Caballo Security Box Set

by Camilla Blake

  “Ready?” I asked, offering her my arm. She smiled brightly.

  “Let’s get this day started.”

  Chapter 6

  Ox

  I lifted a drink to my lips, sipping the cool liquid only to wait for the burn as it slid down my throat. One might think the son of an alcoholic would avoid hard liquor under most circumstances, but the past few weeks hadn’t been most circumstances.

  I often wondered what my father would think if he could see us now—me, Oliver, and Mother. Would he be disappointed in us? Would he be ashamed? Or would he understand the choices we’d made? I wasn’t sure even I understood the choices I’d made, let alone the ones Oliver made.

  Oliver’s choices were in the past now. He’d gone to prison for our mother, doing what he thought was right at the time. Whether that was true or not no longer mattered as it had only a peripheral impact on what was happening now.

  If our mother had gone to jail instead of Oliver… But what ifs were a waste of time.

  If I was truly honest with myself, I would admit that the true origin of all my problems right now started with Odette. The day she died, my family was shattered. It wasn’t just that Mom chose then to start drinking. It was that—and more. It was the wrongful death lawsuit that dragged through the courts for years. It was Dad’s decision to leave the police force. It was the arguing and the discord, the stress of beginning a new business. And then it was death. Again.

  I needed Oliver more than ever during the first years we were in charge of Caballo. He was there, as reliable as he’d ever been. But then the accident and… I needed him now, too, but I was almost afraid to tell him the extent of the mess I’d gotten us into.

  Investors. That’s what I kept telling him. But it was much darker than that.

  If we didn’t get out of this hole I’d dug, telling Oliver would be the least of my problems.

  I swallowed the last bit in the tumbler and lifted the decanter to pour myself some more. Before I could, Skylar came blowing in and took the decanter from my hand, replacing the lid and carrying the whole thing back over to the hidden bar where it lived when not decorating the top of my desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You need to go home, Ox. Preferably now so that I can go home five minutes from now.”

  “Why are you waiting on me? You could have left at five.”

  “You’re the boss. I stick around until you leave in case you need something.”

  “I don’t need anything. Go away.”

  “Plus, I worry about you. I don’t want you sitting up here all night worrying about Brock and Paris and that whole thing.”

  My eyes narrowed as I regarded her. “What do you know about it?”

  “Probably too much.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I file your paperwork and answer your phones. You pick up a thing or two doing all that.”

  “Learn to mind your own business.” I climbed to my feet, jerking my jacket off the back of my office chair. “I’m going home, but not because you told me to. Because I’m fucking exhausted and tomorrow’s another damn day.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “I’m not doing it for you.”

  “So you said.”

  I stormed around the desk, past her and her white tights with the geometric shapes on them, the heavy green sweater that was much too much sweater for a Texas summer, and the pink-and-green scarf tied in a huge bow around her hair. Her outfits seemed to be more outrageous with each passing day, but there was something almost attractive about her style, so I couldn’t complain about it. Though those tights…

  “You’d have a life if you weren’t always hanging around here, worrying about me,” I told her.

  “How do you know I don’t have a life? For all you know, I’m married and have a kid on the way.”

  I glanced back at her, at her slender—if fully shaped—figure, and scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “I would know.”

  She smiled, a twinkle coming into her eyes. “That’s what you think.” She came to me, resting a hand on my arm. “It’s not as bad as it seems. Brock will do what he’s supposed to do.”

  Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the fact that she’d worked for me for four years. Or maybe it was just the moment, but I pulled her into my arms and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

  “Thanks, Skylar.”

  I just hoped she was right. Having Luna Walsh walk into my office was both a blessing and a curse. Ms. Walsh had a power she wasn’t even aware of. If we failed her and word of that spread… it would be the end of Caballo. Not only that, but it could send me to prison.

  I’d put my own life in the hands of the one operative who was the least likely to have a win at Fashion Week in Paris, and I’d done it because I was too chicken to admit to my own failings.

  What an epitaph that would make!

  Chapter 7

  Luna

  What a busy, crazy day!

  From fashion show to fashion show to meetings, manufacturers wanting my designs, designers wanting my designs, everyone seemed to want my designs! It was what I wanted, but it was so overwhelming all at the same time. It was a relief to leave all that to Angela while Brock and I went on a tour of the city.

  I didn’t really plan an organized tour, just thought we’d drive around and stop wherever we both had an interest in further investigation. But it didn’t take but a minute for Brock to get excited—as much as a man who never spoke got excited—when we passed signs for tours of the Catacombs.

  “Do you know the history of the Catacombs?” I asked.

  Brock glanced at me, lowering his head slightly to acknowledge my words. I think. Or maybe he was answering my question. I wasn’t quite sure.

  “They say there are more than six million people buried in the Catacombs.”

  “They were mostly limestone mines that had been dug out horizontally and abandoned when the stone was depleted. Then the cemeteries became overcrowded, a hazard as they began to collapse all around the city, so the king ordered the bodies moved to the newly charted mines.”

