Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  “Tyre,” Gabe growled, as he eyed a red punching bag that hung from the ceiling. “Watch it. She’s better now, but file indicates she still has PTSD-induced agoraphobia. If you haven’t studied agoraphobia, then you’re not working hard enough. Respect her, because the fact that she’s out there makes her damn brave. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tyre answered.

  “Marks. Stevens. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Are you aware of my most recent assignment prior to this one?”

  “Yes, sir.” The three agents answered in unison.

  They knew, because it was company-wide knowledge and because Gabe had been in media reports as he walked with President Cameron and other world leaders through Praptan, Chalinda. Through prior Black Raven work, Gabe was an expert on Praptan. Black Raven, and specifically Gabe, had been hired to provide assistance to the Secret Service throughout President Cameron’s tour of the once-thriving city that was now a nuclear disaster zone and, where habitable, a rebel stronghold.

  “I do not consider this job any less important than my last assignment. Every Black Raven client is as important as the President. Raise the bar, gentlemen. Let admiration and respect be the baseline for this job and Ms. Hutchenson.”

  Steep stairs led to her third-floor art studio. Gabe knew she didn’t like having agents in her studio. The file was clear on that.

  He climbed the stairs anyway. The door was locked. When none of the keys he had fit the lock, he chalked it up to another breach by Hutchenson. While he was tempted to pick the lock, the admonishment he’d given his agents came back to him. Admiration. Respect. Restraint won out over his innate urge to barrel through a boundary that shouldn’t exist and could potentially be a danger to the client.

  He’d explain the need for the rule and give Hutchenson a chance to comply. Being an optimist, he chose not to worry about what would happen if she refused, or whether she was hiding something he shouldn’t uncover.

  Chapter Seven

  Andi

  Sanctuary.

  As she stepped into her courtyard, the clang of the gate shutting behind her warmed some of Andi’s ever-present chill. After checking the lock, Agent Two walked ahead to unlock the door to her mudroom, then held it open for her.

  Entering the quiet mudroom gave her the feeling of slipping into a welcoming cocoon. Wide windows overlooking the courtyard captured radiant beams of afternoon sunlight. The warmth of the narrow, utilitarian room almost loosened the knot that had formed in her belly with each phone call she’d received, and mostly ignored, during the day. Her best friend, Taylor Morrissey, and the gallery owner, Jacques Stapleton, had been persistent.

  Don’t think about that now.

  Agent Three, one of two new replacements for the agents she’d fired the day before, dragged her artist’s cart inside. She’d been introduced to him when he arrived in Crescent Park, and promptly forgotten his name. She hadn’t met the other new replacement. Agent Three, distinguishable from other agents because he was cue-ball bald, stood in pause mode next to her cart. He was stocky, with warm brown eyes. He evidently hadn’t gotten the message that her mudroom time was private.

  She slipped her satchel off her shoulder and placed it on a bench. “I’m fine in here, alone.”

  “Would you like help carrying any of this to your studio?”

  “No. Thank you.” Now leave me alone. Go.

  He left, to take position in the security room, or somewhere that she— hopefully—wouldn’t see him. Lifting the pochade box to the counter, she opened it and unclipped the canvas she’d been working on.

  After placing the canvas on an easel, she collected the filbert, drawing, and flat brushes she’d used that day. Dropping each into a turpentine-filled mason jar, she let them soak. The odor of turpentine, strong and pungent, was comforting. She rinsed the brushes, then placed each onto a stack of paper towels. The tasks were so routine, her mind wandered.

  Sunday. Tomorrow. The gallery opening. Which I’m not attending.

  After a sleepless night, she’d decided against going to the art opening. Before leaving the house, she’d called Jacques Stapleton. Relieved when he didn’t answer, she’d left a short message. She’d ignored his return phone calls. She’d also ignored most calls from Taylor, knowing that Stapleton had called Taylor for assistance in persuading her to change her mind.

  Don’t think about that now. Decision made.

