her the grand tour, she’d seen so much potential that she’d urged him to commission one of her interior designer friends to renovate the space. Even if Remy hadn’t been pleased with the results—which he was—it would have been worth it just to see the girlish delight on Zandra’s face as she’d rushed from room to room oohing and aahing over everything.
As Remy and Mona headed toward his office, they came upon a pair of tattooed, rough-looking ex-marines, one sporting a blond Mohawk while the other wore long dreadlocks. Their beefy hands were wrapped around coffee cups and powdered beignets that they’d just pilfered from the kitchen.
They nodded to Remy. “Wassup, Chief.”
“Gentlemen. How’s it going?”
“Need to talk to you about that assignment in Abu Dhabi.”
“It’ll have to wait until later,” Mona interjected before Remy could open his mouth. “He has important meetings all day, and y’all aren’t leaving for Abu Dhabi till Wednesday.”
As the two marines walked past, Remy made eye contact with them and subtly gestured to indicate that he’d be available in ten minutes.
“Nice try,” drawled Mona, who missed nothing, “but I don’t think so.”
The men could only chuckle and shake their heads. “Catch up with you later, Chief.”
When Remy and Mona reached his office, he sauntered to the black granite desk, sat down in the leather executive chair and propped up his booted feet as he drank his coffee.
Mona arched a brow at him. “Someone’s feeling mighty relaxed this morning.”
Remy grinned. “Five days of fun and sun in the Caribbean will do that for you. You should try it sometime.”
Mona snorted. “This place would fall apart if I went on vacation.”
“Probably, but that shouldn’t stop you from going anyway.”
She made a face. “I will, but not now. Things are too busy around here.” Which, of course, she’d been saying for the past two years. “Anyway, I know you’re already familiar with Hospira Pharmaceuticals, but I prepared some additional notes for you to review before your meeting at nine. The file is on your desktop.”
“Thanks, Mona. Oh, and I brought you something.”
She eyed Remy curiously as he reached inside his breast pocket, removed a narrow envelope and leaned forward to pass it to her.
When she opened the envelope and saw what was inside, her eyes widened in shock. “Oh, my Lord. Are these plane tickets to St. Lucia?”
“Yup. One for you and your mother, or whoever else you want to take. The hotel accommodations have already been arranged.”
Mona stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is too much. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Besides, you don’t have much of a choice. I’m disabling your access to the building that week—”
“What?”
“—so you might as well take your country ass down to St. Lucia and enjoy your birthday.”
Mona glowered at him for a moment, then contemplated the plane
tickets in her hand. Remy could see the corners of her mouth quirking as she fought a smile.
“You couldn’t just bring me back a souvenir like normal people?” she grumbled.
“You couldn’t just squeal for joy and jump up and down like a normal girl?”
The smile broke through, but only for a moment. Briskly clearing her throat, she straightened her shoulders and gave Remy a stern look. “You have a meeting to prepare for, and I have work to do.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Remy teased, watching as she pivoted on her heel and marched across the room.
Reaching the doorway, she paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. Her expression was soft. “Thank you.”
Remy smiled. “Don’t mention it, kiddo.”
After Mona left, he set aside his empty coffee cup, then swung his legs down from the desk, rose from the chair and moved to the windows. Standing with his feet apart and his hands folded behind his back, he stared out over the industrial landscape.
As a SEAL he’d operated in the shadows, attacking where he wasn’t expected and vanishing before the enemy could strike back. He’d adopted that same mentality when scoping out territory for his new company, searching for areas that wouldn’t announce his presence to the world. He’d chosen the warehouse district for the obscurity of its location, which was also important since his firm housed millions of dollars’ worth of high-tech equipment and computer systems programmed with military applications.
Remy closed his eyes for a moment, his mind traveling back to three years ago.
After getting discharged from the navy, he’d struggled to adjust to life as a civilian. He’d spent nine years as a member of SEAL Team Three, and he’d lived for every moment of it. He’d always expected to retire on his own terms, but when his insubordination during a gruesome combat mission landed him in the crosshairs of the whitewashed bureaucrats at the Pentagon, he’d been bounced out on his ass.
For months afterward he’d felt adrift, angry and depressed. He became surly and withdrawn from his family and friends, and he’d often wandered out alone on frigid winter nights to walk the streets for hours, haunted by memories of what he’d seen and experienced.
Over lunch one day with Roderick, his twin had given him an ultimatum: find a new purpose in life, or move to Outer Mongolia to spare everyone from having to watch his continued descent into self-destruction.
Roderick’s dose of tough love was just what Remy had needed. That same day, the idea for Brand Security Solutions was born.
Though Remy would always miss serving his country as a Navy SEAL, he enjoyed running his own company and answering to no one.
Well, almost no one.
At the sudden knock on his door, he turned from the window, prepared to explain to Mona why he was daydreaming instead of preparing for his nine o’clock meeting.
The words died in his throat at the sight of the man standing in the doorway behind his assistant.
Lieutenant Commander Sam Keegan.
In the flesh, as if he’d been conjured by Remy’s trip down memory lane.
Mona looked slightly aggrieved. “Sorry to intrude, boss, but you have a visitor.”
“I’ll be damned.” Recovering from his shock, Remy rounded the desk and crossed the room to greet his former commanding officer. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“Likewise, Lieutenant Brand,” Keegan said, strong fingers grasping and pumping Remy’s hand. “You look good, son. And I see you haven’t lost your grip.”
“On reality or...?”
They laughed at the old joke.
“I apologize for just barging into your office,” Mona told Remy, “but Mr. Keegan was too impatient to wait in the reception area.”
