by Calinda B
Her breakfast arrived at 8am, sharp, wheeled in by an elegantly dressed guy about her age. He looked like a cookie-cutter version of a waiter, dressed in black slacks, a black vest, and a crisp white shirt. Nothing unique stood out. Even his face revealed no expression whatsoever.
“Can you…” she began. Then, thinking of her new role, she assumed a more demanding tone. “Please take it upstairs and place it on the table next to the bed.”
He nodded, removed the food from the cart, and hoisted it up the steps.
She studied him as he carried her breakfast. Does he work here? Do I tip him? Is it included in the price of the stay? She made a mental note to ask Margaret how to treat the staff.
Then, as she waited for his return, she took a moment to savor her surroundings.
The entire space contained architecturally-inspired tables and chairs, and lush fabrics by designers she’d never heard of, but needed to commit to memory, should anyone ask. Modern art hung from the walls. The windows were draped with rich fabrics. Everything in this space spoke of outrageous cost, status, and designer prestige. To her, it taunted, “See this? This wealth you’re immersed in? You, the orphaned child, can never dream of having this life. You’ll be granted access, but you’ll never, ever own it.”
But, do I really want to live this way? If owning this life meant having to take over two hours to get ready in the morning, after taking an hour to decide on what to wear, she wanted no part of it. Her usual routine consisted of don her uniform, grab a bite at the deli, and go. It wasn’t a bad life—maybe a little lonely at times, but, she did all right for herself. She worked her tail off, pouring her energy into her job, came home, crashed and got up the next day and did it all over again. That’s what people do, right?
She sighed. Who am I kidding? If she was honest with herself, what she longed for, no matter what income level accompanied it, was someone to love.
When the waiter guy returned, he asked, “Will there be anything else for you, mademoiselle?”
“No. Merci.”
“All right. My name’s Fabian, and I’ll see to your every dining need. All you need to do is ask. Claire is our chef. If you have any dining requests, any at all, I’ll see to it Claire hears of them.” He stood, staring at her, his mouth gaping as if mesmerized.
“Yes? Is there anything else you wish to say?”
His face reddened. “No, miss.” He averted his gaze. “You’re very pretty,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
He turned on his heel and disappeared out the door, pushing the cart, leaving her in silence.
The entire exchange felt…colorless. Like choosing toilet paper for the bathroom. Is this what’s in store for me?
She made her way back upstairs.
The tray had been arranged at the two-person table near the window. A cloth napkin, shaped like a weird, origami rabbit, stood atop a porcelain plate. She sat and nibbled at cheeses, yogurt, and fruit while sipping some of the best coffee she’d ever tasted. All the while, she stared blankly at her surroundings and the Manhattan skyline outside the window.
In Mosul, Iraq, she’d eaten what she could, when she could. The people there were starving. Even a slice of bread smeared with tomato paste was considered a luxury. Every day in Iraq, she’d had to scurry through the town like a rat, get rations, and avoid being shot.
Here, in this decadent living space, she mindlessly reached for a piece of toast from the silver tray next to her. Slathered with a “straight from heaven” strawberry jam, it tasted fresh off the farm, sweetened by angels. This was no “shop and shoot” mission, sliding through the shadows, lest she be caught as a woman outside her home. This was the life of the privileged. She didn’t need a gun to make sure she got to eat every day.
After finishing breakfast, she readied to face her biggest decision of the day—what to wear. She needed to represent the Weathersby family impeccably. She sauntered into the smaller bedroom and considered her options. Vera Wang or Chloé-Jane?
Four days ago, in Mosul, every inch of her skin was covered, from the black niqab covering her face, to the abaya, a loose-fitting gown. As she traversed the ravaged Iraqi city, even her eyes had to be covered, or she could be severely punished.
The differences between the two worlds made her mind spin.