  I gasped, staring at him. That was the most he’d said to me all in one string of conversation since we first set eyes on each other a little over twenty-four hours ago.

  He turned back to the window, almost as if he were embarrassed. “History is a hobby of mine.”

  “It’s a good hobby.” I leaned forward and tapped on the partition between us and the driver. “Pull over, please.”

  “We probably shouldn’t get out,” Brock advised me.

  “Who’s going to harass me on a tour of the Catacombs? Besides, I promised you a tour of the city and this is the first thing you’ve shown interest in.”

  I could see the excitement in his eyes. He really did want to do this. I grabbed my jacket and climbed out of the car, forcing him to chase after me. It was a simple thing to get tickets and arrange for a private tour—money flashed at the right people could do just about anything—taking us into the tunnels within minutes of arriving.

  They were narrow passages with pale lights strung up along the walls. The first set of skeletons came up so much faster than I expected. I made a little noise in my throat when I saw them, not so much from fear or disgust, but because sometimes knowing and then seeing can be two very different things.

  Brock pressed a hand to the small of my back as we made our way through a particularly narrow passage, the feel of his warm, masculine palm against my clothing reassuring in a way that was impossible to put into words.

  “Here you can see some of the renovations done by Héricart de Thury in the early 1800s,” the tour guide informed us. “Héricart de Thury used the bones themselves as decorations, creating whole spaces made of just femurs, other spaces that created a display of skeletal deformities that were discovered during the transfer of the bones from the cemetery to the Catacombs.”

  It was fascinating, but it freaked me out a little. Brock, on the other hand, seemed fasci
nated by the whole thing, drinking in every word the tour guide had to share with us.

  “The Catacombs were largely forgotten until the late nineteenth century when people used them as a venue for concerts…”

  I couldn’t imagine coming to a concert in a place like this. It was spooky enough to chill me just on a walk-through—imagine staying in one spot long enough to take in an entire show. I wasn’t sure I could do it.

  Another group—a much larger and louder group—came up around us as we stood in one fairly large room, staring at a wall of skulls. Brock pulled me up in front of him and rested his hands on my shoulders, like a lover might do in a similar situation. I could feel him sort of rolling his shoulders forward, protecting me from the bustle of this other group, but a part of me could pretend that he wasn’t worried about my safety, but was taking advantage of the situation to be close to me. Was that a stupid thing to fantasize about? Maybe. But it was nice.

  When the other group passed, our guide directed us to follow in their wake. Brock stayed close to me, his hand once again pressed to the small of my back even though there weren’t many places I could go to lose my way, not in these narrow corridors. As we paused to read a plaque on the wall that explained more of the renovations that had been done, I slipped my hand into Brock’s and he didn’t pull away. In fact, he squeezed my hand lightly.

  Was it a cliché to fall for my bodyguard? I was never one to embrace clichés, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

  Angela was waiting when we arrived back at the hotel hours later.

  “Michael Fabre has been waiting for you for nearly an hour,” she announced as we strode quickly across the lobby.

  I knew the name. Everyone in fashion knew the name. He was one of the top jewelry designers in the business. What did he want to talk to me about?

  “Where is he?”

  Angela gestured to the elevators. “He insisted on waiting in your suite.”

  I grunted, not sure that was good news. What had I left lying around in the suite? Was it clean? Was the bed made? Were my jewels put away?

  “I know you don’t like people in your room when you’re not around, but he insisted. He didn’t want a bunch of people to see him just waiting around for you.”

  “Did he mention what he wanted to talk about?”

  “No. But there’s a rumor going around that he’s set to retire, and he wants to find someone to take over his company.”

  I shook my head even as my heart leapt into my throat. “Don’t perpetuate rumors, Angela. It’s unprofessional.”

  We boarded the elevator, the three of us. Brock stood near the front of the box, in front of the doors, looking incredibly intimidating the way he held his hands in front of his body. I found myself studying his back, the masculine lines and angles that hinted at the muscles, the power under his clothing. I should be worrying about this titan of industry who was in my suite. Instead, I was imagining what it would be like to run my hands over this stranger’s back, what it would feel like to press my palms against his rounded ass.

  God, he was gorgeous!

  “What’s on the agenda tonight?”

  Angela rolled her thin shoulders. “Nothing. You had dinner scheduled with Rebecca Klein, but her people called. She’s been delayed because of trouble with her plane. She won’t be arriving in Paris until morning.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Breakfast with the new designer from Israel, two more fashion shows, then lunch with Elizabeth Clauson. Then there’s the Prada party tomorrow night.”

  I nodded, biting my bottom lip as I tried to picture Brock in a tux. He looked pretty good in a suit. He’d probably looked impossibly dapper in a tux.

