Solid Gold (Unseen Enemy Book 8)

by Marysol James

  “Trust me, Leeza,” Dallas said, and she looked up at the genuine kindness in his voice. “When Griff gets to work on Claire? She won’t know what hit her.”

  And as she gazed at Griff, all relaxed, rangy good looks and intelligent, honest charm, Leeza totally, utterly, completely believed it.

  Chapter Two

  At eight-oh-two the next morning, Griff was sitting in The Web Café with his warm knit hat pulled down low over his forehead, nursing a strong black coffee and staring out the window at the grayest, coldest early-February that he could recall in recent memory. He was no stranger to harsh winters and heavy snowfalls, of course, but he was taken aback at the wind that whipped on down the Rocky Mountains. Before moving to Denver, he hadn’t really experienced a wind that sliced your cheeks like a knife, and froze your air in your lungs, and cut through four layers of clothing like they were made of tissue paper.

  He was just wondering why the hell Claire Worthington would choose Colorado instead of, say, California, when the café door opened, and in strolled the woman herself. Griff didn’t react, of course, didn’t so much as glance her way as she stood in the door and stomped her boots to loosen the snow clinging to them – but he was hyper-aware of her every movement.

  She took off her mittens and her hat, unwound her scarf. She looked around the room, spotted a table on the other side of the café from Griff, headed over as she unzipped her heavy coat. As she did, she passed the barista with the neck tattoo who had served Griff his coffee, and the two women exchanged nods and smiles.

  “Hey,” the devastatingly-hip young woman who worked there said. “You frozen through?”

  “Yep,” Claire replied. “Frozen solid. But it’s OK. I like the cold.”

  At hearing the woman’s voice for the first time, Griff tensed up. It was a soft voice, a kind voice, and once again, he felt deep disgust and irritation at the massive gap between how Claire looked and came across, and how Claire actually was. Fuck, it was no wonder that the woman got away with all the shit that she did, huh? That gorgeous face and sweet voice made her look like an innocent little angel… but she was a cold, calculating bitch. Griff narrowed his eyes at his laptop screen, listened hard to their continued conversation.

  “The usual?” the cool-as-all-hell barista said, moving towards the counter. “And maybe some breakfast?”

  “Yep, the usual,” Claire said as she plunked her beaten-up backpack on the table. “And no breakfast today, Mirrie. I ate at home.”

  The woman named Mirrie nodded, and Griff watched as the weak winter sunlight caught her lip ring, and made it flash warm silver on her face. When he’d walked into The Web thirty minutes earlier and caught sight of Mirrie in her clashing clothing and dramatic eye makeup, with her flower neck tattoo and face piercings, he’d almost sighed at how tragically unhip and boring he was. The woman had made him feel old, in some weird way, and he’d stared at her off and on when she’d gone about her work, drawn to her fearless, almost irreverent vibe.

  Not that Griff had ever cared about being fashionable or the life of the party, to be honest. He was a white-dress-shirt-and-black-dress-pants kinda guy, always had been, and by nature, he was very much a ‘by the book’ man. Well, no surprise, considering his fondness for all things military- and rules-based. He respected boundaries, he didn’t cross lines, he took pride in being strictly professional.

  So yeah, Griff was a straight arrow, and he supposed that a woman like Mirrie would think him deadly-boring… and maybe he was, in some ways. But then he reflected on the fact that his life certainly hadn’t lacked in excitement in other ways, and right away, automatically, his fingers went to his neck. He loosened his tie, stroked his scar, he touched his I.D. tags, and he remembered that excitement and drama weren’t always all that they were cracked up to be. Sometimes boring worked just fine, thank you very much.

  He took a sip of coffee, casually looked in Claire’s direction without seeming to. She had her coat off now and was wiping the steam off her glasses, and he took her in with a professional, detached eye, mentally noting everything about her. He opened a tab on his laptop, the one with the mostly-blank document ready and waiting, and he started to type.