  As the water drained off her brushes, she reached for the wooden palette she’d wrapped in newspaper to keep leftover blobs of paint from making a mess. She unwrapped the palette, then looked in the box for the palette knife, which must have slipped from the newspaper wrapping.

  “Ms. Hutchenson, I’m—

  Heart pounding at the loud and unfamiliar voice, Andi spun around. He was large. Four feet away. Moving into the room.

  Startled, she charged at him, with the fingers of her right hand aiming for his left eye, while lifting her right knee to his groin. Too late, she saw the Black Raven logo on the man’s short-sleeved polo shirt.

  He did a fast, fluid jump to his left. Her knee barely grazed his outer thigh. As she flew forward with momentum that was off-kilter from missing her target, he flexed his right arm and leaned towards her. A slight elbow jab to her right bicep and a gentle, glancing push with his forearm slowed her so that she didn’t fall flat on her face.

  While she found firm footing, he backed away and lifted his hands above his shoulders.

  “Whoa. Easy now. I’m Black Raven. Not here to hurt you.”

  Gasping for air, she steadied herself.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Her heart pounded so fast, she couldn’t answer. Eyeing his broad shoulders, his bulging biceps, trim waist, and long legs, her one thought was, hell. He had almost a solid foot of height on her and at least seventy-five additional pounds of what looked like pure muscle mass. If he had used any of his considerable force, he would’ve knocked her on her ass.

  Finally, she managed to breathe. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

  “I knocked, but—”

  “There’s no damn ‘but’ that’s acceptable. I don’t pay Black Raven to scare the hell out of me. Turn around. Disappear.”

  Staying a short distance away, in the doorway, his hands fell to his side. “I’m sorry I startled you. Michael Gabriel Hernandez. Everyone calls me Gabe.”

  “I don’t care what the hell everyone calls you.” To me, you’re officially Agent Idiot. With adrenaline-fueled aggression slipping out of her body with each slowing pulse of her heart, her hands started shaking.

  “Ms. Hutchenson, are you okay?”

  “Yes. Fine. But you obviously aren’t familiar with my background, so go read my file so you know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

  “I have studied your file. I’m really sorry, ma’am. I certainly didn’t intend to scare you,” he added, his tone deadly serious, his light eyes grave with worry as he assessed her. “I knocked. Thought you heard me. File says you hyper-focus, and that’s what I thought I was watching as you cleaned your palette. File also says you tend to ignore agents, so that was another possibility.”

  What he said was perfectly plausible, because she did all that. Focusing on tangible tasks was an anxiety-coping mechanism that worked better than the drugs her doctors had prescribed.

  She resumed her position at the sink, turning her back to him.

  Focus. On the moment. Nothing bad is happening in the mudroom. Agent Idiot will disappear. Take a deep breath. Relax.

  “That was a pretty decent move. Looks like you’ve used those DVDs in your exercise room.”

  Spinning to face him, she said, “Don’t patronize me—”

  “I’m not. If I hadn’t studied Krav Maga, you would’ve hit your mark.”

  He gave her a slight smile, looking at her as though he was expecting…what? A conversation?

  “Let me re
iterate, in case the file doesn’t make it perfectly clear. I really, really don’t like to be startled. If you can’t comprehend that, or the reasons for that, please remove yourself from my job now.”

  “Once again, I apologize. I’m the new agent in charge of your job, I certainly understand the reasons why you don’t like to be startled, and I don’t plan on leaving for a while.” Unlike the other agents who knew her history, he looked deep into her eyes with a natural directness. “As I said, everyone calls me Gabe.”

  “I heard that the first time. I don’t do nicknames. Or names for that matter, where Black Raven personnel is involved. Agent will do. If you’d like, I’ll call you Agent-In-Charge. Or would you prefer Agent One?”

  “Really?” He arched an eyebrow. “You really do assign us numbers? The file mentioned something about that, but I didn’t think—”

  “It beats trying to remember names as you guys filter through the revolving door of this job.” She lifted her chin and leveled her eyes on his.

