by Tina Whittle
And now one less, I thought.
The niece kept talking. “But he’s dead. And I gotta get back to work.”
She hung up on me. I put down the phone and stared into my chardonnay. Another dead end. Which should have been a relief. Not a hint of foul play. A nice mild-mannered senior dies at home. As inciting incidents went, it was hardly front-page.
And yet…
I left the materials spread out and went onto the terrace. Far below me, the serpentine glitter of traffic wound its way between the high rises. Saturday night in Buckhead in all its techno-funk and Jello shot glory. Up on the thirty-fifth floor, the breeze had bite; it slithered up my bare legs and underneath the dress shirt I’d borrowed from Trey’s closet.
I swirled the wine. John’s story was missing one of its bones, whatever it was that connected a quiet unassuming retiree with a Bible worth a couple of hundred thousand dollars, a Bible not mentioned in his will. But I could not figure out what that mysterious link might be.
My phone rang, and I fished it out of the shirt pocket. “Rico! You’re actually calling me back! Or did you mean to dial Kim Kardashian?”
His rich laugh echoed through the phone line. I could picture him at the other end—six-foot-two and two hundred and fifty pounds, probably wearing unlaced Converse, black eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
“I think I saw her, for real. Hard to tell. There’s a surplus of loud busty chicks in Hollywood.”
Back inside the apartment, the front door opened, and Trey came in. He didn’t see me, busy as he was locking the door behind him. Three locks, including an industrial deadbolt.
“It’s not the same around here without you,” I said.
“No doubt. How’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Heterosexual?”
Trey went to his desk and put down his briefcase. There he pulled off his jacket and hung it precisely on the back of the chair, exposing the dark leather of his shoulder holster. He removed his Heckler and Koch P7M8, unloaded it, then stored it in the lockbox in his desk drawer. The ammo went into its own box, also locked.
“Same as always,” I said. “He misses you too. In his own way.”
I tapped on the glass, and Trey turned. I waved. He cocked his head, one eyebrow raised in puzzlement. Of course I was standing on his terrace wearing nothing but a button-down shirt that barely covered my butt.
Rico laughed. “I’m sure he does.” He whispered something to someone nearby, probably one of his entourage. “I gotta go. My limo’s here.”
I snorted.
“Don’t hate, baby girl. Tell me what you wanted and make it quick.”
I told him. He got annoyed instantly.
“You can do your own background searches, you know.”
“I did, the basics anyway. But accessing the deep web databases either costs money or takes talent, and I have neither.”
“I’ve got two shows, back to back—”
“It’ll take you twenty minutes.”
A huff of resignation. “Fine. But I won’t get to the computer until tomorrow night at the earliest.” He paused. “You’re not getting into trouble, are you?”
“Trying to avoid it actually.”
“Good. Send me whatever you got. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“You’re the best. Now go catch your limo. I gotta seduce my boyfriend.”
He laughed and hung up. I slid open the glass door and stepped inside, shutting it behind me. Trey was examining the papers on the floor. His eyes flicked up to mine.
“What’s this?”
“Background research, plus the stuff Garrity sent on the recently deceased old guy in Jacksonville. He says everything seems on the up-and-up to him. But I left it there for you to see too.”
Trey circled the paperwork like a hawk, tight slow spirals. “This says he died of natural causes. A heart attack.”
“He did.”
He studied the pages for another three minutes. I waited. Finally he looked up, still wary, but curious.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“No. But we need to talk.”
His eyes dipped to my chest, then to the top of my thighs. “You’re here to talk?”
“Among other things. I figure once we’re done talking, there will be making up to do.” I moved closer and slipped my arms around his neck. “And then goodbye-saying.”
He tilted his head. “About that.”
“About what?”
“About goodbye. As it turns out, I’ll be able to come with you after all.”
“You don’t have to work anymore?”
“I still have to work. I’m working in Savannah, however.”
“You are? Really? That’s very…coincidental.” I pulled back and examined his face. “You don’t seem thrilled.”
“No, I’m thrilled.” His expression remained deadpan. “But I’m also confused.”
“About what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Ah.”
I took his hand and led him to the sofa, where we sat side by side. He stared out the window at the city-spangled nightline, forehead wrinkled, his index finger tap-tap-tapping against his thigh.
“I’m flying down Monday morning.” He looked at me directly for the first time. “You can too. If you want. At Phoenix expense.”
“I can’t see Marisa going for that.”
“It was her idea.”
Now I was confused. “Boss Lady offered to buy me a plane ticket?”
“We’re taking the client’s Gulfstream. You don’t need a ticket.”
I tried to make sense of this, got nowhere. “Marisa hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, she just doesn’t like you. Or trust you. Or—”
“What about all my merchandise? I’ve got a trunk full of t-shirts and handmade underwear that needs to get to Savannah too.”
“There’s room in the cargo hold for all of that.”
I was growing more and more suspicious. Marisa did not play nice. We both knew this. But I also knew that Trey deeply resented being sent on certain types of fieldwork assignments. Part of his agreement to work at Phoenix was that he got to stay behind the desk most of the time. He was a paperwork junkie, my boyfriend. He mainlined tedium like it was heroin.
