A phone machine had blinked at her when she first walked in.
“Settle in. Take your time. We’ll call you in four days.” Even on a recorded message, Gene’s voice sounded deep and sultry, curling around her senses.
Grace thought the decadence and luxury should be relaxing her. Instead, it intensified her nerves. No photography business, no matter how lucrative, could afford to put their employees up in this kind of style. Doubts clung to the outer fringes of her mind as she wondered what she had gotten herself into.
Pushing the negativity away, she ignored the rest of the boxes and ran herself a bath in the whirlpool tub. She rummaged in the fridge and found the unopened bottle of white wine someone had left her. She smiled and poured a glass of chardonnay while the water filled. After slipping out of her jeans and T-shirt, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her torso.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
She managed to make out a shock of golden hair through the peephole, and her heart quickened. Gene.
She opened the door a crack, meaning to ask him to wait a moment while she put on some clothing, but he barged through. He then looked surprised at her state of undress, as if he’d expected her to be in business wear, awaiting his arrival.
“Did they provide you with any scotch?” he asked gruffly as his eyes raked over her towel-clad flesh.
“Hello to you, too.” She hid her face behind the veil of her curls in embarrassment, but her voice remained even and soft. She was allowed to bathe in her own home.
He strode to the tan suede couch in the living area and slid onto the middle cushion, his body slumping so that his knees were parallel to the floor. His black suit jacket crinkled around his elbows and bunched at his shoulders, but he didn’t take it off.
“How about that scotch?” he asked, staring now at the white wall in front of him.
Grace turned on her heel and headed for the bedroom. She put on a red pencil skirt and cream colored top, then placed modest two-inch beige heels on her feet. She bunched up her hair in a tousled bun, pinning it there with two clips. She wanted to look her best during this impromptu meeting, regardless of the impression her state of undress might have given.
She stopped by the kitchen before returning to Gene.
“No scotch,” she said, handing him a large glass of chardonnay. “This is the only alcohol I’ve got.” The way he looked at her made her stomach clench, a barely concealed hunger lurking right behind his eyes. She felt suddenly nervous about having him in her apartment. In this state, he reminded her of an animal on the prowl. A wounded animal.
“This will have to do.” His upper lip curled in frustration as he brought the glass to it.
“I thought you were just going to call me, not come over,” Grace said, her nerves getting the better of her, forcing her to speak.
“So I see.” The sardonic smile didn’t reach his ice-blue eyes. He took another sip of wine before continuing. “There’s a snag in our…arrangement. It turns out the person who saw the documents was no random man. He’s a spy working for the government. While technically, we’re on the same side, fumbling interference from the IIB at this point could put lives in danger.” He stopped short and stared at her.
“I’m…I’m sorry.” Grace didn’t know what he wanted from her, but from the look on his face, a mumbled apology wasn’t it.
He shook his head and stood then crossed the tiled floor toward her. “Sorry isn’t good enough, I’m afraid,” he said as he closed in on her, inches from her face.
She stood her ground but couldn’t look at him. If only she had some idea what any of this was about. She didn’t want her ignorance to show. She felt she should be catching on, not drowning in uncertainty. The sea-like depths of his eyes wouldn’t help that sensation.
She felt a warm, broad hand on her forearm, and it pulled on her. Gene’s other arm wrapped around her shoulders, the wine glass held steady in his fingers. Unable to do anything but hang on, Grace stilled and waited, every nerve-ending in her body humming for more, begging her to tilt her face, to look at the Adonis who’d captured her in his grip. If she did, their lips would be but an inch apart. She kept her stance.
“I’m going to need you to dispose of him,” Gene murmured into her ear.
His breath spiked arrows of pleasure over her skin. Until she realized what he’d just said.
“Dispose of him?” She straightened, trying to pull herself away from her boss, who apparently had nothing to do with photography.
“Yes,” Gene said, matter-of-factly, before tightening his grip and pulling her so that her breasts touched his burgundy tie. “Consider it a test of sorts. If you can do this, if you can fix the error you made, you’re in, and we’ll set you up for life. If you fail…well, now you know how we work.”
Grace shuddered out of fear and out of desire. Gene’s sweet cologne was distracting her thoughts, his embrace taking the edge off his sinister words.
“Do you mean for me to kill him?”
Gene shook his head slightly. “If you must. The point is to make sure he keeps the government out of our business. If you can do that without death, using…other means,” Gene shifted her down against the erection straining his slacks for emphasis, “then that’s okay, too. Do what you have to do.”
