"My sister works for a real estate firm in San Rafael," Terry ventured.
"Consider her hired. I want this done as soon as possible."
That afternoon, I was shown three houses, all of them located in the hills above San Rafael. The third one overlooked the waters of San Rafael Bay.
"This one," I nodded, as Davonna Johnston-Little showed me through it. It had everything I wanted and was very quiet. It stood on a hill, and the two closest homes were a quarter of a mile away.
Davonna blinked at me, her dark eyes lighting up. "Really? Terry said you were anxious to buy, but this is six-point-two million."
"I'll take it. How soon can we close?"
"Well, there is one problem," she sighed. Digging through her purse, Davonna pulled out her cellphone. "The owner has to approve the buyer," she muttered. I didn't bother reading her—my shields were firmly in place as she spoke to her manager at the realty firm, who said he'd contact the owner.
"The abstract is up to date and everything is ready to go, but he has final approval. His family owned the entire hill in the beginning, and I get the idea that the last tenant had too many loud parties. The original owner purchased the home back and is looking for more suitable neighbors this time."
"I don't throw parties," I said. "And this will be a cash sale."
Davonna and I ended up in her boss's office that evening, while information I'd been asked to provide was spoken to the owner over the phone. I could hear his responses easily as he spoke on the other end of the call.
"She volunteers for Mercy Crossings?" Suddenly, his voice betrayed excitement.
"Yes. I have information here, listing her as an interpreter for the organization," Davonna's boss replied smoothly. He did have documentation—Terry had faxed it to his sister at my request. Terry had all my information in a file. As much information as I was willing to allow anyone to have, anyway. And he handled the checks for all my charitable foundation's gifts. That was also registered with the IRS and anybody else who needed to know.
"What languages does she speak?" the owner asked.
"What languages do you speak?" Davonna's boss covered the mouthpiece and asked.
"Just about everything," I said.
"She says just about everything," was relayed to the owner, whose name I still didn't know.
"Hand the phone to her," he instructed. I took the phone when it was offered to me. The scent of Davonna's boss's aftershave tickled my nose as I said hello. My greeting was acknowledged by a spate of Italian, demanding to know why I wanted to purchase the house in question.
"For peace and quiet," I returned in the same language. "I can make the same reply in French, Spanish, Arabic and Setswana," I added.
"How quickly would you like the deal to go through?" He asked in English.
"Yesterday," I said. "I just got back from a trip with Mercy Crossings, and discovered that a very loud bar had opened beneath my apartment in the city. Loud music doesn't allow much sleep."
"Understood. How long will it take to put your funding together?"
"I can write a check tonight. Or get certified funds from my bank tomorrow."
"You don't want to get an appraisal?"
"That's not necessary. Right now, I just need a place to stay that isn't over a bar."
"Do you want the furnishings to stay?"
"For now. I can replace anything I don't want later."
"Have a cashier's check to your agent tomorrow afternoon. I'll see she has the keys. You can move in whenever you like after that, I'll have my attorney go through the rest of the paperwork and finish up the sale. When he's done, he'll send copies."
"Thank you. That would be wonderful."
"You're welcome."
I handed the phone back to Davonna's boss, who waved us out of the room. "Congratulations, you're a homeowner," Davonna smiled brightly. She should, she'd just earned a huge commission.
"Tell Terry thanks for recommending you—I found the perfect house," I replied, taking Davonna's offered hand and shaking. "I'll find a hotel room for tonight. I'm excited to be able to move in tomorrow."
"It's a lovely home, and it was inspected last week before it was offered for sale. Everything works."
"Great."
* * *
I'd spent the night at a hotel in San Rafael, then spent my morning at a TinyCar dealership, purchasing a new car. Yes, just as advertised, the car was tiny. I now owned a three-car garage and my new vehicle would take up half of one of those spaces. It didn't matter—if I replaced any of the furniture, the old stuff could go in the garage while I waited for a local charity to pick it up.