She considered the tasteful, hipster garments spread across the bed of her guest room. There were designer sets, mix and match items—everything a girl could dream of wearing. As she stood, considering, a sense of giddy dizziness overwhelmed her. Each piece cost at least half her monthly wages as a SLAE employee. A few sets of accessories sat in velvet jewelry boxes. Even a five-figure Tiffany Art-Deco watch, bedecked with diamonds, had been laid out for her. Fully dressed, she’d be wearing a year’s income.
“Come on, you can’t keep stalling. Decisions must be made,” she urged herself, staring at the garments.
Finally, she chose a pale pink, tiered ruffled skirt, and a see-through, embroidered white lace shirt, both designed by Chloé-Jane. Paired with the calfskin ankle boots in the closet, she’d start the day in bohemian chic.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound came from downstairs. Don’t I have a doorbell? She looked up from the array of rich fabrics and hurried down the stairs. She’d have to get used to having the top two floors of a four-story manor. The endless space swallowed her, and the opulent riches overwhelmed her. Her real home consisted of a small, one-bedroom apartment. In Mosul, she’d stayed in the back of a family’s crowded apartment, spilling over with relatives and mongrel dogs.
Here, in this stunning apartment, she crossed the front room to the foyer, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug. When she reached the door, she peeked through the spy hole and relaxed. Adam.
Opening the door, she said, “Come in, darling,” in her best imitation of a wealthy woman’s voice.
He grinned. “Isn’t this unreal?” He stepped inside. Dressed in creased slacks and an expensive-looking button down shirt, he said, “Check this out.” He swept his hand up and down his body. “This get-up alone costs as much as my apartment.”
She shut the door behind him. “Right? I was thinking the same thing. My clothes cost a fortune.” She sighed. “I’d ask you to sit down, but I’m to prepare for the consultant, then the stylist. After that, someone will attend to my ‘dressing needs’ while I’m memorizing the dossier on my persona. And then we depart. All this for an afternoon at the Diamond Club. Lord help us when it’s dress-up night.”
He held up his hands, palms out. “Not to worry. I won’t be staying—I only came to check in with you. Except the idea of watching you be dressed…” He tilted his head and tapped his lips with his forefinger.
She punched his shoulder, laughing. “Not happening.”
He grinned. “You can’t stop a guy from dreaming.”
“You’re with someone.”
“And I’ll be with her until the day I die, God willing. She knows I’m a big tease. And, she knows I swing both ways. I scored when I met her. She accepts me as I am.”
Wistful pangs of longing poked at her insides. She doubted she’d ever have what Adam had—someone who simply accepted her, as is, and cherished her. She seldom dated, fearing rejection. Being an orphan hadn’t helped her develop a strong foundation of trust when it came to relationships. She refused to allow anyone to get too close—they’d only leave her.
She sighed, reining her attention to the moment.
She swept out her arm, indicating the lavish front room. “I changed my mind. Go ahead. Come on in for a minute.” She glanced at an imaginary watch. “I think I can spare ten minutes. Soon, Margaret arrives, the person in charge of making sure I get everything right, from diction to the shape of my toenails. Jeez.”
He entered the room, scanning his surroundings. “I know. A guy named Xavier will be doing the same for me. Except my job is to blend in and watch. Yours is that of a showy peacock.” He took in her suite, then whi
stled. “Damn. They must have put me in the servant’s quarters. You got the deluxe version, girl.”
“It’s going to take some getting used to.” She followed him into the front room, standing next to him at the picture window overlooking Central Park.
“You want to know what my view is?” He turned to look at her. “The street. At least you get some green signs of life.”
“I am the daughter of the wealthy Marcus Weathersby.” She rubbed against him, pushing into him with her side. “I’m so glad you’ll be with me, acting as my bodyguard.”
He placed his arm around her shoulders. “Me, too.”
“How dangerous do you think this will be?” She pressed closer to him, snaking her arm around his waist.
“Don’t know. But that’s for me to worry about, not you.” His lips formed a grim line. “You’re clear on your part in the mission, right?”