The burning length against her abdomen made her woozy with need. She gazed upon him with heavily lidded eyes, trying to formulate a reply, when he bent down, slipped his strong arm behind her neck and kissed her.
Hard and fast, Gene conquered her lips, slanting his mouth over them and teasing them open with his tongue. He drank of her then, for a few precious seconds, before breaking contact and gently pushing her away, leaving her breathless and disheveled.
He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
“You’ve got one week from today,” he said as he walked to the door and opened it. “Marco Valencia is now working at the CableNette Building on Sixth Avenue.” He turned to give her one last, searing glance. “Good luck, Gracie. I hope you make it.”
The door shut with a foreboding crack behind him.
* * * *
The air had a sinister weight to it. Everything Marco saw took on an eerie tone, which blatantly opposed the sun-drenched trees and bright blue skies as he walked the perimeter of the park on his lunch break from his new job. The squirrels seemed to stare at him, ready to attack. Even the bums sleeping on the benches appeared to be enemies lying in wait. What had Graciela Merced done to him? He’d never complete his mission if his nerves remained fraught like this.
When he’d seen the brunette again, on his first day at the new job, he hadn’t thought much of it. He’d only caught a fleeting glance of curls, a tight blue dress and white heels walking around the corner to Times Square. It could have been any woman, on a lunchtime date in the city or going to a business meeting. The next day, he saw her on one of the benches in the park, a pink wool skirt to guard against the cold, her long legs, tapering down to the soft grass, covered by the lightest sheen of nylon stockings. They’d locked eyes then, and the stormy gray irises had looked fearful for just a moment before the contact was broken and she’d gotten up, walked away, her conservative black heels clicking over the pavement. By the third day, Grace had wised up. Clad in jeans and a white sweater, her curls pushed pack into a ponytail, Grace moved quickly after him on her sneakered feet. She followed his entire lunch-hour route.
Marco’s smile was tight. He hadn’t seen her yet today. Either she was finally getting the hang of following someone without them noticing, or she hadn’t shown up. Whichever the case, it made him nervous. The woman clearly wasn’t cut out for espionage. Marco had planned on cornering her today and making her tell him what she was doing there, but Warren Bell had forced other plans on him. Marco stayed twenty yards behind the man but never lost sight of him. He smirked at the strange procession they’d been making lately. He kept following Warren, while Grace kept following Marco.
Through lots of coffee and sucking up, Marco had ingratiated himself with the reporter enough so that Warren had agreed to let him tag along on some of his minor stories. Next week, Marco would start riding in the news truck with him, becoming his personal associate producer. If Bell lived to next week, that was.
Right now, he was getting dangerously close to the underground coffee shop where the cocaine dealers operated. Bell was ballsy. Marco knew once the man had an angle, he’d walk right in. Right in to his death. If the reporter stuck his nose into that café, he could disrupt months of IIB operative work. Marco’s organization had moles set inside the shop. Waiters, cooks, even a few posing as first-rung dealers. When the next shipment came in, they would strike. Unless Bell struck first. Then they’d have to abandon the mission and start all over again to protect innocent lives. Bell was important for their information, but he was working toward an opposite end.
Marco caught a glimpse of a brunette as he turned his head. Grace.
Not now, honey.
Warren Bell walked down a ramp and into the underground café.
Marco broke into a sprint, praying to get there before the gunshots.
* * * *
As she rounded the corner hot in pursuit of Marco Valencia, Grace thanked God she had thought to wear practical shoes. Was the man actually running from her? Of all the possible outcomes of her lumbering observation of Marco, she hadn’t expected this. Her sneakers squeaked sharply against the concrete, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a door swoosh shut to her right. It was half-hidden under the streetscape with only its top hinges visible, and she moved toward the ramp leading down toward it. Once she caught up with Marco, Grace still wasn’t sure what she would do. She’d decided to aim for seduction, first. When he trusted her, she’d convince him to concentrate on another project. She didn’t think she was capable of murder. The whole thing seemed like a work of fiction.
To enter the shop, she had to walk around a jutted building front and down another small incline. The black paint on the door was peeling. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath and whipped out her phone.
At strange door near Central Park. 012 inside. Will follow?
After Gene’s surprise visit to her new apartment, she’d not seen her boss again. Instead, he’d sent her a “company” cell phone and began calling and texting her on it. “012” was Marco. “015” was the news reporter Warren Bell. She hadn’t had to use that code yet. Gene said he wasn’t part of her mission. He’d sent her pictures of the reporter, telling her that he was trouble and she was to steer clear of him.