But he was also good in the field, even if it sometimes took him to the edge of his comfort zone. I wondered if perhaps that was my role in this turn of events, a bribe to keep him mollified. But truth be told, I was one of the hazards that made him somewhat dangerous in the field. He didn’t deal well with distraction. Distraction was what I did best.
“Trey? Did you tell Marisa about my booth at the Expo?”
He nodded. “When I filled out the request for leave.”
“Did you tell her about the Bible?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t convinced. His sudden assignment to Savannah, Marisa’s sudden generosity. All of it smacked of behind-the-scenes maneuvering.
“Tell me this then.” I straddled him, looping my arms around his neck. “Does this new assignment involve the same mysterious client who disrupted our dinner plans?”
“Yes. But—”
“I know, I know. You can’t tell me who it is.”
“Correct.”
I unknotted his tie and pulled it loose. Then I reached down and untucked his shirt. I saw the first flare of arousal in his face—pupils dilated slightly, a flush along those gorgeous cheekbones.
I leaned closer. “It’s Audrina Harrington, isn’t it?”
Trey froze. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You just did.”
He exhaled in frustration. I started on the buttons, his skin warm beneath the pads of my fingers, then slid my hands under his collar. Such exquisite shoulders—broad, lean, the kind of shoulders a girl could really hang onto.
“Audrina and Fitzhugh pretended they didn’t believe my story, but they did. And now she’s hire
d you so that you can keep an eye on me so that when I find the Bible, they can snatch it.”
“That’s not the reason I’m going.”
“That’s not what they told you, but trust me, that’s why you’re going.” I moved my hands over his chest and then downward, over the flat plane of his abs to his belt buckle. “They’re devious, Trey, underhanded and scheming. And they’ll make pawns out of us in a heartbeat.”
“I’m still not…ahhh.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “I thought we were going to talk first and then make up?”
“I changed my mind. We’re going to talk and make up simultaneously.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be good at that.”
I kissed him good and deep, slow. He kept his hands to himself, waiting, but I could feel his resistance crumbling, and knew I had precious little time to make my case.
I moved my mouth to his ear. “I’ve decided to take John up on his request.”
Trey pulled his head back. “You have?”
“I have.” I shifted my hips, and he inhaled sharply. “I’ve spent all afternoon gathering the evidence to prove that it’s safe to do so. But in the end, it’s not about proof. It’s about trust.”
“Is it?”
“It is. I can’t afford to be picky about my clients, especially not with an ATF audit coming hard and fast. I need this money, I need this job, and I need you to drop the over-protective routine so that I can do it.”
His eyes narrowed. I saw the flash, the sapphire-blue melting and recrystallizing, and I knew the scales had tipped. His hands moved to my waist, and he lowered me backward—inexorable, irresistible, a force of nature—until I was on my back with my legs wrapped against his hips. He tangled one hand in my hair and pulled my head back, passive no longer.
“And I need you to be sensible,” he said.
His other hand moved up my thigh, his touch both tender and treacherous. I was losing the advantage, and fast.
“Trey? Do we have a deal? I play things sensible, you let me play them my way?”
He pressed a kiss to my throat, lingering in the hollow, then moved up my neck. Not paying my words a bit of attention now that he had an entirely different target in the crosshairs.
I closed my eyes. “I need…oh damn…I need to hear a yes, Trey.”
His hand moved under the shirt, and then I felt—oh yes, I certainly did—and then there was thrumming in my head, and it spread like fever with every red beat of my traitorous heart. His mouth moved to my ear, and the rest of him—omigod, the rest of him—and my vision fluttered and blurred.
“Yes,” he said.
Chapter Eight
The Gulfstream 280 was certainly impressive on the outside, all pointy-nose and sleek angles, like a raptor at rest. It was the interior, however, that spoiled me forever for commercial travel.
The cabin smelled good, for one thing, not like sweat and stale pretzels. The cool air was pristine and faintly lemon-scented, like someone had opened a can of fresh oxygen. Sunlight poured in through twin rows of oval windows, firing the burled wood trim to liquid gold. Everywhere I looked, I saw the burnished sheen of lots and lots of money.
I threw myself on the loveseat, a fat chunk of white-chocolate leather. “Dibs.”
Trey shook his head. “Don’t sit there. It’s very uncomfortable during take-off.” He indicated the back. “Follow me.”
He walked past me to paired seats in the rear corner. I should have known. He wanted his back to the wall and a view of the entire sitting area. From this vantage point, he could even see the cockpit controls, the flashing array of lights and switches and gauges, bewildering and impenetrable.
Marisa entered behind us, in full boss lady mode, her platinum hair pulled tight, her ivory suit the same color as the leather. She frowned when she saw us, then strode down the aisle like a Lord and Taylor Valkyrie.
She directed the full force of her high-caliber annoyance at Trey. “Those are the VIP seats.”
He fastened his seatbelt. “I know.”
“You can’t sit there.”
“Yes, I can.”
She looked aghast. “Please tell me you didn’t ask Mr. Harrington if you could have his spot.”
Before Trey could reply, a booming baritone interrupted the conversation. “It’s okay, Marisa. I offered.”