I'll admit I felt almost giddy—I'd never owned a house before. At one time, I'd never believed anything like that might be possible. Now, it was. This house, too, was no starter home. It was eight thousand square feet of pure bliss overlooking the waters of San Rafael Bay. On a clear day, I might even be able to see the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge from the spacious patio. My cellphone rang as I climbed into my newly-purchased TinyCar to drive it off the lot. It was Hank.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice turning sour as I answered the call.
"Baby, come home and let me explain," he said.
"No chance. I just bought a house. I won't be coming back. I told Terry to rip up our agreement and send the pieces to you, but good lawyer that he is, he refused. I don't want anything from you, Hank. Not now and not ever."
"Bree, what are you so afraid of? This is me. You know me. I'd never hurt you. You said you don't do pain. I understand that."
"Hank, you understand nothing," I said. "And it's obvious I don't know you, isn't it? If I did, I'd never have offered to invest."
"Baby, just agree to meet with me. I'll pay you back. I'm good for the loan. The club's been busy since it opened."
"Yeah. I saw what kind of business you do, Hank. Sorry. Gotta go." I hung up, my hands shaking. A dealership salesman began walking toward me as I dropped my head in my hands and moaned. Before he could come close enough to tap on my window, I put the car in gear and drove away.
* * *
"Something wrong?" Davonna asked kindly as I handed her the cashier's check with shaking fingers.
"No. I just need that peace and quiet in my new house, that's all." I did need it. The sound of leather slapping against human skin invaded my dreams, now, and woke me with a panic attack in my hotel room. Intending to mist back to my old apartment to gather clothes and personal items, I accepted the house keys from a concerned Davonna.
"Look, it's personal and not your problem," I sighed. "And don't ask your brother. He doesn't know, either." I waved as I walked away.
* * *
After buying groceries and several bottles of wine, I drank my third glass while staring at my new kitchen. The counters were covered with expensive granite that gleamed in the light cast by pendant lamps overhead. The stove might be any cook's dream, with six gas burners and a grill in between. My shoulders ached and I had a headache from stress. I was putting off going after my clothes, too. I hadn't realized I was crying until a tear dropped onto my hand.
"Fuck," I muttered, wiping my face. The first man I'd ever had sex with had turned out to be this. Did I care about Hank? I'd loved him. Probably still did, but that was agony in its infancy. When was he planning to tell me? Or had he just expected to string me along until a long line of submissive women started coming to his bar? He'd asked to be my fuck buddy, nothing more. Well, it was all coming clear to me now.
"Just get your stuff and go," I muttered to myself. Squaring my shoulders and ignoring my headache, I misted to my old apartment.
Hank apparently had the landlord's set of keys to my apartment. I found six notes from him scattered about as I gathered up my clothes and other belongings into a pile on the floor. I'd mist them to the new house.
Call me was written tersely on the note beside the bed. I ripped it into shreds before dropping pieces on the floor. Bree, trust me. It's not what you think, was written o
n the note taped to the refrigerator door.
"Then what the hell is it?" I wept as I tore that one up, too. I couldn't take any more—I misted what I'd gathered to the house in San Rafael, dropped to the floor in a corner of my new bedroom and cried my eyes out.
* * *
Three weeks passed. I was grateful that Mercy Crossings and Bill Jennings hadn't contacted me during that time. It gave me space to put myself back together, without Hank's image and that of a flogging invading my thoughts and dreams. For the most part, anyway. I'd made a trip to the nearest grocery store to stock my pantry when I met Trina for the first time, early one Saturday morning.
"Having problems?" I slowed to ask. The tall, curvaceous black woman had the hood up on an ancient Honda, staring as smoke poured from the radiator.
"I have the car filled with groceries, Mr. Rome will be furious if I don't have lunch waiting when he gets back and this piece of crap decides to die on me now." She kicked the car's bumper while I watched.
Lowering my shield, I read her long enough to see that her employer, Jayson Rome, had also been the one who'd sold the house to me.
