The park was downriver from the city, stretching from the Marigny to the Bywater neighborhood. The parade route was a few miles away, on the upriver side of the Quarter. The noise of the afternoon parades was too far away to be heard where she was, and that was fine with her. Parades drew people like magnets drew steel, and the parades that were rolling today had drawn people out of the surrounding neighborhoods, including the park.
The actual day that was Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, was nine days away. The streets of the Quarter and surrounding neighborhoods would grow more crowded with revelers as the day approached.
I’ve gotten better, but I’m not ready to test my limits with that wild crowd.
She shivered. It would all be too much. By the Thursday before Mardi Gras, in just four days, the streets would be choked with people and Andi would have to be inside for the remainder of the season. Thank God the mayhem abruptly ended on Tuesday night at midnight, when Lent began and the city officially started cleaning itself of the evidence of the weeks-long party.
She focused on the entrance to the park, then the sky. Zipping her jacket to ward off the chilly, humid breeze drifting off the river, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and glanced at her palette. Sure, the cobalt blue and titanium white she’d mixed would work, but, as her gaze bounced from palette to sky, she realized it wasn’t optimal. The resulting color wouldn’t come close to giving the canvas the shimmering brilliance of the sky she was seeing. The hue wouldn’t appropriately set off the greenery of the park, or the rusty orange of the footbridge.
Glancing away from the palette and her canvas, she focused on the footbridge. Movement where the rusty-orange, arched structure met the sky caught her attention. Agent Hernandez was on the downward slope, taking the stairs at an easy, long-legged pace. Efficient. Fast.
He’d said two. Was it that late already?
A quick glance at her father’s wristwatch confirmed the time. Telling herself she was using her creative eye, she let her gaze follow the agent as he approached. Wearing all black, his windbreaker was zipped enough to cover the gun that she knew was holstered at his waist. He walked the pathway with an athlete’s grace. His physique had the harmonious proportions that were found in fine art depicting men who weren’t mortal. Sketching him in just about any position would be a pleasure.
Hell. Be honest. He’s smoking hot. Back in the day, I wouldn’t have wasted one second thinking about sketching him. Only one thing would’ve come to mind, and woo-hoo. I’m thinking about it now. One. Delicious. Thing.
He gave her a cool hello nod as he passed, continuing along the path on his way to his agents. She bit her lip and tried to keep her face impassive, while a blush burned her neck. Erogenous zones, areas of her body that had once loved to be touched, were tingling with a feeling that had once been familiar and normal. Now, as nerve endings—between her legs, along the back of her neck, at the peaks of her breasts—awakened, the sizzling feeling was foreign.
Hello, lust. I’ve missed you. I think. Why is it you’ve decided to make an appearance, after two and a half years, when I’m looking at a man who annoys the hell out of me? No way. Down, girl. Not gonna happen.
Focus on the task at hand. Focus.
The color she’d mixed on her palette had too much cobalt in it. She glanced up again at this afternoon’s sky...clear and brilliant. More of the lighter hue of cerulean than cobalt. Squinting her eyes, she studied the horizon. She’d use a bit of cadmium yellow, and perhaps a bit of Naples yellow, to give the horizon that feeling that the earth was rising into the sky.
Okay. I have my road map. I know what to do.
“Stevens. Head back to the townhouse. Let me know when you’re there.”
The brown-headed agent walked towards the footbridge, presumably following Agent Hernandez’s instructions.
Don’t listen to him. Aw. Hell. Impossible not to.
Instead of thinking about painting, she listened to the timbre and tone of his voice as he continued talking to the agent who was present, and the other team members who were elsewhere. It had taken her a while to get used to the communication system Black Raven used. The earpiece was so tiny, it was almost invisible, which gave the agents the appearance of talking into thin air. Normally, when they spoke, she didn’t hear them and she usually didn’t pay attention if she did.
It wasn’t a surprise that his voice came through as loudly as if he was shouting, because, as she’d told him the night before, everything about him annoyed the hell out of her.
