“Okay, let’s go.” She picked up her things.
Surprise flashed in Troy’s eyes while Douglas’ gave nothing away as usual.
“You are taking the…” Troy’s voice trailed off when she glared at him.
“The bike, yes,” she said so calmly she gave herself a mental pat. “You follow me in the Escalade. If there are reporters, and that’s a big if, they’ll recognize Douglas from Vancouver.” Her voice became steely. “Once we get there, the two of you stay by the SUV like the nice bodyguards you are while I slip inside unnoticed.” Douglas opened his mouth, but Jillian shook her head. “That’s the plan, Douglas, and it’s not negotiable, or I swear, I will deliberately jump out of the car while you’re driving. I have the training to do so and sustain minimum injuries.”
Douglas crossed his arms without a change in his expression, clearly not impressed by her threats. “Ms. Jillian,” he said, speaking slowly. “We cannot use separate vehicles. Those were Mr. Fitzgerald’s orders.”
Screw his orders. If looks could kill, Douglas would be six feet under. She whipped out her phone and speed-dialed a number. Her niece picked up.
Smiling at Douglas, she spoke into the phone. “Sophia, sweetie, could you put Grampa on the phone? I want him to know exactly what’s going on.” Something flickered in Douglas’ eyes. Annoyance or admiration, she couldn’t tell.
“Okay, Aunt Jilly. I’m going to be your flower girl. The pretty lady said so.”
“Yes, you are,” Jillian responded, trying to keep the anger from her voice.
“She said she’ll find the perfect dress and shoes and hair bows just for me.”
“I know, hun. Now, go find Grampa. Okay? It’s important.”
“Okay, Aunt Jilly. The pretty lady also said I’ll meet her family,” Sophia continued in a breathless voice, which meant she was walking, “and other girls just like me and have a big party…”
Jillian endured her niece’s monologue, which was messing up her showdown with Douglas. She sighed with relief when her father came on the line. “Hi, Daddy. What are you doing?”
“Going to meet with your grandmother. The woman had the nerve to tell me to wear a suit and a tie. Not happening. What time is your flight back?”
Jillian wondered what her grandmother was up to now, but having her father in town would save her a ride to San Juan. “We just arrived. I’m going to see Grandma, but I was wondering if you could swing by…” She frowned when Douglas mumbled something and stepped back. “Just a second, Dad.” She pressed the phone against her chest and cocked her head at Douglas. “Yes?”
“We’ll follow you,” he said, his expression blank. She couldn’t tell whether he was pissed or not. Troy wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Fighting a triumphant grin, Jillian went back to her conversation with her father. “Never mind, Dad. I’ll see you there, too.”
“Good. We can grab coffee down the street, not that bland tea they serve at her hotel.”
Jillian did have her own issues with the tea at Parq Bar, but that was another story. She hung up the phone and led the way to the elevator.
Two down, one to go. The problem was, unlike Douglas and Troy, Lex would not be intimidated by her father. She needed a different approach to tame her billionaire.
~*~
Lex landed the chopper on the pad beside Dom’s, and took two steps at a time to the house. Last time he was here, there were only two boats anchored below on the private dock. Today, there were four, which meant everyone was here.
He pulled out his cell phone as he cleared the stairs, listened to his voice mails, and grimaced. Jillian was pissed. He’d make it up to her.
He dialed her phone, but it went unanswered. Next, he tried Douglas’. “How did it go?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.
“She threatened to jump out of the car.”
Lex stopped, feeling a little sick at the thought. The problem was she could really do it and not mind the bruises. She had zero regard for her well-being, the stubborn woman.
“I wasn’t letting her leave the house with that threat hanging over our heads. Then she called her father, and I lost the fight, sir,” Douglas continued. “Mr. Finnegan would shoot me in the kneecap if he thought I was mistreating his daughter and somehow convince everyone it was my fault.”
Lex grimaced. He’d stared down the barrel of Finnegan’s gun and didn’t need a reminder. The eccentric man was a lousy shot, which was worse. He might aim at a knee and hit the gut.