Remy grinned. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Sam Keegan was tall and robust, with piercing green eyes and the erect bearing of the decorated war veteran he was. Before retiring from the navy two years ago, he’d had a reputation for being a formidable, ass-chewing leader who was both feared and revered by the men of SEAL Three. A fellow Chicagoan, he’d mentored Remy from the time he joined the Teams until he was discharged, earning Remy’s undying loyalty and respect.
“Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” Keegan said.
“Actually—”
“Not at all,” Remy spoke over Mona. He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Please have a seat.”
As the commander strode toward the proffered chair, Mona pointed to her watch to remind Remy of his nine o’clock meeting. He nodded before closing the door in her face.
As he rounded his desk and sat down, Keegan observed with wry humor, “She’s a pistol, isn’t she? Ex-military?”
Remy laughed. “No, believe it or not.”
“Too bad. She’d have made one hell of a drill sergeant.”
“I know. Uncle Sam’s loss is my gain.”
Keegan huffed a gravelly laugh.
He’d grown out the military buzz cut, but his steel-gray hair was still meticulously groomed, and he wore a well-tailored charcoal suit with the same air of authority he’d once worn his navy blues.
“It’s really good to see you, sir,” Remy said again. “How’s Mrs. Keegan?”
“She’s doing great. Glad to be back home with her family and friends for good. And we just learned that our eldest is expecting her first child.”
“That’s wonderful,” Remy said warmly. “Congratulations, Grandpa.”
“Thank you.” Keegan smiled, beaming with pride. “And how’s your family?”
“Everyone’s doing really well.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Give them my best, will you?”
Remy smiled. “I sure will.”
Keegan gestured around the office. “This is quite an outfit you got here. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Remy murmured, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not the same as being in the Teams, but it’ll do for now.”
Keegan snorted. “Who’re you fooling? Between you and your billionaire brother, Roderick—not to mention Royce and River—some folks are predicting that the Brand boys will be running the Windy City before too long.”
Remy chuckled wryly. “I don’t know about all that. And speaking of running the city, how are things going at Mayor Norwood’s office?”
“Good, good.” After retiring from the service, Keegan had returned home to Chicago and gone into politics, becoming a trusted senior advisor to the mayor. “We’re gearing up for his reelection campaign, so I’ve been scouting the field, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the other candidates.”
Remy nodded. Of course Keegan would approach politics as if he were preparing for a combat mission—gathering intel on the enemy, checking the maps and charts, doing the necessary reconnaissance before planning an attack strategy.
“What can you tell me about Landis Kennedy?”
Remy frowned, his gut tightening at the mention of a name he hadn’t heard in years. “Is he running for mayor?” he asked, answering Keegan’s question with a question.
“He’s expected to throw his hat into the ring any day now,” Keegan replied. “And so far, he’s the one we’re most worried about. He has the financial resources and name recognition as an alderman, and he’s been gunning for the black vote by cozying up to church leaders on the South Side. Hell, he even has the support of some Teamsters who’re soured on the mayor after that whole city budget fiasco last year.”
Remy’s frown deepened at the idea of Zandra’s estranged father becoming the next mayor. Though Remy generally regarded politicians as scum-sucking bottom feeders, Landis Kennedy was particularly abhorrent. He was a cold, sadistic motherfucker who’d tormented his wife and daughter for years, robbing Zandra of her childhood and warping her perception of men. Some of Remy’s most violent fantasies involved him cornering Kennedy in a dark alley and dragging the blade of his KA-BAR knife across the man’s throat. Slowly, so the bastard would see the promise of his own death in Remy’s
eyes before he took his last breath.
Yeah, he hated the guy that much.
Watching the play of emotions across his face, Keegan observed dryly, “I take it there’s no love lost between you and the alderman.”
“Let’s just say I’d sooner vote for Osama bin Laden than Landis Kennedy,” Remy muttered darkly.
“I see.” Keegan eyed him knowingly. “Your animosity wouldn’t have anything to do with your long-standing friendship with Kennedy’s daughter, would it?”
Remy regarded Keegan for a long moment, then leaned forward in his chair and asked in a very low voice, “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”
The air crackled between the two men as they stared at each other.
Keegan was the first to glance away, his lips pressed into a thin line. “The reason I came here today is to tell you that the mayor knows about Zandra Kennedy, and he’s planning to use her escort agency against her father.”
Remy scowled. “That’s ridiculous. Zandra has nothing to do with the old man. She hasn’t seen or spoken to him in ten years.”
Keegan gave a snort of grim laughter. “Since when has that ever mattered in politics? Look how they tried to crucify Obama over his illegal immigrant aunt. It didn’t matter that he really didn’t know that poor woman. She was fair game, and so is Zandra Kennedy.”
Remy clenched his jaw, his gut churning with dread. The last thing he wanted was Zandra’s good name and reputation being dragged through the mud of Chicago politics. She’d be savaged by her father’s campaign rivals and the media, who would cast her in the same sleazy tabloid light as Heidi Fleiss and the D.C. Madam.
“The mayor wants me to hire a private investigator to find out if Zandra’s escorts are engaging in prostitution,” Keegan explained. “He wants the smoking gun that will torpedo Kennedy’s candidacy. That’s why I came to you.”
Remy glared at him. “If you think I’m going to investigate Zandra’s agency behind her back,” he growled, “think again.”
Keegan gave him a level look. “If you turn me down, Norwood will hire another firm. Can you guarantee that no illegal behavior will be uncovered?”
Remy frowned, remembering how Roderick and Lena met. She’d been one of Zandra’s escorts, and she’d slept with Roderick on their first date. Though they wound up falling madly in love and getting married, their relationship demonstrated that it was possible for any of Zandra’s girls to break the rules on any given night.
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