Avery Flynn - Killer Style 02 - This Year's Black

by Avery Flynn

  “Before you go, there’s one more thing I have to tell you.” Sylvie paused.

  Ryder’s sixth sense for trouble perked up, and she held her breath, knowing whatever she heard next would rock her world.

  …

  The egg white omelet could have been made from painted cardboard for all Devin could taste. All the brain cells not connected to basic functions, like remembering to breathe, were busy making sure he didn’t say or do anything stupid while sitting across from Ryder at the wrought iron table on the patio.

  Over her left shoulder, he could see white-tipped waves rolling onto the beach about ten yards from where they sat silently during the most tension-filled breakfast he’d ever experienced. Shit, telling his father to go ahead and disown him hadn’t been as nerve-wracking.

  If he could turn down the Harris billions without blinking an eye, surely, breaking bread with Ryder Falcon was no big deal. He just needed to explain that last night was a freak—and freaky hot—occurrence that couldn’t happen again. The irony of being the one to say those words after the way she’d ditched him after their previous night together should have been a kick-ass victory.

  It wasn’t.

  “So…” His brain tried to catch up with his mouth, but it was slow rolling. “How’s your fruit and yogurt?”

  “Good.” Ryder sucked the last bit of Greek yogurt off her spoon and Devin bent his fork, the metal digging into his thumb.

  He must have groaned out loud because her lips started to twitch and she snorted a half giggle. “Let’s just get it out there, okay? We had sex. It was awesome, but it shouldn’t have happened.” Her brown eyes locked in on him as an ocean breeze tumbled her hair. “We’re both grown-ups. We can move forward from here.”

  It was awesome. The phrase stood out as if she’d spray painted it on the table. She thought sex with him was awesome.

  She stared at him for a moment with her wide brown eyes as if she expected him to argue, to protest, but his brain was too scrambled to come up with anything. His gaze followed a long strand of silky brown as it tangled around her blouse buttons.

  “Glad you see it that way,” she uttered, her tone sharp.

  What had he missed? She’d just blown him off. Again.

  Her spoon clanged against the parfait glass rim as she released it and then crossed her arms, dislodging the hair that had snared his attention…and his libido.

  The woman twisted his brain. Not sleeping with her was the best thing for both of them with so much on the line. He did see it that way. At least his big head did. The little head had other ideas. On automatic pilot, he shoveled the last bite of omelet into his mouth and followed it with the last gulp of orange juice.

  “We’d better get moving.” Ryder’s chair screeched against the cement patio as she pushed back from the table and stood.

  Keep it professional and all business. He could do this.

  Couldn’t he?

  …

  Ryder stopped halfway into the room and waited for Devin to close the sliding glass door. As soon as it clicked shut, she put the bed between them, needing the mental safety a physical barrier provided. Then she glanced down at the rumpled covers, still twisted from last night’s activities, and heat singed her from the toes up. Sylvie was wrong. Trusting her instincts was the last thing that should happen.

  Devin’s quiet chuckle from the other side of the room meant her reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Great.

  She hot-stepped it away from the bed and toward him. “I talked to my friend Sylvie this morning. She’s a fashion blogger, the High-Heeled Wonder.”

  “Sylvie Bissette, right?” He strolled closer, his pace as deliberate as his words. “Wasn’t she the one who had that crazy stalker a while back?”

  “That would be the one.” A demented fashion insider-turned-whack-a-do had become obsessed with outing Sylvie’s top secret blogger identity and then killing her. Yeah, the stalker had been a real piece of work, to put it mildly. The only good thing to come out of the whole situation had been Tony and Sylvie falling in love.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Stalker cases?”

  “No.” Devin stopped within arm’s reach. “Maltese Security personnel getting involved with a client.”