The man behind the voice was short and round, with silver hair slashing across his forehead in an Errol Flynn wave. He had a neatly-trimmed goatee and eyes like a satyr and was already brandishing both a martini, half-gone, and a cigar, unlit. I recognized him from the AJC article—Reynolds Harrington, Audrina’s brother.
He stood beside Marisa. “My sister said to make sure Trey here was comfortable.” He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Reynolds Harrington. You must be Tai.”
I smiled and took his hand. “I guess I must.”
He had a playboy’s grip—firm but gentle, with soft friction against my skin as I pulled my fingers back.
He returned his attention to Trey. “Glad you could make it at the last minute. Frankly, I never thought Audrina would go for this, but the old gal’s finally coming into the twenty-first century.”
Trey didn’t reply. He shot a glance at Marisa, then Reynolds. When he didn’t know how much to reveal about a subject, he usually said nothing. But his nothings were as telling as his somethings.
I kept the smile on Reynolds. “Big plans?”
“A golf tournament, if Trey and Marisa say it’s feasible.”
“Oh wow, it’s up to these two, huh?”
Trey said absolutely nothing. Neither did Marisa. At the front of the plane, the flight attendant welcomed two more passengers on board. One of them carried a magnum of champagne, the other a bag of golf clubs. The latter belonged to Reynolds, I was guessing, since he already wore the attire—white pants, a yellow collared shirt, a single glove stuck in his pocket.
“I’ve been telling Audrina for some time now that she shouldn’t keep the family collection locked up in that house. History belongs to the people. It needs to be shared.”
“Admirable sentiment,” I said. “But how does that involve a golf tournament?”
“Sharing means a museum, and a museum means fundraisers. I have a week to put together a plan, within budget, so I called in the best. According to Audrina anyway.” He looked me up and down. “Do you golf, Ms. Randolph?”
“I do indeed, Mr. Harrington.”
“Then come out tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you all about it. Marisa and I are trying out the resort course. We’d love for you to join us.”
Marisa shook her head. “Unfortunately, Tai’s working tomorrow, aren’t you, Tai?”
“I can always fit in a round of golf.”
She looked as if she wanted to strangle me, then jabbed her chin at Trey. “You come too.”
Trey stiffened. “I don’t golf.”
“All the more reason to come. You’ll need a feel for the game if you’re going to design the security plan.”
“But—”
“I’ll help you with the paperwork afterward. Take a break. Enjoy the morning.”
Trey glared at her. Reynolds smiled. I settled into my sumptuous seat and fastened my seatbelt. I remembered Audrina’s pretend disdain, paired it with Reynolds’ effusive inclusion and Marisa’s steely machinations. Wars within wars going on here.
I widened the smile. “It’s a foursome.”
“Spectacular.” Reynolds stuck the cigar between his teeth. “See you bright and early at the clubhouse. Eight o’clock tee time.”
He wandered back to the front of the plane to greet the new arrivals. When he was out of earshot, Marisa leaned toward Trey, the Charlestonian lilt in her voice suddenly acidic.
“Don’t start.”
He tapped the folder in front of him. “I was hired to create a premises liability and general assessment prelim. That does not include playing golf.”
Marisa picked up the folder and scanned it. It was a
neat day-by-day breakdown of Trey’s duties and responsibilities, organized chronologically and cross-indexed with a master checklist. She scribbled something in the margin, initialed it, then flipped the pages, crossing out that entire agenda and writing “golf” instead.
She handed it to Trey. “Now it does.”
He said nothing. She leaned even closer, and the carefully-constructed package revealed itself for the artifice it was. The heavy make-up, the hair expertly sprayed into immobility, the tightly-girdled figure packed into structured linen.
“Let me remind you,” she said. “In every contract you sign, there is an ‘as-needed’ clause.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know that if I say something is needed, you provide it. That’s how that clause works.”
Trey glared some more. Trey could work a glare like no man I’d ever known. This one whizzed inches from my face and caught Marisa right between the eyes.
She didn’t blink. “I know you’d rather be behind your desk, up to your elbows in paperwork. But you’re my premises liability agent. That means you occasionally have to visit some premises.”
More glaring. But no arguing. Someone up front called her name, and she tossed a hand in their direction without taking her eyes from Trey.
“You will reschedule,” she said. “You will behave. And you will golf.”
She straightened her jacket, turned her back to us, and headed for the front of the plane. Apparently she was playing with the big boys once again, ending Phoenix’s short era of downsizing and discretion.
I turned to Trey. “So what now?”
“Now I’m rewriting my agenda so that I can squander five hours of research time tomorrow.”
He looked frazzled. I reached over and put a hand on the back of his neck. Tight as the skin of a drum. I rubbed my thumb against the grain of his deltoid.
“Breathe, boyfriend.”
He inhaled. Exhaled. The flight attendant came by with snacks and drinks. I got both, a white wine paired with smoked almonds and wasabi-roasted peas in a tiny delicate cup. Trey declined.
“This assignment should be straightforward,” he said. “A simple premises assessment. I’m already wasting Saturday night with that dress ball. Wasting an additional morning is—”