  Why he thought there was anything to smile about, she couldn’t fathom, but a smile played at his lips. As much as she usually didn’t dwell on details about the agents, her fear—which was now fading, thank God—made her hyperaware of everything around her. Which, for the moment, meant him.

  His black hair was cut short and neat on the sides, a bit longer on top. A few pieces fell in curved spikes onto his forehead. Not quite curls. He had high cheekbones and a square jaw, but his eyes were what held her attention. They were mostly a light green that reminded her of the Pthalo green pigment.

  In fact, in the brilliant sunlight of the mudroom, the sparkling color was so close to the oil color that was in her pochade box, she wanted to compare the color to the real thing. On the outside of his irises, the pure green picked up a crystalline-blue, which was perfectly set off with an olive-green rim. Rarely had she seen unadulterated nature put on such a riveting display.

  Hell. Focus on the task at hand. Not his damn eyes.

  “Frankly, if you’re in charge, the team’s in trouble. Do not startle me. When you come into a room, especially behind me, make some damn noise. That isn’t rocket science, is it?”

  “No ma’am, it isn’t. Next time I’ll make a hell of a lot more noise.” Voice dry, eyes twinkling, he added, “I’ll even wear bells on my shoes to avoid scaring you.”

  For fear of encouraging him, she bit back her smile. “Great. I fired two agents yesterday, tried to terminate the contract, and corporate responds by sending a joker.”

  “I’m just trying to put you at ease.”

  “Doesn’t my file say that I don’t interact with the agents?”

  His smile drifted away, but the tilt at the corners of his lips told her it would quickly return. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then you understand that I pay Black Raven to protect me. Not startle me into defensive moves, joke with me, or engage in extended conversations.”

  “Understood.” The direct look in his eyes seemed honest, but she narrowed her eyes, looking for the overly-effusive look of pity she’d learned to spot. Sooner or later it always appeared. She could suss it out like a grizzly bear could smell strawberry jelly donuts at a campground.

  She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, met his gaze, and braced for it to appear in his stunning eyes. Yes, life had thrown her a curve ball that she still hadn’t figured out how to hit, but she was fortunate. A hell of a lot of people carried far worse burdens. Pity was best reserved for others, those who truly were living a life of despair. Once someone looked at her with the off-color filter of pity, they’d never really see her. Which meant she had no use for them.

  Nope. No pity.

  “Bells on my shoes, noise when entering a room, and no humor. Got it, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I’ll start over with my official intro. Here goes. I’m the new agent in charge. I’ve already reconnoitered the property, both inside and out, with the exception of your bedroom and studio, for which I do not have keys.” Serious eyes, a frown, and a pause suggested not having keys was a problem for him. “I’ll get back to that. Your security equipment’s in top form, we’ve re-calibrated the cameras, and all locks are intact.”

  “Good to know.” Attention on him, she was still waiting for pity to make an appearance and trying to figure out how, and why, ‘Everyone-Calls-Me-Gabe’ was so different than the other agents Black Raven had sent her way. His broad shoulders matched his oversized height. He wore black slacks, with a pistol holstered at his hip, and a fitted, black polo shirt. He looked…at ease. Content. And happy. In his skin. In the moment. Just damn happy.

  Happy? Yes. That’s it. That’s what makes him different. It’s as though he’s standing in the one place in the world he wants to be, which is…damn weird.

  None of the other Black Raven agents had seemed happy to be assigned to her job. Upon meeting her, they’d all been professional to a fault, but not genuinely pleased with the assignment. The agents typically gave her a wide berth. A little too much body space. As though her brand of crazy was a contagious cough.

  “I’d like to have a general discussion with you about the job. But first, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon and evening?”

  “Staying in. Like always.” I’m too scared to be out at night, didn’t you read the damn file?