  He began with his observations about her appearance, of course, since that was always the easiest stuff to get down: Claire was shorter than she’d looked in all the pictures that he’d seen of her, and she was definitely rounder. Her short, dyed, dark-brown hair was shining in the faint sunlight, her clear blue eyes sparkled behind her fake, brown-framed glasses, her creamy-white skin glowed. She was dressed in clinging jeans and a figure-hugging white turtleneck, and speaking of her figure, it was incredible. Griff paused in his note-taking to admire her lush breasts and generous ass, and then he caught himself.

  Griff scowled at the screen, then blinked at the words ‘all hot, sweet curves’ which had somehow appeared in his report. When the hell had he typed that, anyway? And why? Griff wasn’t prone to waxing poetic – quite the opposite, actually – and he was both annoyed and horrified that he’d actually written those words to describe a narcissistic monster like Claire. Let alone that he’d thought them.

  What the actual, living hell, man? Get a goddamn grip. Remember just who and what you’re dealing with here.

  Irritated, he deleted the ridiculous words, then shot her another look, this one quite possibly laced with venom and lacking in professionalism. She was now unpacking her things: a shiny silver MacBook Air, a notebook, a pair of lime-green earbuds. His stomach clenched as he realized that she’d be staying put for a while. Maybe a good, long while. Well, that sure as hell worked for Griff. He was in no big goddamn rush to head back out into the cold.

  Mirrie brought Claire her drink now, and Griff spotted what looked like whipped cream and cinnamon and quite possibly chocolate sprinkles on top of it, and he almost rolled his eyes and huffed. Of course Claire Worthington was a whipped-cream-on-premium-flavored-coffee-with-all-the-trimmings kind of girl… no plain, cheap black java for her.

  Only the best for Princess Claire. Only the fanciest and the priciest. Always and forever.

  Griff made a quick note of her top-of-the-line laptop model and her beverage-of-choice, then settled back in his chair to observe the room. He’d just paused to contemplate Mirrie cutting what looked and smelled like fresh, piping-hot brownies, when the café door opened and in walked a man with a spider web tattooed across almost his entire face, for no earthly reason that Griff could think of off-hand.

  Griff wasn’t startled by much, but the man’s appearance was so unexpected, just so damn striking, that he actually gaped at the guy for a full five seconds before catching himself. He averted his eyes, looked back, stared again when he saw the man remove his scarf, revealing a spider tattooed across his neck.

  No way this guy ever went unnoticed, and Griff found himself uncharacteristically admiring someone’s dazzling fearlessness for the second time that morning. And since it was so out-of-character for him to think this way, he found himself idly contemplating why he was having these thoughts.

  He pursued his musings for all of twenty seconds, then pulled himself up short. Yeah, actually, he knew why he was being so weird and feeling so off-balance. Everything about this case was making him feel on-edge and disturbed – from Leeza’s Dad’s suicide to Claire’s astonishing body – and he gave himself a stern talking-to.

  This was just a job, the most recent of many, and he’d treat it with the same detachment and professionalism that he treated all his jobs. None of it was about him, after all; none of it was going to change his life.

  But it could change Leeza’s life, maybe give her some semblance of peace. It could change the lives of the thousands of the Worthingtons’ victims. And if he did it right, it could change Claire and Wilbur’s lives. For the worse.

  Refocused now, Griff glanced at the spider tattoo guy again, and was startled when he saw that the man was over at Claire’s table, just chatting away amiably. A bit stunned that an
uptown girl like Claire would have anything to say to Spiderman – even considering that she was in hiding and almost two thousand miles from Park Avenue – Griff settled himself in his chair and observed them.

  He couldn’t hear their conversation over the buzz of chatter and the hiss of the coffee machine, of course, but Griff didn’t need to hear a single word to get the gist of what was going on across the café. Dallas had recently insisted that all the Solid Security staff receive pretty intensive training in non-verbal communication and cues, since he believed that it would only make his people smarter and more effective at surveillance and gauging potential threats. Griff had proven pretty adept at it – though the crown in the non-verbal cues competition went, hands-down and no debate, to Cordelia Sullivan.

