“Rest assured,” he continued, “I’ll answer to Agent, Agent One, Agent-In-Charge. Even a ‘hey you’ will work. What were you saying?”
Andi stepped toward the doorway and waited for the man who was named after not one, but two, archangels, to move. Chiseled and muscular, he didn’t resemble the sweetly innocent, cherubic angels that had been painted by Raphael Sanzio in the Madonna di San Sisto. Nah. If angelic at all, he was a dark angel, one who’d fight evil, inch for inch.
“Ms. Hutchenson,” he prompted, “you were saying—”
“All I need to say. Fine.” Lifting her right hand with a slight wave of dismissal, she continued through the living room.
He cocked his head and arched an eyebrow as he studied her. “Fine?”
“Meaning I’m through talking. Make any necessary adjustments to the security detail. Discussion over. I’ve been outside for hours. I’ll spend the rest of the evening upstairs.”
She walked through the kitchen and entered the hallway, to go upstairs, where she wouldn’t have to see him. Agent Hot-Guy’s gaze was too penetrating, and that smile? There was just no damn reason for it.
“Ms. Hutchenson?”
Now what?
She turned. He was right behind her. She mentally renamed him Agent Can’t-Take-a-Hint. “Yes?”
“I’d like to talk a little more.” He walked with her to the base of the stairs. The quiet of the house fell around them as he stopped just short of her, giving her the minimum amount of acceptable body space. As though he carried an invisible tape measure and knew the number of inches required for her comfort level. Climbing onto the second stair gave her enough height that when she turned towards him, she could look directly in his eyes. Hands resting on the banister, he returned her gaze.
“Well?” she said. “Go on.”
“You were saying you need the agents to do something. I’d love to know what was on the tip of your tongue, because—if you pardon my bluntness—this job has been lacking guidance from you, except when you fire one of us.” He arched an eyebrow. “So, what were you about to say? You need the agents to do what?”
“Keep me safe.”
He nodded as he flattened his hands on the banister, running them a few inches up, then down the smooth cypress. “That’s a given. You were talking in the context of yesterday’s incident, though, and you didn’t finish your thought.”
She inhaled in exasperation, detecting a light, woodsy and citrusy scent as she studied him. His intense focus on her, his interest in what he could do to make the job run smoother, seemed genuine. Okay, so on top of the compassion that poured from his eyes, he had great listening skills and the attentiveness of a dog with a bone.
“I’d like the Agents to humor me. If I see something that needs investigating, I damn well want the agents to check it out, then explain to me in rational terms what happened, if anything did at all. Without making me feel that...” She drew a deep breath, catching again his aroma. Deciding it was something akin to a pheromone-borne truth serum that she was apparently powerless to overcome, she said, “I’m crazier than I am.”
Without a trace of judgment, he nodded. “Understood. To implement an investigative component, we’d ideally have a third man on your outdoor detail. You see, standard protocol for the type of security detail prescribed by your contract requires two agents to be at your side whenever you’re outside, especially on a busy street with vehicular traffic. Which is why those agents couldn’t leave your side and investigate anything yesterday.”
“You are an optimist, aren’t you? You think that is why they didn’t listen to me?”
“Yes, and yes.” He paused for a second. “Logistically speaking, the most effective way of accomplishing what you’re requesting is with a five-man detail, because agents need off time so they can be alert in the field. Until now, your detail has had four agents. More manpower means higher fees. Roughly twenty-five percent higher than contracted.”
“Fine.”
He pushed hair that had fallen over his forehead back, cocked his head, and arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
“I’d prefer not to have to read between the lines, Ms. Hutchenson. That might’ve cut it with the other agents, but it also might have been part of the lack of communication that led to job problems.” His tone had hardened slightly and his smile had almost disappeared. “Ambiguous responses to my questions will perpetuate the problems that have been pervasive on this job. Communication between you and us needs to be clearer. The sooner the better.”