“If we’re going to be here much longer, I’ll…”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
None of the other agents broke her concentration. Or made her need to squeeze her legs together to combat the sudden, strong urge for sexual release.
What the hell is my problem? I don’t even like him.
Okay. Breathe. Don’t fixate. She picked up a tube of blue and almost squeezed some onto her palette, before realizing she’d inadvertently picked up cobalt blue. She was about to make the mistake she was trying to avoid. Not cobalt. She needed cerulean blue.
“Marks? When Stevens arrives, head to the gallery for recon. It’s a simple set up. I’ve talked to Stapleton, and here’s the layout…”
Grinding her teeth in annoyance, the urge for sex was forgotten at his mention of the gallery. She squeezed out too much cerulean blue on the palette.
“…a three-man team at the gallery, with one behind at the house. And heads up, Brandon Morrissey will also be at the open—”
Andi spun on her heels. Five feet behind her, Agent Hernandez continued instructing his men. “Hey! Megaphone Mouth. Keep it down. I’m not going to the opening, so—” She lifted a hand and waved it at him. “—do whatever you need to undo the plans you just made.”
Dark sunglasses, aviator style, covered his eyes, so she couldn’t see the preternaturally happy, at-peace-with-the-world look that she’d come to expect from him. Not seeing his green eyes made everything about him seem off. Even more off was the absence of a smile. There wasn’t even a play of an upward tilt at the left corner, where there was usually a twitch that revealed constant inner mirth. Or whatever the hell it was that usually had him so goddamn happy.
Since she’d seen him last, something had handed him a great big dose of seriousness. The effect on him was…chilling.
He spoke, presumably into his mic for the agents. “Proceed as directed. Over.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
He nodded. “Of course I did, Honcho—”
“Dammit, would you stop calling me names—”
Finally, the beginning of a smile played at his lips. “Excuuuse me—”
“Oh my God. You’re really going to act like a ten-year-old?”
He chuckled. “That, from the woman who just called me Megaphone Mouth? At least I have a reason for getting creative with names for you, since you’ve prohibited usage of my usual form of addressing a female client—”
She snapped her fingers, cutting him off. “Focus on your job. I said I’m not going to the gallery opening. No one needs to proceed as you just directed them, which I heard, due to your voice being so godawful loud. I don’t think you need your mic system to get the message across to anyone, even if they’re on Mars.”
He folded his arms. “Fine, Ms. Hutchenson. Heard you loud and clear.”
Yet he wasn’t doing anything about it. Sure as she was breathing, she knew why he felt inaction was warranted. Hell.
“Taking a bathroom break.” She dropped her palette knife into her pochade box.
“Tyre, I’ve got this. Stay with her things.”
As Andi walked to the footbridge that arched over the levee and led to the park exit, he fell in step with her, walking at her side.
“You’re thinking I’ll change my mind. Yet again.”
“Actually, I was thinking things would be easier if you called me Gabe. And perhaps saying nicely, ‘hey Gabe, pipe down. I’m trying to figure out why this painting is coming
out flat—’”
“My painting is fine. Fooling with color is part of the process, Agent Smart-Ass. Don’t dodge the question. You think I’ll change my mind again, and you don’t want to say that, because you know that’s going to royally piss me off. Am I right?”
“I’m confused. Are you asking whether you’re right about what I’m really thinking right now? Or are you asking about whether I’m worried about pissing you off?”
“What the hell is the difference?”
He chuckled as he glanced sideways at her, then resumed looking forward as they took the first few steps of the footbridge. “Let’s just say I’m damn glad you’re not a mind reader. Although you may not believe it, there really is a filter between my mouth and my brain. Oh. And about the opening. Yep. I’m preparing for the slim possibility that you’ll decide to go. We need to do preliminary work so we’re prepared in case you change your mind about changing your mind.”