  Ryder stumbled over her own feet and wobbled in midair. Just as gravity grabbed hold of her, Devin wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his hard chest. His hand lay flat against her stomach, fingers spread wide. Electricity jumped from his fingertips to her skin, strong enough that she might well have been naked instead of wearing a simple cotton tank. The power of attraction coursed through her and raced across her skin, making her breathless and lightheaded.

  Heat sizzled through her veins. It was too much in one breath and not enough in the next. She felt ready to combust on the spot. Which was why she had to put as much space between them as possible. Too bad forcing her legs to move had become beyond her capability.

  She had to get the words out before her brain short-circuited. “Someone told Sylvie that Dylan’s Department Store is about to tank financially.”

  He jumped backward, as if her words had burned him. “And how in the hell would someone know that?” Accusation lay heavy in his tone.

  But she noticed he hadn’t denied it. All the soft fuzzies evaporated in a second. “W-what?”

  “Up until you dropped your four-point-seven million dollar bomb on me in Harbor City, it seemed that George was the only one who knew that bit of information. Hell, even I didn’t have a clue that it’s as bad as it is. This could ruin the MultiCorp deal.”

  She rounded on him and planted her hands on her hips. “Are you blaming the leak on me?”

  Anger had painted him scarlet. Before he could open his accusing mouth, a knock sounded at the door. She stormed over and yanked it open.

  “Good morning, Ms. Falcon.”GA bellboy held a large envelope with her name and a Maltese Security return address. His eyes widened when he got a look at her, and he took a step back. “This just came for you,” he said, his voice wobbled as he handed the package to her. “The messenger said it was urgent.”

  “Thank you.” She shut the door and ripped open the envelope.

  She’d told Tony to back off. If he was trying to micromanage things on top of her having to deal with the asshole across the room, this case could get ugly. The Thanksgiving when Uncle Sal had tried to stab Sammie Jr. with a cannoli would have nothing on her throw-down with her big brother when she saw him again.

  Inside the envelope were several eight-by-ten color photographs and a piece of paper. She pulled out the photos and her pulse went into overdrive. Holy shit. Obviously, the return address was bogus.

  The first showed her and Devin standing in line at customs. The second showed them outside the tea shop. Her vision darkened around the edges as fury swirled inside her. But she couldn’t give in to it. Not yet.

  “What it is? Are you okay?” Devin hustled to her side and tried to put an arm around her.

  She easily sidestepped the move. “I’m fine.” The bastard had been just about to accuse her of submarining her own case before the bellboy arrived, and now he wanted to comfort her?

  Fuck. That.

  She blinked until she could focus on the pictures again. In the third, she and Devin were holding hands during the blessing ceremony. The forth showed them in bed, making love, taken through a crack in the curtains. Devin was embracing her in the fifth shot, his muscular arms pulling her close.

  Her hands shook and she fought the urge to rip the glossy paper to shreds. But they were evidence. She might be able to find something in the angles or in a reflection to lead her to the bastard who’d taken them. And then that person would feel the full impact of her wrath.

  Without a word, she passed the pictures to Devin and opened the single sheet of pale pink paper.

  Ms. Falcon,

  Consider this your last warning. You see how easy it is for us to get c
lose to you. If you value your life, you’ll go home now.

  It ended there without a signature, but she didn’t need one to know who’d sent it.

  “What the fuck?” He tossed the pictures on the bed’s rumbled sheets before fisting his hands.

  “The images aren’t grainy enough to be a telephoto lens. One of Sarah’s lackeys must have been practically sitting in our laps.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He started to pace the room. “How did we not notice that?”

  The previous day rolled through her mind. The car on the road from the hotel. The wine at dinner. The almost uncontrollable urge to touch Devin after she’d drunk it. Her jumbled thoughts skittered to a stop. No one else had drunk from the special bottle.

  “Maybe it was a setup. The bad driver in the van. The old woman with the wine?” The possibility made her muscles twitch with the need to move. To jab. To take out the bastard who’d just fucked with the wrong chick. “Sarah’s been harassing us since we stepped off the plane.”