“I communicate just fine.” His firm tone and blunt message broadcasted that he wasn’t a pushover. Fine. Neither am I. “The agents choose not to listen. Yesterday, they looked at me like I was crazy and treated me that way. I’d say that’s what damn well led to their firing. Not a lack of communication on my part.”
Serious eyes regarded her for a moment. “My question stands. Would you like me to incorporate a fifth agent into the detail?”
His direct question hit her with a reality check. The round-the-clock private security detail cost her a small fortune. Yes—she had the money for it, but she hated throwing her money away as a reaction to what she thought she saw the day before.
Face it. I’m not even sure I saw anything at all. Oh dear God, did I fire those agents over nothing? Because, except for yesterday afternoon, they didn’t irritate her, and this new guy sure as hell did.
“No,” she said. “Hold off for now.”
Eyes serious, hands clasped together on top of the banister, he gave her an understanding nod. “Then I’ll see what we can do with the existing manpower. Especially as the Mardi Gras season peaks, flexibility is warranted. Once I’m on the job for a few more days, I’ll have a better feel for your expectations.”
“Thank you. Tomorrow I’ll paint outdoors from ten to four. Assuming the weather’s nice.” And assuming I sleep at all tonight. “I usually meet with the agents at nine thirty to plan the day.”
“I’m aware. Before you go upstairs, there’s the matter of the keys.”
“What about them?”
“Protocol requires that we have access to the entire premises. Including your bedroom and the studio on the third floor. Keys would be the most efficient way of having access.”
“On this job,” she said, “and on the issue of locking my bedroom and my studio, I define standard protocol.”
The play of a slight smile at his lips suggested he was enjoying their conversation. “That’s not the way it works, Ms. Hutchenson. The contract sets standard protocol. We’re to have access to the entire premises. Every room, every attic, every crawlspace. It’s a standard clause in all of our security details, and not one that I can override.”
His doggedness was damn irritating, despite his high cheekbones, mesmerizing eyes, broad shoulders, and captivating smile. “About six months ago, when I requested a new team of agents, I took the key to my bedroom and studio out of the sets the agents use.” Keep your tone unwavering, your voice pitch perfect. Enunciate. Speak up. “You’re the first agent to call me out on it.”
“Can’t say that’s a fact that earns me a star. It’s a discrepancy that should have been rectified.”
“I leave those doors unlocked when I’m in the house. I simply ask that agents knock before entering.”
“Part of providing security means constant access to the client. And, in your case, the file specifies that there are times when you explicitly request that we lay eyes—”
“Yes,” she interrupted, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn her face.
His steady eyes held her gaze. Still no pity. Thank God. But plenty of compassion, as though he appreciated the enormity of her struggle. “We need access to the premises. Which means I need a key to every lock, on every door. In an emergency, we can’t have anything slowing us down, and due diligence requires me to survey the entire property today.”
“I’ll give them to you. But…” From out of nowhere, she i
nexplicably felt pathetic and she didn’t want her voice to reflect her inner turmoil. Drawing a deep breath, she prayed that she could keep her voice steady. Through sheer force of willpower, and buoyed by the concern that flooded his eyes, as though he was willing his strength to her, she kept it together. “Those are the rooms I consider the most private and frankly, I can’t stand the fact that I need you guys to be here in the first place. Please. Respect my privacy.”
He gave her an understanding nod. “Don’t worry. We’ll treat those rooms with the respect they deserve. May I follow you up now, for a quick check?”
“Fine.”
Chapter Eight
Gabe
As Gabe trailed a couple of stairs behind Andi, the fresh scent of lavender, and a lingering whisper-like trace of oil paint and turpentine surrounded him. He enjoyed the view of her long, slender legs and tight butt in faded jeans that were splotched with paint.
Odd, but with the plethora of details and all the photographs that were in her client file, his due diligence hadn’t prepared him for finding her so…interesting. Complex. Compelling. Adorable.
Oh hell—just plain mesmerizing.