She nodded. “I’m to pretend to be Naeva Weathersby. I’ve been in Paris since I was a child. Returning to the Diamond Club will allow me to get to know more about the heist they’re planning. I’ll keep my eyes open, my ears open, ask questions and listen a lot. Someone knows something. I doubt it will be discussed in open conversation, but somehow I’ll find out who knows what.”
“Good. You’ve got the gist. Marcus seems to know more than he’s letting on.”
“Do ya think?” Savannah scoffed. “I think he thinks he’s playing us. Let’s let him think that. But, I guarantee you he doesn’t know how smart I am. Or, how good I am at my job.”
“You got that right. I don’t even think SLAE recognizes your talents. And, they’re too macho to admit you saved their asses in Iraq. You’re right, they’re only using you as a scapegoat for Agent Lambert’s transgressions. You’re someone to blame in the media while they cover their asses.”
“Oh, God, I’m in the news?” She groaned.
“Not by name. But how many females does SLAE employ?”
“Not many. Still, the company is out of the public eye for the most part. We work in secret. Some news hound probably needed a filler piece.”
“No doubt. It will die down soon.” He let out a long, slow breath. “Anyway,” he began, pivoting away from the window. “I only came to touch base. I’d best get back to Xavier. He’s cute,” he added. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Since you won’t play.”
“Adam, Adam, Adam. My bi-guy best friend.”
“At your service.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek before departing. “See you in a few.”
Several hours later, having been styled, made-up, coached, and groomed, Savannah stood at the entrance, smoothing down her skirt. She took a deep breath and stepped out into her private hall.
Adam stood in the foyer between the elevator and her front door, ready to be her bodyguard. He smiled appreciatively. “Nice. You look the part.”
“Thank you. You, too.” She swallowed back her nerves.
“Ready?” He held out his hand.
She ran her tongue across her teeth and smiled. Then, she took his hand. “Ready.”
They talked little as they rode the lift down. It carried them down to the first-floor hallway. They stepped into the hall and made their way through the manor’s marble-floored foyer and out the double doors.
Holding her head high, assuming immaculate posture, as she’d been groomed, she walked ahead of Adam, heading for the black sedan.
He strode slightly behind her, no doubt scanning everything and everyone. Unlike her, he’d done his job many times—he simply hadn’t done it with this much style.
Raphael, once again in his statue-like pose next to the sedan, nodded when she strode toward the vehicle. He opened the door for her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?”
“Bonjour. Tres bien.” She smiled politely. With her head held high, her shoulders back, she sashayed toward the limo. Crouching slightly, she stepped into the sedan, settling next to her “father.”
Adam clambered in after her, taking his seat opposite her, as before.
Marcus greeted her warmly. “Naeva. You look refreshed. I take it you slept well?” He leaned forward and kissed both her cheeks.
“Yes, father. I did. And you?” Again, tobacco, aftershave, and some soapy scent filled her nose.
“Very well, thank you for asking.” Marcus looked toward the front seat where Raphael sat waiting. “You know where to take us, Raphael. Let’s proceed.”
“Yes, sir,” Raphael said. He gripped the steering wheel and eased onto the street.
Marcus raised the privacy wall. He slid his tablet free from the pocket of the door and began reading.
Savannah and Adam exchanged glances but said nothing.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an abandoned parking lot, near the Hudson River.
Adam scowled as he looked out the window. “What’s going on?”
Marcus shrugged. “Protocol. We’ll each be taken to the Club separately.”
Savannah’s heartbeat revved. She sat forward. “Absolutely not.”
Adam sat forward. “You could have mentioned this before we got here.”
“I didn’t think of it,” Marcus said smoothly. “The Club maintains strict privacy and security. Think of these men as the lions at the diamond studded gate. They prevent the riff-raff from entering.” He gave a crisp, smug smile.
“If you’re who you say you are, I’d think you’re hardly riff-raff,” Savannah said.