“I won’t. So you can stop worrying about it. Having your agents plan for my appearance there is a wasted effort—”
“Look,” he said, pausing on the stairs and folding his arms. She stopped with him. The breeze blew hair in her eyes, which she pushed to the side. “I won’t tell you how to paint, Kemosabe, and you don’t tell me how to do my job. And if you’ve got that much of a problem with me, that my voice is going to annoy the living shit out of you every time I speak, then...” He shrugged, with a full-on smile. “I could buy you ear plugs, or you can go ahead and fire me.”
She gave him a glare and kept walking. She couldn’t imagine telling Taylor and Brandon she’d fired their friend from her job because she didn’t like his smile, or the way he spoke, or because he seemed to care too much. “I told you last night, this job wasn’t going to get better. Everything about you annoys me. I told you to leave.”
“You’re not looking at a quitter, Ms. Hutchenson. And this job suits me just fine, as it is. And about it getting better, I’m…an optimist.” He walked alongside her as she took the last few steps to the top of the arched bridge.
“I was once, as well.” Talking to herself as much as to him, the words escaped before she thought twice about them. “Let me be living proof that sometimes, things don’t work out. I used to have your kind of smile, Agent Hernandez. Used to beam it out at the world and pull everyone into the illusion of happiness I created with it. What I didn’t understand was how fast that kind of happiness can be shattered. I also didn’t understand that some people have nothing to smile about. Didn’t realize how fast my world could turn into a nightmare, how pathetic I could become, how I’d never return to normal. And before you tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself—”
As the top span of the bridge gave way to a descending flight of stairs, his large body blocked her from taking the first step down. He lifted his sunglasses and pushed them over his hair. Eye level with her, he gave her a serious, searching gaze. “Just so we’re clear—because you really aren’t a mind reader. You have no idea what I’m thinking. I wasn’t going to say that. You understand me?
“I don’t think that you’re feeling sorry for yourself. To be perfectly honest–I wouldn’t even try to judge you. You lived through a terrible ordeal. You’re doing more than coping. I think you’re brave. Damn brave. God blessed you with unbelievable talent, and you’ve found a way to let your creativity shine. I think you’re being way too hard on yourself.”
Shocked into silence by his words and uncharacteristic seriousness, she looked away from him. She glanced at the spectacular view their vantage on top the bridge provided, but her eyes bounced back to him. Fast. He was better to look at. The cool air and gentle river breeze inexplicably carried a bit of the magic that was in his earnest smile and the light in his eyes.
Holy shit, this guy’s good.
“Thank you, Agent Delusional.”
As he arched an eyebrow, the gleam of inner laughter returned to his eyes. “Fine. Miss Can’t-Take-a-Compliment. And don’t you think ‘Gabe’ would have been an easier name to roll off your tongue just now?”
“Agent Gabe?”
“No.” He smiled. “Just Gabe.”
A mish-mash of annoyance, warmth, desire, and irritation zinged through her as she held his gaze. Deep inside, she wanted to laugh with sudden relief.
Weird. Now I’m really going crazy.
“I really do have to go to the bathroom.”
He chuckled, and gestured for her to walk ahead of him. They moved through the parking lot of the park, then waited for a car to pass before walking across Gallier Street.
“Kevin! I’m not…” As an old truck passed in front of them, the cough and splutter of engine noises drowned out the words. “I told you, Kevin! I’m not…" Andi turned her head in the direction of the female voice. At the end of the parking lot, a girl was pacing in the grass, with a cell phone to her ear. “No! No way! You’re a…”
There was more than a bit of distress in her voice. Hard to tell what was going on, from this distance. The girl turned to walk the other way and her voice faded. Long brown hair, in a ponytail. Early twenties. Black and white running clothes. Hot pink running shoes. An athletic belt, with a bottle of water tucked into it, at her waist. This wasn’t one of the street people Andi had sketched. She had a photographic memory for the invisibles, and this girl didn’t look like anyone she’d ever seen. The girl turned in their direction, as a red four-door sedan passed in front of them.
“I don’t know…” the girl said, her voice a little calmer. “Maybe.”