  A nod amped up the niceness in his smile, as though she’d just said something that was perfectly normal for a single twenty-nine-year-old on a Saturday night.

  “That makes our logistics easy.” His deep, smooth voice was that of a man who liked his job, had confidence in his ability to do it, and planned to do it efficiently and well.

  The charming nature of his smile was unexpected and…was seemingly genuine. Oh, who the hell was she kidding? At full beam, Everyone-Calls-Me-Gabe’s smile wasn’t merely charming or nice. It had eye-pulling magnetism that hit the upper stratosphere of gorgeous; a place with air so thin, mere mortals became lightheaded. With his full smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled where a thick fringe of dark lashes accented the light and warmth that his gaze conveyed.

  Such inner joy, easily worn for the world to see, reminded her of…the person she used to be.

  Never mind. That Andi doesn’t exist any longer.

  She gave him a nod that was intended as a dismissal. He may as well learn her body language now, because his engaging nature was…off-putting.

  Turning back to the counter, she picked up the palette knife and started scraping paint from the palette and onto a newspaper. He moved closer to the counter, leaned his butt against it, and faced the opposite wall, as though settling in for a chat. “If it’s convenient, I’d like to discuss your expectations for the security detail and work out any kinks that might need addressing.”

  She sighed as she cleaned the palette with baby wipes. Best to get his introductory comments out of the way, then he could fade into the background. “Talk while I work.”

  “Yesterday’s incident suggests there are some things Black Raven can improve upon.”

  “Fine. I’d say that’s an understatement. Do it within the specified parameters of the contract.” Now go away.

  After setting the palette on the counter, she picked up her paintbrushes, examining each to see if another turpentine rinse was warranted. The brushes were clean enough.

  Nope—not taking a damn hint. Butt in place against my counter, with his eyes on me.

  “I’d like your input on any adjustments to the detail.”

  She focused on blotting out leftover water with a paper towel and reshaping her brushes as she spoke. “Great idea. Why haven’t any of the prior agents asked for my input?”

  “I can’t answer that. All I can do is ask now. I’d like your opinion as to what went wrong yesterday.”

  Andi crossed the mudroom and sat on the bench. She pulled off the dusty cowboy boots that were her current favorite for long days of painting and sketching. Instead of staying across the room, he moved to stand just a few feet from where she
sat.

  He leaned against the doorway, looking down at her. “I’m all ears.”

  “Yesterday’s incident boiled down to one simple problem. My version is I asked the agents who were on the detail with me to investigate something I saw, which they should have also seen, had they been paying attention to me.”

  Eyes on her, he gave her a nod. “Go on.”

  “They refused to investigate it. I asked them to call the police and report it, because the cops no longer listen to a damn thing I say. They refused to do that, too.”

  She pulled off her socks, dropped them next to her boots, and stood, facing him. Angling her chin upwards so that she could meet his gaze, she folded her arms at her waist. For a second, his eyes were on her bare feet and her pastel painted toenails. Juliette, her in-home spa service provider, had painted them the Saturday before with Andi’s favorite standby—Loire Valley Lavender. This morning’s session with Juliette had been a long massage, and help with the haircut Andi had given herself the night before. With the tension this agent had inspired, she longed for more time on the massage table.

  When his gaze returned to hers, his eyes were serious. A slight frown played at his lips. She continued, “So those two agents were fired. Look. I know Black Raven keeps me safe, but what I really need the agents to do, is—”

  She paused, thought through the next words she planned to say before they popped out of her mouth, and then thought better of them.

  Dear God, what is it about this man that has me spilling my guts?

  “I’ve forgotten your name. Not the nickname. The real one.”

  “Michael Gabriel Hernandez. I answer to Michael, Gabriel, or Hernandez, but, for the third time now, most people call me Gabe. One close friend even calls me Angel, but no one else gets away with that, so don’t try.” His 1,000-watt, positively beatific smile reappeared. It warmed the chill from her in a way no one had been able to do since Victor Morrissey had used her for an ashtray.