"How much do you have to carry? I only have part of the back filled up," I raised my shield again and offered Trina James a smile. "I can drive you up the hill, if you want."
"You're the one who bought the house," she said.
"Yes."
"That car don't look big enough to carry both of us, let alone the groceries."
"Well, we'll just make it fit," I said. "We'll make it, even if I have to get out and push."
"All right," Trina muttered, hands still on her hips. She and I unloaded the back seat of her car, and shockingly enough, we did make everything fit into my tiny vehicle. The bag containing the eggs and bread she held on her lap as I drove her to the extremely large house sitting at the top of the hill.
"You keep this behemoth cleaned?" I stared around me at a house nearly twice as big as the one I'd just bought.
"And cook," Trina nodded. "Trina," she held out her hand. "Trina James. Anything you need, all you have to do is ask."
"Do you need help getting your car to a shop?" I asked.
"Nah, I got Triple-A," she said. "It's cheaper than a new car."
"Then maybe your boss doesn't pay you enough," I said, heading for the door.
"I tell him that all the time," she said. I laughed. "Don't forget," she reminded me, "if you need anything, just let me know."
"Don't worry about it," I waved off her offer. "If you need something else, don't hesitate to call me."
"I don't have your number," she pointed out.
"Okay." I walked toward her and pulled out my cellphone. "Here's my number. What's yours?"
Trina ended up putting my number on her cellphone, then entering her number on my phone, as well as the main number at Jayson Rome's house. "It's not his business line, and he never answers it anyway. You'll get me, either way."
"Sounds good," I nodded. "Have fun." I walked toward the door a second time, and this time I managed to get through it.
* * *
"Breanne Hayworth?" A woman's voice asked when I answered my cellphone on the third ring after carrying the last bag of groceries inside the house.
"Yes?" I replied cautiously.
"Hold for Director Jennings, please," she said. Well, there it was. Bill needed my help. Honestly, I was happy to hear from him. At least I trusted Bill. More than I'd ever trusted anyone else, I think.
"Breanne?" Bill's voice was clear and confident.
"Hey, Director Bill," I said.
"Can you meet me at my office? I'll have a ticket ready for you if you can get to the airport tomorrow morning."
"I can do that," I said. "Should I pack, or is this just a meeting?"
"Go ahead and pack for a few days, and bring a nice dress or two. The President is entertaining foreign dignitaries, and while they have interpreters, I want to hear what you have to say."
"I can do that," I agreed. "Let me know which airline and when, and I'll be at the airport, packed and on time."
"You're the best," I heard the grin in his voice. "Thanks, Breanne."
"No problem." He hung up.
* * *
Hank sat at his favorite table in Bogey's, an old fashioned sitting in front of him. He couldn't fathom how Breanne had managed to clear out most of her belongings without his knowing—he'd asked for help to have her apartment watched. Somehow, she'd gotten in and out without being seen. She'd ripped up two of his notes, too.
"What are you doing, baby?" Hank murmured in a language none around him might recognize. "Why can't I find you?" He emptied his glass and tossed money on the table before rising and stalking away.
* * *
"This is my interpreter, Breanne Hayworth," Bill introduced me to the President and First Lady. I nodded respectfully to each of them. "She'll be my date for the evening," Bill added. I watched as a corner of his mouth curled into an almost-smile.
I wore the only nice dress I owned—a black silk, calf-length sheath, coupled with the only nice dress heels I owned, which were also black. If Director Bill wanted to take me to another event, I'd be forced to go shopping. I had no need for dresses, actually, and only had this one because I wanted to get through the door of an upscale San Francisco restaurant to try their vegetarian lasagna.
The President was entertaining OPEC at a luncheon. Sheiks and oil company executives filled the room, and most enjoyed the food served by the White House staff. I heard the President speaking with this one or that, as hors d'oeuvres and drinks were served. Bill leaned down a time or two as I interpreted what this one or that said, and then Bill listened while interpreters did their jobs. Only one took his employer's instructions exactly, telling the President that he would never hire terrorists and that all his employees were carefully screened.