“Are you following Jillian now?”
“Yes, sir. She reassured me she’d stay within sight. So far so good. Do I have permission to cuff her to a chair until you get home next time?”
Douglas sounded ready to throw in the towel. Lex had known Jillian would be a handful to guard. Maybe he needed a new strategy.
“You could try, but we’d both suffer for it. I’ll talk to her about Warwick, and maybe she’ll understand where we’re coming from.”
“He made contact again?”
“Yes. I’ll fill you in later.”
“If you need me to do anything, sir, just say the word. I’ve always said he would get bored with hacking your e-mails and do more damage.”
Lex frowned, imagining all possible ways Warwick could fuck up his life. It would take more than hacking to destroy his business. Money was the least of his worries. The asshole had threatened Jillian. Somehow, he’d known that the only way to really hurt Lex was through her. He’d never tried with Lex’s previous girlfriends.
“I’m entrusting you with the most precious person in my life, Douglas. If you need more man power…”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Douglas said quickly. “Troy was my star pupil and knows how I operate.”
Jillian wasn’t going to like it when she learned that Troy was more than just her assistant. He was the product of a rigorous security training program run by Douglas’ former CIA colleague. Graduates of Mousey Security Training College (MSTC) were paid outrageous fees to watch people’s backs while they slept. Their training covered martial arts, surveillance and counter surveillance measures, private investigation skills, and laws. Majority of the recruits had prior field experience as law enforcement officers, but some, like Troy, were fresh out of college. The trick was finding one loyal enough to stick around for years, like Douglas. Troy seemed to have clicked with Jillian, so maybe he would.
Sloan opened the back door. As usual, his windblown hair and tanned skin said he’d been out sailing, his way of dealing with stress.
Sloan shunned fame in any form and worried about Warwick finding out he was the designer behind Noelle Lingerie. Growing up in the limelight as the famous prima donna Katarina Cavalaro’s son had left its scars. So while his sister still craved the limelight, Sloan did everything he could to stay out of it.
Lex and Sloan clasped hands and hugged. “How are things?”
“Everyone is pissed. He’s never threatened our women before.”
Lex followed Sloan into the house. Why they couldn’t stop Warwick’s machination was starting to bug Lex. He was a real estate developer, so computers weren’t his specialty except when he needed it to perfect an architectural design. And even then, he was more concerned with the latest software in the field and how it could save him time and money.
Sloan was like him, using software without caring how it was developed. He’d inherited some money from his father, but he’d been smart enough to listen to Rake and the others, pooled his monies with them, and invested it in dot com.
They entered the theater to find Aiden dozing. He’d just returned from his home country—England—and was suffering from jetlag. Unlike Lex and Sloan, Aiden was computer savvy. He owned several cargo ships and imported custom-made, luxury cars. His customers, Lex included, paid handsomely for the latest anti-theft technology he’d developed and installed in all his cars.
Rod spread information the old fashioned way—via radio, TV, and magazines. His online
presence was lagging, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He was no computer man either. Dom was an oilman, more comfortable using his hands and managing huge mechanical gadgets like rigs than the inner workings of a handheld device.
The geek squad in the group was Lucien, Cade, and Rake. All were good at what they did, yet Warwick kept dancing circles around them. Lucien’s company created video games, while Cade owned a multi-billion-dollar social network site and was into everything. Both could hack their way in and out of anywhere. For once, Lucien and Cade weren’t having a pissing contest with their laptops, which meant they’d tried and failed at finding the leak and were regrouping.
Rake didn’t need to regroup. He was like a machine on autopilot and coffee. He was known to forgo sleep until he finished debugging one of his satellites if it had a problem. Perfectionist didn’t begin to describe him. He was hunched over a laptop he’d built to his specification, and on his face was a scowl that could scare an army.
No one acknowledged his arrival, but Lex knew they were aware of his presence. He slid behind Rod, who looked like he’d slept in his clothes, or dressed in a hurry. Knowing him, it was the latter. Ten to one, a woman was involved.