There was no denying she had the physical attributes of his favorite type of woman—long-legged, dark-haired, with a heart-shaped face. Physically, she was exactly the kind of woman he’d made a habit of avoiding, for fear of getting too attached. But there was something more than her looks. In the bright sunlight of the mudroom, throughout their conversation, until now…he’d never before felt whatever the hell he was feeling now.
Almond-shaped, expressive eyes had looked almost velvety-brown at first glance, but with the sun of her mudroom hitting them, he’d seen deep, forest green undertones. The intense color did justice to the roiling emotions underlying each of her glances, each pause before she spoke, each carefully thought-through word and sentence.
His fascination had begun as he’d watched her focus on her cleanup tasks, as her slender hands washed her paintbrushes. Or it could’ve been when she’d surprised the hell out of him by almost succeeding with her attempt to knee him in the groin. Or possibly, it was as simple as she’d stoked his love of a challenge, and, with her steadfast refusal to say his name, she’d given him a flashing ‘game-on!’ signal.
It could’ve just been her delicate feet, with lavender toenails, which were now padding up the stairs, her footfalls silent on the runner. Or perhaps it was the smudge of brownish-orange paint on her left cheek, where her creamy flesh lifted and rounded over the delicate, high arch of her cheekbone.
Or maybe it was that her voice sometimes fell to a whisper. There was something about that whisper that yanked on every fiber of his heart, in a way he’d never felt before. When she said she wanted the agents to not make her feel crazier than she was, her voice had been so quiet, he’d almost missed the words.
As they reached the landing at the top of the townhome’s first flight of stairs, the doorbell rang. Andi paused, and turned towards the front of the house. Gabe turned as she did. On the first floor, at the base of the stairwell, Marks stepped out of the security room. “Ms. Hutchenson. Ms. Morrissey is here.”
Andi hesitated, then nodded. Gabe moved to the side, allowing Andi to pass him as she retraced her steps on the wide stairwell. “Let her in.”
Taylor entered, her heels clacking on the marble floor of the foyer, as Andi reached the bottom of the stairs. Gabe stopped mid-way down and stood to the side.
“Hey, honey.” Taylor stepped further into the foyer. Marks shut the solid door and slid the locks into place. “I’ve tried calling all day. Why are you avoiding me?”
“Don’t get too close. I’m a mess. I’ve been outside for hours.” Andi lifted her hands, waving off Taylor’s outstretched, ready-for-a-hug, arms. “Even though it’s chilly, the sun was bright. I’m sticky with sunblock and probably wet with paint and you, as usual, look perfect.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Taylor stepped forward and wrapped Andi in a friendly hug despite her friend’s resistance, then held onto her shoulders, at arm’s length.
Marks glanced up the stairs. Gabe gave him an I’ve-got-this nod, and the other man disappeared into the security room.
The file indicated the two women had been best friends since they were toddlers, and Taylor was the only friend from Andi’s pre-kidnapping days with whom Andi maintained regular contact. As Taylor gave her friend a lingering, scrutinizing glance, Gabe studied the contrasts between them. Andi—barefoot. No makeup or jewelry. Choppy hair short, with blunt edges that barely touched her shoulders. Faded jeans. A loose, over-sized white, long-sleeve shirt that was half tucked into the waistband of her jeans. Taylor—in pumps. Dark blue slacks. A soft, cream colored sweater. Bright lipstick on a fully made-up face. Long, golden-brown hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.
“The new haircut’s fab,” Taylor said. “Did Juliette do that?”
“I did most of it. Juliette had to help with the back this morning.”
“Seriously? You did it?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night. When I got sick of feeling sorry for myself, I watched a few YouTube videos. I had scissors, and you know the rest.” Andi pushed a chunk of hair behind her ear, then slipped her hands in her back pockets. “Really? It’s okay? Juliette wanted to kill me. But then, after she tweaked it a bit, she thought it would work.”
Had he not been in silent mode, standing on the stairs and being as unobtrusive as possible, Gabe would’ve told her ‘don’t worry. It’s perfect.’
“Are you kidding? It’s fantastic. It’s stylish. Better than the Chanel models in the latest ads.”