  The elevator doors slid open and my heart once again leapt into my throat. I took a deep breath and walked with all the confidence I could manage toward the door, controlling everything from the sway of my hips to the swing of my arms. I could feel Angela and Brock coming up behind me, could hear the shuffle of their feet on the carpet.

  “Stay here,” I said, not looking at them. Brock was a distraction and Angela was… well, she was a minion. Michael Fabre was notorious for a lack of patience when it came to minions. It was best to face him alone.

  “Ms. Walsh,” Brock began, an argument on the tip of his tongue that I silenced with a look.

  “This is my business. If I’m not safe in that room with this man right now, then I’m not safe anywhere.”

  I took a deep breath and walked inside without another word.

  “Mr. Fabre,” I said, forcing a smile. The man himself was sitting on the couch, glancing through a magazine the hotel had provided. He stood when I said his name, his movements slow and deliberate. He came toward me, a frail man with white hair and a thin body hidden under shoulder pads and expensive tailoring. His suit was Italian, his loafers a brilliant use of the softest leather. His cologne also smelled expensive, probably one of those that cost more than dinner at a proper Texas steak house.

  “I apologize for invading your private space, Ms. Walsh,” he said, his speech as clear and elegant as it was the first time I’d heard it, years ago in an interview he did on some news show. We’d never met in person, but I knew everything there was to know about him. Anyone who called themselves a jewelry designer knew Michael Fabre.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.”

  “You’re very much in demand around here. I’ve heard your name on many, many lips in the past twenty-four hours. Everyone thinks highly of your designs.”

  I lowered my head. “High praise from someone of your caliber.”

  “Yes, well, it is the law of nature that the young rise and conquer the old. And, like it or not, I am the old these days.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Your designs are still in high demand.”

  “On occasion. But they are not as fresh and exciting as what I’ve seen coming from the newer generation, yours especially.” He pressed his hands together and rubbed them briefly, almost as if they were paining him. “Which is what brings me here. I’d like to talk to you about the future of your company.”

  I gestured for us to sit on the couch. As he settled, I smoothed my hands over the thighs of my slacks, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. I plan to retire at the end of this fall season. My granddaughter, Celia, has expressed interest in taking over the business side of things, but we’re looking for a designer to take over that aspect of the business.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a granddaughter.”

  Michael smiled. “She’s a beautiful creature, my Celia. The only child of my only child, she’s a devoted young woman. I couldn’t ask for a better heir to the empire I’ve built for myself. The only thing that would make it better would be if she could design the jewelry and other items our company produces, but she doesn’t have a creative bone in her body, poor child. She is a whiz when it comes to numbers and marketing and all that stuff I never cared much for, though.”

  “I would guess that comes in handy.”

  “It does, and it has for several years now. She’s taken what was a financial mess and turned it into a working corporation. We’re bigger, more solid than we have been since I began in this business more years ago than I care to think about. Together, we’ve been a perfect team. But recently I’ve developed a few health issues that are taking up more and more of my time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Michael shrugged. “It happens when you live a hard life as a young man.” He sighed. “I just… I would like to say I have time to train an apprentice, to take someone raw and form them into someone who can produce designs like I have always done. But that’s not possible. So, plan B is to hire someone who is already established in their own name. Someone who can step into my shoes and continue the business with a fresh approach. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I thought I did and the idea was so far beyond any hope I’d ever
had that I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it. The idea of merging my small company with one that had as much prestige and as large a customer list as his was almost overwhelming.

  “I have spoken to several designers in the past few weeks and have narrowed my list of choices down to just a few.” Michael studied my face. “Since arriving here, I’ve realized that you should have been at the top of the list. Therefore, I’m wondering if you would be interested in being considered as my replacement at Fabre Inc.”

  What do you say to something like that? My heart wanted to jump for joy; I wanted to throw my arms around his shoulders and thank him profusely for finally validating all the hard work I’d put into my career, for showing me that I’d finally made it. If Michael Fabre wanted me, then I must be doing something right! I didn’t stop to think about what this would mean for my future, and the future of my own brand.

  “I would be honored to be considered.”

  Michael smiled brightly. “Good. Perhaps we can have lunch later in the week, discuss it in more detail.” He stood then, straightening the tail of his coat as he did. “I’ll have my people get in touch with yours.”

  I followed him to the door, in something of a trance as I went through the mechanical actions of a polite goodbye. The moment he was gone, I rushed to the balcony, needing to take a deep breath of the cool evening air.

  “Is everything okay, Ms. Walsh?” Angela asked.

  “You’re done for the night, Angela. Go on—do whatever.”

  “Are you sure? We could go over—”

  “Please, Angela. Go!”

  I could feel her hesitation, but then she backed away, the snap of the door closing almost a relief to my suddenly overtaxed mind.

  I stood out there on that balcony for I don’t know how long. Hours, maybe. Or minutes. When I returned to the suite, Brock was leaning against the wall, watching me from several yards away.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, his voice warm. Rich. The kind of voice I always imagined losing myself in when I imagined what it would be like to find the right man.