Rake tapped a key, and the e-mail they’d all received appeared on the screen. He zoomed in. Anger coursed through Lex as he reread the e-mail.
“Who is Gigi?” Lex snapped, his eyes on Rake. “And what does he mean by she is our type?”
“Marge Delany,” Rake said. “Warwick used to call her Gigi.”
Marge was Rake’s first love. The woman he would have given the world to. Instead, she’d fucked with his head, kicking him while he was down by sleeping with Warwick. From Rake’s voice, he hadn’t gotten over her betrayal.
“Why would he think Jillian is like Marge?” Lex asked.
“Because he’s an asshole,” Rake snapped.
“I know why,” Rod said and lifted a hand like they were in some goddamn classroom. “Jillian bears an uncanny resemblance to Marge.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Lex shot back. Other than their wheat-colored hair, Jillian was nothing like Marge. Jillian was unforgettable, warm, loving, and giving. Marge had no redeeming qualities. How the hell hadn’t she known about Warwick raping girls on campus? She’d spent all her free time with him. Lex never understood what Rake saw in her.
“Jillian is nothing like Marge,” Rake ground out.
“Damn right. Is Warwick still in jail?” Lex asked.
Cade nodded. “We checked the prison records and confirmed it,” he said. “He’s still there.”
Checked meant they’d hacked into the system.
“We also checked with the parole board,” Lucien added. “He’s still on death row. Still wasting taxpayers’ money with useless appeals. He’s never getting out.”
“There’s more.” Rake brought up a satellite feed and zoomed in. “I rerouted one of my satellites and picked up a feed a few hours ago from San Quentin when the prisoners were out in the yard.”
The prisoners appeared to congregate in the middle of the yard in a random fashion. Lex leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. They weren’t just moving around. They were forming something on the ground. Lex recognized the letter A and then the infinity sign. It was the symbol for Infinitus Agendum. The only people who knew about their organization were in the room.
“The bastard found us,” Cade said, sounding insulted. Warwick was as good a hacker as Cade. In college, they’d try to out-hack each other.
“He’s not doing this alone,” Lucien added.
“The question is how do we find his partner?” Sloan asked. He was a man of few words. He did what he did best—kept quiet, observed, and then gave his opinion. “We never cared before. Things have changed. He’s threatened your woman.”
“If you guys want him taught a lesson, I know people,” Dom, who’d also been quiet since Lex arrived, said.
“You don’t want to go there, mate,” Aiden said and got up to replenish his drink at the bar in the back of the room. “I’ve been there, and it’s not pretty. We need to be subtler. Find out who his jail buddies are. He might not have visitors, but he’s passing out instructions through somebody.”
“I’ll get to it,” Cade said.
“What about Infinitus?” Lucien asked. “Do we go deeper underground, break it up, or come up swinging?”
“He expects us to continue hiding, so let’s do the unexpected,” Lex said and glanced at Sloan. The two of them had discussed this before. It was time they became transparent. He wasn’t worried about himself. His main concern was Jillian. He didn’t want Warwick’s madness touching her.
“We should come out of the shadows and come out big,” Sloan said.
They bounced some ideas on what to do, from sponsoring local charities and events to video games. Most were doable, and everyone was on board.
Finally, Sloan said, “Let’s talk about the bachelor party.”
CHAPTER 8
Her plan worked. While the two photographers outside the Montage focused on Douglas and Troy, Jillian entered the gleaming foyer and headed straight for the front desk to check in with the manager. He saw her coming and beamed.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Finnegan. Go on upstairs. The Grand Dame Petrosian is expecting you.”
Grand Dame? Was this the same manager who’d frostily told her she must check in at the front desk before going upstairs?
“Thank you.” She didn’t bother to say his name even though she could see it on the pin on his shirt.
Her grandmother’s bodyguard, Narek Vart-something-or-other, opened the door and scowled down at Jillian. He hadn’t forgiven her for disarming him and threatening him with his own gun the day she’d met her grandmother.