  For a brief second, Griff flashed back to Hunter ‘Sully’ Sullivan, Griff’s colleague and Cordelia’s husband, telling Griff over a beer how bizarre it was to be married to a woman who knew every thought in his head and every emotion in his heart. Often, Cordelia knew what Sully was thinking and feeling before Sully did. It was a communication shortcut in lots of ways, and Sully had grown to really like it. After all, the man was as honest and principled as the day was long, and he had nothing to hide from the woman that he loved.

  Claire, however, had plenty to hide, and Griff looked at her now, trying to assess her instinctive defensiveness, trying to see how guarded she was with the tattooed man. Realization hit Griff hard and he paused, cocked his blond head, narrowed his green eyes… then felt nothing but confusion and disbelief.

  Claire was showing no signs of tension or defensiveness. None. She was actually standing in this café, and she was as relaxed and calm and natural as it was possible for any woman to be. She looked nothing like a woman hiding massive amounts of illegal cash from the feds, or a woman whose entire life had crashed and burned in the full glare of the TV cameras. She looked nothing like a woman who had one foot out the door, just waiting to settle her ass on a beach; she didn’t even vaguely resemble a woman who was worried about slipping up, giving herself away, being exposed as a thief and a liar.

  No. No, she looked like a woman who was happily, fully immersed and settled in her life, as it was here and now.

  Goddammit. She looked radiantly happy. And that was about the last thing that she deserved.

  Griff felt the scowl spreading across his face, and he forced his eyes back to his screen. Grimly, he started to type up his observations and thoughts, making sure to keep his language as neutral as possible. He had to get this report to Dallas by that evening, and the man was expecting a black-and-white document. No frills or fancies: just the facts, ma’am.

  Griff worked steadily, impassively, for almost an hour. He watched Claire without seeming to watch her, watched her do nothing more than sit at her table with her earbuds in place, tapping away on her laptop. Even though she wasn’t facing him and she never even looked his way, her profile was astonishingly expressive, he was interested and surprised to note, and she seemed to be reading or looking at things that pleased her a great deal. She smiled, bit her lip, played with her hair.

  Maybe she has a lover? That’d be helpful, actually… maybe someone I can get to and use against her somehow, to get information?

  He’d just finished having this rather callous and calculating thought when his cell phone rang. Griff glanced down at the number, swiped ‘accept’.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said cheerfully. “You doin’ OK?”

  “Griff.” Dallas’ low growl was in his ear. “How’s the coffee at The Web?”

  “Passable,” Griff said, missing his instant coffee desperately. “You and Dad still coming for lunch on Saturday?”

  “She there?”

  “Yep.” Griff shot a casual look over at Claire. “All set. No problems.”

  “You talked to her yet?”

  “No, not yet.” Griff injected a note of regret into his voice, caught the eye of the staring woman at the next table, smiled at her. “I’ll pick them up tomorrow for you. Is that OK?”

  “Tomorrow for sure?” Dallas asked. “Tomorrow you’ll make contact?”

  “For sure,” Griff said in a reassuring tone. “Tomorrow.”

  “OK. Then forget about sending me your report tonight. Wait ’til tomorrow, send on a full overview then. Initial observations and post-contact. No later than seven p.m. Got it?”

  “OK,” Griff said, finishing his third cup of coffee. “Will do.”

  “Take care, man.”

  “Love you too!” Griff chirped. “Say hi to Dad!”

  “Yeah.” Dallas sounded amused. “Sure thing, sport.”

  Griff disconnected, gazed over at the serving counter with longing. Somehow – by some miracle – he’d managed to resist buying and then inhaling a brownie, but his willpower was weakening at roughly the speed of light. He watched as Spiderman served up another thick, luscious brownie from the tray, and Griff mentally shrugged. Yeah, OK, he’d relax his iron-clad willpower for a few minutes… and just double down on the crunches at the gym the next day.

  Mind made up, Griff picked up his empty cup and got to his feet. He ambled over to the counter, carefully keeping his face averted and his back to Claire. Spiderman spotted his approach, and his dark eyes lit up in his lean, handsome face. He gave Griff a cheeky grin, took the empty cup, glanced into it.