  Clenching her jaw, Ryder slowly counted to ten, timing her breaths so they lasted as long as each number, until a familiar calm loosened her muscles. Paulie had taught her a pre-fight routine to clear her mind, and she followed it now. She closed her eyes, released the fists her hands had formed, and pictured an empty ring. Her domain. Her home. No one fucked with her there.

  “She doesn’t realize it yet, but Sarah Molina just made a grievous error.” Ryder opened her eyes. “She made it personal.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Creativity comes from a conflict of ideas.”

  — Donatella Versace

  Andol Fashion Week didn’t have the glitz and glamor of Paris or New York, but fashionistas from all over South America and even Europe packed into luxury homes and five-star resorts hastily converted into fashion destinations where six-foot-tall models strutted down narrow runways showcasing the best the continent had to offer. The clothes were on display, but all the ladies-who-lunch could talk about that morning were the thieves who’d hit the city’s main hotel and swiped enough diamonds to fund a trip to the moon.

  Ryder could give a shit if some ultra-rich women lost a few baubles that were no doubt insured. She’d hauled her ass halfway across the island for one reason only: to find Sarah Molina. A confirmed fashion junkie who’d been a part of the fashion world for three decades, there was no way she’d miss out on the continent’s premier fashion event.

  Walking up the stone pathway to a covered Zen garden, her kitten heels clicking on each flagstone, Ryder scanned the small groupings concentrated near the three bars placed strategically around the potted bonsai trees. These shows never started on time, allowing even the latecomers like her and Devin time to see and be seen. Her earlier rage had congealed like mozzarella cheese on a day-old slice of pizza, leaving her mind free of the red haze coloring her vision. She scanned the glittering crowd as she circled the empty runway, searching for Sarah’s distinctive ebony bob. She spotted plenty of blondes, a handful of brunettes, and even the occasional white, but no bob. The lack of results turned her last nerve into a tiny nub of discontent and free-floating aggression. Well, that and the frustration of pretending she was Devin’s happy little assistant even though she wanted to knock him in the nuts for thinking she’d leaked the news about the store’s financial troubles.

  A shadow fell across her path. She didn’t have to look up to know the most annoying man in the world had stopped beside her. A tingling up her spine had told her he was near long before he darkened her sight lines.

  “Do you see her?” The intensity in Devin’s hushed words made a mockery of his casual stance and the loose way he held a champagne flute.

  She shook her head as a short man in a blue seersucker suit rushed toward them. Immediately on guard, she pivoted and braced her shoulders in case of attack. He had a paunchy belly, teeth so white they were nearly florescent, and a bulbous nose that would make a perfect first target. She rose onto the balls of her feet, keeping her muscles loose but ready.

  The man started talking before his feet even stopped moving. “Mr. Devin Harris, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Louis Pucci, The Andol Republic’s cultural minister.”

  She relaxed back onto her heels, wishing she could exhale the fight-or-flight adrenaline rush from her veins instead of having to let it tweak through her system, making her muscles contract under her black lace sleeves.

  “So good to meet you.” Devin shook Louis’s hand. “We’ve been impressed with the setup for the shows today.”

  The other man beamed. “Thank you, we are most proud of our South American geniuses.” He turned to Ryder. “Madam, I apologize for so rudely interrupting your conversation, but I could not let an opportunity to talk to Mr. Harris go by.”

  “That’s not a problem. This”—Devin turned to Ryder—”is my assistant, Ryder Falcon.”

  Louis’ smooth fingers clasped hers and he brought them up to his lips. “We are so pleased you are both here with us enjoying the wonderful designs. Let me take you to your seats.” He walked them to the chairs lining a raised, sixteen-feet-long catwalk. “I made sure you have premium seats. We really are hoping you find a local designer or two to feature prominently at Dylan’s Department Stores across the globe when the merger goes through.”

  “That is the goal today.” Devin’s voice had a breezy tone, but his left eye twitched.