Andi pulled her hand out of her back pocket and gestured to the stairs. “Come on up. The new agent is finishing a security check, since I had a couple of doors locked while I was out.”
“Oh. Hi, Gabe,” Taylor said, looking up the stairs. “Welcome to New Orleans. Brandon told me you were arriving today.”
“Hello, Taylor.” Gabe moved to the side of the wide stairwell, allowing them to pass in front of him.
Andi kept her attention on her friend. “You know him?”
“Gabe’s the brother of Zeus Hernandez. He and Brandon are good friends. So yes, we’ve met a few times.” Taylor smiled at Gabe. “Brandon thinks the world of you.”
“Thank you,” he said as they passed in front of him. “Always good to hear something like that.”
Pausing at the door to her bedroom, Andi pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked it. She pushed it open, and moved to the side so he could pass. The room had a neatly made king-size bed, white linens with lavender-colored AH monograms, and bouquets of fresh lavender in vases on bedside tables. His gaze locked on the embroidered H. As he observed the scrolls and curls of the ornate stitching, he admired how special a plain old H could look when it symbolized generations of family wealth, an enormous inheritance, and more than a little good taste.
Gabe walked to the far window and checked the locks, then moved to the other window. They stood in the doorway as he did his check. The eye aversion and straight face required for personal security jobs came with training, as did his ability to observe every minute move the client made while appearing not to be looking at her.
“I’m sorry, Tay. I just can’t go.” Andi drew a deep breath.
Ah. So she does use nicknames.
“I know you put a lot of effort into the opening. From personal assurances with Jacques and Sonja that I’d show up, to a social media push. Flowers. A caterer. But I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Judith’s done the leg work. She’s been happy to act as a party planner for the event.” Taylor rested her right hand on her friend’s shoulder, while giving Andi a soft, reassuring glance. “I shouldn’t have pushed you into it. I let Sonja’s enthusiasm carry me away. I was blinded by the Stapleton name.”
The Stapleton Gallery. Gabe had just met the owner. Sonja was Sonja Long, the wife of Doctor Walter Long. Both were in Andi’s former social circle. The client
file had provided a few details, since Sonja, after spotting one of Andi’s paintings at Taylor’s house, had been the impetus for the opening. The Longs were fervent art aficionados and philanthropists. They’d made New Orleans their primary home five years earlier. Walter had made a fortune in designing and patenting surgical devices. Sonja, his younger wife, had inserted herself into the art and social community by volunteering with art museums, taking classes at the art academy, and chairing large-scale fundraisers.
“Sonja’s enthusiasm is warranted…” Taylor was saying, as Gabe stepped into the walk-in closet. He was suddenly surrounded by hanging sweaters and shirts. Plenty of jeans. Shelves held folded exercise clothes, as well as linens and blankets. Cowboy boots, tennis shoes, and other casual shoes were in racks. Rods where dresses would’ve hung were empty. “Look at how fast Jacques leapt at the chance to represent your work once he saw the photos. Jacques wouldn’t take on your work if he didn’t believe there was tremendous potential. And he isn’t doing you a favor, Andi. I know you two were friends—”
“Don’t know if I’d call him a friend.” Keeping her tone matter of fact, but lowering her volume slightly, Andi added, “I slept with him. More than once. Which doesn’t make him any different than the other people I slept with, and we both know there were quite a few. That doesn’t necessarily make him a friend. It isn’t a big deal, considering how much I used to sleep around.”
In the closet, using a footstool to check the lock on a window, Gabe was unable to stop himself from listening. Pre-kidnapping social media use, provided in the file as background information, had given him a hint that she’d been active. The casualness with which she now acknowledged her past behavior gave him another view at how different her life was now.
“I was only being polite,” Taylor said.
“I know. Hell.” In a voice that suddenly carried a bit of regret, she continued, “I just can’t believe how…available I was before the kidnapping. I know. You tried to tell me sex wasn’t a sport. Geez. Why didn’t I listen?”
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