  “Morning,” Spiderman said, all lazy charm, raising his voice a bit over the chatter and espresso machine. “Another coffee minus milk and sugar?”

  Griff returned the grin; he liked when people noticed and remembered him on a first visit. Made him feel like a part of a small community… even just for a little while.

  “Nope,” Griff said, clocking the way that those black eyes sharpened a bit at his husky voice; clearly Spiderman had a thing for hulking blond men. Griff was well used to attention from both men and women – working his ass of to attain this physique did result in some openly admiring glances, and despite being as straight as the day was long, being flirted with by men didn’t even break his stride anymore.

  “So what can I get you then?” the other man asked him, his gaze lingering subtly on Griff’s massive pectorals, clearly visible even through his wrinkle-free white dress shirt. “We have fresh-baked croissants. Came out of the oven less than ten minutes ago.”

  “Actually.” Griff sniffed the air appreciatively. God, he could smell the fudge in those damn brownies. “I’ve had to practically tie myself down over there, trying to resist these babies.” He gestured at the baking tray.

  “Ah.” The man looked down where Griff was pointing. “You’re a man with a nuclear-grade sweet tooth.”

  “Not usually. But these are making me a believer, I swear to you.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” The man smiled again, and Griff now found himself seriously warming to the guy. Bizarre and intimidating as that web-and-spider tattoo was, the man was laid-back and friendly, and had a relaxed and accepting vibe around him. It almost made Griff look right on past the insane black criss-crosses on his face and the terrifying arachnids crawling around his neck. “That’ll be two dollars, please.”

  Griff handed the money over with exactly zero regrets or qualms about the sugar-fused calorie-bomb coming his way. He was as disciplined with his eating as he was with his workouts, sleep schedule and spending habits, and eagerly handing over his hard-earned cash for junk food was really not his style. But here he was, doing it anyway… and he was even deliriously happy about it.

  “Spider.” The tattooed, lip ring woman was back now, and she gave Griff an apologetic smile. “Sorry to interrupt… the flour supplier is on the phone, and she’s making noises about not being able to get the next shipment here this afternoon.”

  “Aw, hell,” the man so-aptly-named-Spider said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Tomorrow morning? Early?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “Between three and four.”

  “Hell,” Spider repeated. He sighed. “OK, Mirrie. Tell
her to bring it by four at the latest, and I’ll be here to collect it.”

  “OK, boss,” Mirrie said. “I’ll do that, then if you want, I can start the next batch of ginger cookies. We’re running low.”

  “Good, thanks, and I’ll help you. We’ll make some more brownies, too.”

  Mirrie nodded and headed to a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Griff surveyed Spider, saw that the man looked hassled.

  “Do you do all the baking yourself?” Griff asked, legitimately interested.

  “I do,” Spider said. “Mirrie does a lot, though.” He grinned, his good humor resurfacing. “Practically runs this place when I’m not looking, actually.”

  “And you start at three a.m.?”

  “Not usually.” Spider ran his hand through his dark hair, and now Griff saw that his ears were pierced about ten times each. “Usually I start at about six, just to have a few things ready and fresh-baked for when we open at seven thirty. I’m usually all done by eight or so, when the pre-work office crowd and students hit in force.”

  “And is this your place?”

  “It is.” Spider looked around the bright, bustling space. “Best thing I’ve ever done, work-wise, being my own boss.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “And you?” Spider asked. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a copy editor,” Griff said, the lie flowing smoothly, automatically. “Freelance.”

  “Ah. Cool.” Spider nodded at Griff’s laptop open on his table. “You can work anywhere, huh?”

  “Yep. The world is my office.” Griff raised his plate. “And I have the world’s best snacks at my office.”

  Spider laughed. Griff nodded, then headed back to his table, shooting Claire another careful look.

  She was still engrossed in whatever she was doing on her laptop, and now she was typing rapidly. She looked totally focused and unaware of the existence of any other human being, and Griff took the opportunity to give her a slow, almost hungry, once-over.