Bill, I sent mindspeech while he barely turned a hair, that one definitely has terrorists on the payroll, and is aware of them.
"Breanne, I've only met one other person who could do what you just did," Bill's lips grazed my ear as he spoke. "Mindspeech is very rare, I understand."
"I'm special," I mumbled back. "And not in a good way."
* * *
"It's all right, we've suspected him for a while," Bill said as I sat with him after the luncheon was over. "Now, you should know that mindspeech makes you an even more valuable commodity."
"I was afraid of that," I said, dropping my gaze to my hands.
"You don't like it?"
"It's uncomfortable at times. All of it." I didn't go into detail on what "all of it" actually entailed. I sat across from Bill, with only a fragile, antique table between us in one of the many rooms inside the White House. The President, the First Lady and their bevy of Secret Service agents had already disappeared inside the residence.
"But it can prove more than useful to me and to the Department," he said. "I want to pay for your work. Sign you on as a special agent and compensate you for your time."
"I have no idea what that might do to my status as a volunteer with Mercy Crossings. I'd never have been allowed in Somalia if anybody knew about that kind of connection."
"I've already contacted Barry Stokes. Your connection to my Department will never be revealed officially to the charity. Only Barry will know, and he's trustworthy. You see how my team was allowed in Somalia, don't you?" Bill smiled.
"I saw that," I nodded. "I was surprised," I added.
"Don't be the next time," Bill chuckled. He had a nice laugh. "Now, I saw that you didn't eat much—we forgot to mention to the White House chef that you're vegetarian. Why don't you let me take you to lunch?"
* * *
I was given a driver and a car for the afternoon, when I informed Bill that I only had one dress with me, and it was the one I'd worn to the luncheon. He offered to pay for my clothing purchases, too, but I refused, telling him I could buy for myself. Likely he already knew that—it was his job. He probably knew how much I had in the
bank, in addition to what I'd set aside for my charitable donations. He never said a thing about that, kissed me on the cheek after buying my lunch at a restaurant frequented by members of congress and went back to his day job.
I was driven to the next function by my assigned driver, after dropping me off at my hotel so I could clean up and change. I was at Bill's elbow that evening while the Ambassador from Afghanistan had dinner with the Vice-President. The interpreter was very good; Bill was satisfied. Before my three-day visit was over, however, we'd targeted the sheik and his interpreter, two ambassadors and one King, all of whom Bill labeled as persons of interest.
Bill saw me to the airport himself when it was time to go, and chastely kissed me on the cheek before letting me walk away. I knew from dropping my shield briefly that he wanted me guarded, but it was because he worried about me. That turned out to be a nice thing and made me feel good. It did worry me as well, as I hoped he wouldn't keep me under surveillance. I wanted to mist home from the San Francisco Airport. I ended up getting a cab instead.
Chapter 6
Breanne's Journal
"Hey, Trina." Apparently, she'd been keeping watch from the top of the hill and noticed when my lights came on when I got home. She'd called me immediately after.
"Miss Bree," she said, "I have a really big favor to ask."
"What's that?" I said.
"The uh, boss. He needs a date for a family function."
"He needs you to find dates for him?" I tossed my suitcase and garment bag onto the bed. One of my plans for the following day was to buy a new mattress and foundation for the bed—I didn't like what had come with the furnished house.
"Not usually, but the girl he wanted to take to this one wasn't available. You're the best and most suitable woman I know to fill that void."
"Somebody canceled on your boss? That doesn't sound right." I knew Jayson Rome was Second Vice-President for his father's publishing company, and had offices in a very tall building in downtown San Francisco. Terry told me that much after talking with his sister following my purchase of the house. I didn't really care who Jayson Rome was, but I did like my house.
"That's why I really need your help. She canceled just this afternoon, and the party is tomorrow night. His parents' fortieth wedding anniversary."
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