Andi glanced at the agent. His eyes were also on the young woman, then he turned to her. “Looks like a jogger. Possibly pausing to call her boyfriend with whom she’s had a fight. Upset, but she seems to be getting over it. Doesn’t look like she needs any help at the moment.”
Nodding in agreement, Andi crossed the street. It was disconcerting to be read so well by a man who hadn’t known her before yesterday. Even more disconcerting was how much comfort she found in his matter-of-fact, rational assessment. Tone? Not patronizing one bit. It inspired not only reliance, but confidence.
Careful. Don’t read too much into him. He’s only doing his job. He’ll move on soon and leave you exactly as he found you, without a backward glance.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath and re-erected the walls that seemed to be crumbling every time he glanced at her. He paused with her in the wide doorway of the casual, bright restaurant, scanning the Sunday brunchers as she stepped in. She’d been there enough times to feel somewhat safe, knowing there was an exit door beyond the bathroom, knowing that the people who ran the restaurant liked her and valued a safe atmosphere in their well-kept establishment. Still, she paused at the doorway, standing side-by-side with the agent as she likewise scanned the diners.
“People drinking enough mimosas and Bloody Marys in here to float a boat,” he said, reporting his observations in a low voice as he scanned the twenty tables that made up the dining room. “Two men at the four-top, in the far left corner. Possibly military. Maybe FBI or DHS. Brunette at the closest four-top with only two people at it? That purse might be concealing a weapon.”
Andi glanced at the brown leather purse sitting on the table next to the woman’s place setting. “Looks like a purse to me.”
“All purses can carry weapons. She’s got hers on the table, though, near her right hand, and she’s eating with her fork in her right hand. Grillades and grits. Looks good. Most women put their purses on the back of their chairs, or at their feet. We have to assume hers is on the tabletop for a reason.” He paused, looked down at her, and gave her a nod. “People are more focused on their food than us. Shrimp and grits look good. I’ll have to come back one day when I’m off. As a matter of fact, no one except for those two military men has even glanced in our direction. You’re safe.”
“The other agents usually just give a nod. Or some other silent signal for me to proceed inside.”
That provoked one of his smiles, but with h
is sunglasses firmly in place, the smile was like seeing a cake, without icing. “We all have our individual style, Boss.” Turning to face the restaurant again, he said, “Is that…okra…sticking out of a Bloody Mary?”
“Hey Andi,” the bartender called, walking through the kitchen’s swinging door to stand behind the long wooden bar.
Thank you, Jesus, for the interruption. Because I was staring at him. Staring. And getting ready to tell him he shouldn’t wear sunglasses, because they cover those gorgeous eyes. And that, my dear, is flirting. What, for the love of God, has gotten into me?
Squaring her shoulders again, she reminded herself of the need to be distant.
The bartender asked, “The usual?”
In winter months, the usual was scalding hot coffee, with steamed milk, and plenty of sugar, in a Styrofoam go-cup, with a lid. “Yes. Thank you, Brooke.”
Tall and blond, Brooke was one of the restaurant owner’s college-age daughters. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the agent at her side.
Slowly dragging her gaze back to Andi, Brooke asked, “An order of praline bacon today?”
“No, but thanks. I already had my daily allotment of bacon.” She glanced at the agent. He’d seemingly ignored Brooke’s longing glance, and her offer of bacon. The agents didn’t typically eat when on duty, so Andi wasn’t surprised that he didn’t place an order.
He was walking in step with her to the bathroom. “I use the single bathroom, off the hallway—”
“I’m aware. I’ll go in first, and check.” Which he did, then gave her an all’s clear nod as he paused in the doorway of the bathroom. “Clean and tidy. And safe. Nice soaps and hand lotion by the sink. I like this place.”
“Not relevant, Agent Hernandez.”
“What’s not?” Deadpan expression on his face, he looked down at her as he slowly exited the bathroom to stand next to her in the narrow hallway. He smelled of a forest after a rain—fresh, and woodsy. There was something undeniably, deliciously male underlying his scent. Just a few inches from her, she felt heat emanating from her body, reaching hers. Beckoning.
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