  Muscle spasm or something more? She didn’t give a shit. Her job was to track down Sarah, not be Devin’s babysitter, and she refused to give him an inch after this morning. The only nursing she’d be doing would involve a grudge—or a bottle of tequila.

  “I hope you have found our country pleasing so far.” Louis stopped in front of a pair of front-row seats located three-fourths of the way down the runway and held out his hand.

  Again, Devin shook the man’s hand, but his gaze flitted around the gathering. “It is beautiful here.”

  “Wonderful.” Louis executed a short bow toward Ryder. “If there’s anything you need, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

  “There is one thing.” She ignored Devin’s censorious look. He wasn’t running this investigation and it was time he realized that. “We’re hoping to chat with Sarah Molina while we’re here. You haven’t seen her yet, have you?”

  “No, señorita.” His posture stiffened and a vein quivered against his otherwise smooth forehead. “But if I do, I’ll be sure to let her know you’re looking for her.” He took three quick steps back, not bothering to wait for a reply.

  After practically fawning over Devin, now he couldn’t ditch them fast enough. Alarm bells clanged in Ryder’s head, but she wasn’t about to let him get away that quickly.

  “Do you know her well?” She gave him her best just-a-dumb-employee eye flutter.

  He paused, one foot caught mid-step, hanging in the air. “I do. Her family and mine have been close friends for generations.”

  “How lovely,” she gushed.

  He returned her smile, but the dull flatness in his hard eyes sent a chill down her spine. “Indeed.”

  Devin must have felt it, too, because he inched toward her until he was close enough for the heat from his body to dissipate the frigidness the cultural minister inspired.

  Annoyed at the relief she felt, she stepped away from him and closer to the other man. “Could I bother you to take my card, so you can reach me when you see her?”

  Louis’s smile held about as much warmth as the Arctic Circle. “Of course.”

  “You are too kind.” She handed him a white business card that only listed her name and her cell phone number.

  He pocketed the card, shook Devin’s hand once more, and left as fast as his little feet would take him to mingle with the other guests wandering around looking for their seats.

  Watching him go, she took the opportunity to cast a surreptitious glance at those gathered close by. There were South American versions of Harbor City society’s great dames in color-matching looks fr
om their wide-brimmed hats to their spike-heeled sandals. Men and women who obviously believed in the power of fashion-with-a-capital-F dotted the landscape and were dressed in avant-garde touches—including one woman with a tree-branch fascinator that curved forward to cover half her face. In between those extremes were the “It” girls and fashion forward boys who were here not only to see, but to be seen. It was a people-watching paradise.

  But the one person she wanted to see remained hidden.

  Reaching inside his jacket, Devin pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses and put them on before sitting down. “Look, about what happened at the hotel room earlier. I—”

  A painful tightness gripped her throat, making her response scratchy. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.” He twisted in his chair, turning away from the crowd.

  “No.” Her grimace projected back at her from his sunglass’s reflection. “We got caught up in the whole island vibe or were drugged, maybe both. Everything just righted itself back to the natural order of things. But I didn’t leak the story and you damn well know it.”

  “You’re right.” He paused. “About almost all of it.”

  Everything inside her head screeched to a halt. “What do you mean almost?”

  “Well, there!” A voice boomed between them.

  Ryder jerked her focus away from Devin, annoyance and the interruption making her snarl. She did a double-take at the giant of a man standing in front of their chairs.

  He was the tallest person she’d ever seen not CGIed into a scifi movie. He had to be just shy of seven feet tall, and that wasn’t counting his purple four-inch platform boots. He’d topped his summer white suit with a caplet and a paisley fedora. He looked like a demented villain from one of her nephew’s cartoons.

  Judging by Devin’s stiff posture and vein-popping forearms, he wasn’t pleased to see this newest arrival.

  “Imagine seeing you in The Andol Republic, Harris,” the man drawled.

  “Nigel.” Devin slathered the name with distaste. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”