“I assure you, they’re not here for me.” Marcus looked down his nose at her.
“But why your daughter? This is an outrage.” Savannah’s pulse throbbed in her neck.
“No, daughter, it’s simply a ‘this is the way the Diamond Club conducts business’ kind of thing.” Marcus shrugged.
I already don’t like the Diamond Club.
A black Hummer pulled up next to the limo.
Savannah glanced out the tinted window next to her. A couple of meatheads sat in the front seat of the Humvee, making this whole exchange look more like a military transfer than a welcome to an exclusive club.
Rafael stepped toward her. He opened the door to where they sat. “Mr. Franzoni?”
“Here’s your ride,” Marcus said, adding a cold smile.
“What about Sav…Naeva?” he spluttered. “I don’t like this.”
“I told you, we’ll all be arriving separately.”
Not wanting to give away her cover in front of Rafael, Savannah looked from her fake father to Adam. “It’s okay, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.”
She hoped she sounded more reassuring than she felt.
Adam glowered. “Nothing had better happen to her.”
“I assure you she’ll be treated with the utmost care given to my offspring.”
Adam stayed silent. One glance told her he was not pleased, though. Neither was she.
“Dammit,” she said under her breath, glaring at Marcus.
He shrugged.
A large, suited man emerged from the Hummer. He opened the back door to the SUV and beckoned for Adam.
“Go on,” Marcus said, inclining his head toward the door. “Let’s get this done.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at the Club,” Adam said to her, conveying warmth and reassurance through his eyes. He clamped his lips together and exited.
He strode toward the SUV as if he was in charge.
Savannah shivered, already missing Adam’s presence.
Marcus gestured to Raphael. “Give us a moment.”
The driver closed the door.
Marcus turned to face Savannah. “There's something you need to know,” he said. “There's a reason my daughter has never been to the club. There are dues that have to be paid, things that have to be done.”
“What does that mean?” A squirming sensation filled her belly. She’d been told her job was to gather intel and get out.
The SLAE team would manage the rest. They’d send a team in to thwart the heist and arrest the ringlea
ders.
She sat rigidly, not liking the sound of “dues being paid.”
His attention drifted toward the window. “I’ll explain later. Your ride is here.”
“Wait a minute, don’t I deserve some answers?” The squirming turned into dreaded apprehension.
Marcus nodded to someone outside the limo before looking at her. “I promise you’ll get your answers. In the meantime…”
He rapped on the window.
Raphael opened the door.
“Wait, I…”
A tall, burly man extended his hand to her. “Let’s go, Miss Weathersby. I’m Frank, by the way.”
Goodness, he looks like a member of the mafia. She took his hand and exited the limo, staring at the matching sedan a few yards away.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said, releasing his sweaty palm.
She followed him across the dirty parking lot, lined with debris and broken glass. Pivoting her head, she looked behind her to see Marcus getting into the back of a Mercedes.
“This way, girly,” Frank called as he reached their limo. “Step along.”
He opened the back of the vehicle.
The squirms had made their way into her throat, draining any moisture from her mouth. Nothing about being separated from Adam and escorted to the club by goons looking more like mafia members felt safe. She swallowed, trying to coax saliva between her cheeks.
At the limo, she hesitated.
“It’s a car, sweetheart, not a death trap. Get in,” Frank insisted. He held out his hand to her.
She accepted his assistance into the car. He closed the door behind her.
A slight, mousy-looking man greeted her inside the passenger area.
He grinned, revealing a gold crowned central incisor. “Hey, honey. We’re going to make sure you have a pleasant ride.”
A leather briefcase sat in his lap.
“Thank you,” she said, her gaze darting around the inside of the vehicle. She sat as far away from this guy as she could.
“Right here.” He patted the seat next to him. He clicked open the locks on the satchel.
“I’m fine here.”
Any warmth he’d exuded vanished. “Right here.”