“Hi, Narek,” Jillian said with a huge smile.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Finnegan,” he said slowly with a heavy Armenian accent and stepped back to let her enter.
She handed him her helmet, goggles, gloves, and jacket. “Will you ever forgive the gun thing?”
He bowed stiffly. “There’s nothing to forgive, Ms. Finnegan.”
She wagged her finger at him. “I’m not giving up. And my name is Jillian.”
“Yes, Ms. Finnegan.”
She rolled her eyes. So much for trying. She entered the spacious suite and followed the sound of a beautiful piano tune to Zorah Grigorian, her grandmother’s assistant. Jillian had met the petite Armenian with pitch-black hair and brown eyes the first time she’d come to visit her grandmother. Zorah tended to talk slowly and hesitantly too as though translating sentences from Armenian to English in her head before speaking. Like Narek, she had a heavy accent.
Zorah stopped playing and jumped up when she saw Jillian. “Ms. Finnegan, I didn’t know you were back.”
“I wanted to surprise Tatik, Zorah. That’s how you say it, right? Tatik?” Jillian asked.
Zora grinned. “Or just Tat. I’m happy you’re learning our language. Your grandmother will be pleased.”
Tatik was the only Armenian word Jillian knew. Her linguistic skills were nonexistent. “Where is she?”
“Outside. Enjoying the view.”
Probably napping. The first time she’d visited her grandmother, Jillian had marveled at the luxury in the suite. From the living room’s stuffed chairs, electric curtains, and imported Persian carpets to marble bathrooms with Turkish cotton robes and five-hundred thread Egyptian sheets. Her grandmother felt right at home here, she’d told her. Yet Jillian always found her on the balcony. She had a feeling she missed her vineyard.
Jillian grinned when she stepped outside and found Alin Petrosian resting with her eyes closed. The view was wasted on her.
“Tat,” she said, planting a kiss on her cheek. Her grandmother’s eyes flew open, and she mumbled something in her native language.
“Dear child, don’t sneak up on me like that. You almost stopped my heart.” She gave Jillian a once-over and sighed. “Why do you keep wearing such deplorable clothes? They’r
e absolutely unsuitable for someone of your station.”
“My station is on the seat of a motorcycle, Grandma.” Jillian walked to the balcony and took a long breath. The view was spectacular. The city. The mountains.
“When did you get back? And why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“We arrived less than an hour ago, and I couldn’t call you because I was working.” Jillian turned around and faced her grandmother, her back to the balcony rail. “I was also angry about the mess with the media. Someone told the world who I was without calling me first.”
She chuckled and pointed at the lounge chair next to hers. “Sit down, please.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Jillian said, not taking the seat. “I had to dodge reporters. Even now, some are parked downstairs. I don’t like people poking their noses in my business or yelling questions at me.”
“I smiled because I like your honesty. You get that from me. Instead of dodging reporters, talk to them. In your line of work, you should be used to it by now.”
“News flash, Grandma. I’m not.”
She shook her head. “So you’re still angry?”
Jillian sighed. “No. It was bound to come out. I just wanted a heads-up.” Confusion flashed in her grandmother’s eyes. “You know, to be a little bit prepared.”
“Yet you rose to the occasion.” She sounded a lot more cheerful than usual. “And since you won’t sit, help me up.” She extended her hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.” Jillian helped her to her feet. “Is your wedding dress ready?”
“Yes. It’s gorgeous.”
“May I see it?”
“No, you may not,” she responded primly.
Alin stopped and leveled her a censuring look. “How am I supposed to know if it is appropriate if I don’t see it?”
Jillian gave her a toothy grin. “You take my word for it?”
“Word of someone who runs around with jeans so old they are falling apart? Don’t they pay you enough to buy decent clothes?” Jillian grinned while her grandmother sighed. “Young people today do not care about tradition. It is bad enough I have to watch you risk your life on national television and they call it entertainment. I refuse to see you wed in those”—she waved to indicate Jillian’s jeans—“or flying one of your motorcycles. You do that and my heart will stop.”
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