Gene had never mentioned the kiss again, never expressed worry for her welfare. She’d pined for a few days, the emotions stirred up calling to her in ways she hadn’t dreamed possible. The blond man haunted her dreams, dominating her and sometimes loving her. And when she awoke, it often took her a half hour to come back to the cold reality that was her lonely life. Eventually, with no contact to go on, she’d had no choice but to decide that it meant nothing to either of them and resolve to do her job and do it well, with no romantic strings to anyone.
Her phone beeped.
Dispose of 012. Is a threat. Back up coming.
Dispose of Marco. She decided right then she wouldn’t kill him. She couldn’t kill a fly, and Gene had given her no training. For the millionth time this week, she wondered what she was doing in this role. The posh apartment from “Hardy Photography” didn’t ease her conscience. It only made her more certain that whatever they were really doing, they were trying hard to hide it. And when people tried to hide things, those things usually weren’t right. She should have listened to her mother and gone into library science after college. No, she wouldn’t kill Marco. But she would get him out of there. Back to her place, if she could. Alone in a safe space, she’d be able to concentrate on the contrived romance with him without her nerves getting the better of her.
She pushed open the black door, and it let out a heavy creak. Everyone there looked at her. Stared at her, agape, and the various conversations dropped off into silence.
Marco stood in the corner of the smoke-filled room, gazing out a dingy window. He turned to her and gave her a miniscule nod. He’d known she’d been behind him, she realized. She felt her cheeks burn. How naïve of her to think she’d hidden herself well. She had failed in even that minor task.
On the other side of the cramped space sat Warren Bell, sipping an espresso at the bar. It looked as if he’d been deep in conversation with the baristas before her arrival. There were about ten other patrons, all men. Grace wondered fleetingly if this was a cover for a brothel. The thought deepened her embarrassment, and the silence continued.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out, putting on her best helpless female act and praying Marco would play along. “I was looking for the Salon De Plume! I heard it was a hidden gem on this street! Can’t get more hidden than this place,” she babbled on, “but, obviously this isn’t the salon. You don’t have the right chairs, or scissors, or—”
A broad hand touched her arm, cutting off her words.
“I know where it is, and I was just leaving,” Marco said. “I’ll take you there.”
She nodded weakly, and the noisy din of the small restaurant picked up again as they left the building.
Gene stepped out of the cab on the wrong side of the street, two blocks from the Iron Flower. The café might not have a sign on the door, but he knew its name well. He walked at a brisk pace toward the coffee shop but stopped in shock when it came into view.
There was Grace, being dragged outside by the arm by one intensely handsome, dark-haired man. Marco Valencia. Gene smiled at the memories he shared with that man. As if the two sensed him, both Grace and Marco looked up at him at the same time, which jolted Gene back into action. He made his way toward them with a slow, meaningful gait, watching them scurry away from him. To her credit, Grace was trying to break away, but Marco held fast, and she went with him. Gene assumed she didn’t want to make a scene on the sidewalk. He knew where they were going and crossed the back lot of a building to wait for them at the opening of the Metro.
Gene stood amid the throngs of people weaving by him, and his targets apparently didn’t notice him in front of them. They were still checking to see if he trailed them. He stuck out his arm, skidding them to a halt.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll take her from here.”
The fire burning in Marco’s deep brown eyes took Gene aback. The smaller man set his brows in an angry scowl and yanked the woman to him, placing his arms around her waist.
“I don’t think so,” he growled. He dragged Grace with him as he hurried down the steps.
Gene watched them retreat, and he gave Marco a wink and a wave when the man looked back up at him just before the train came to a halt. Then he turned, exited back to the street and hailed a cab to take him back to his office. She was in good hands. Enemy hands, but good ones.
And Marco was right to try to get her away. She wasn’t cut out for espionage. Poor Grace really didn’t know what she was doing. Still, it had worked out perfectly. With no one left watching Warren Bell, his men could move in. He flipped open his phone.
“Jackson, call Perry. Bell will be at the Iron Flower for another thirty minutes or so. He’s getting information for his trip to Colombia, finding contacts. Go take his picture. We may or may not need it to prove he’s investigating the story, depending on whether or not he actually does a report.”
He hung up without waiting for a response. Gene stretched out in the taxi and relaxed. At least he had the comfort of knowing that the IIB wouldn’t kill Grace or Warren. Really, the government and his company were on the same side. The only difference being that if the government stopped the cocaine trade before Gene did his job, he was out five million dollars.
No, Gene had to keep Bell on the case until the story broke, otherwise Hardy Photography was worthless to CableNette. The station needed the glory, and for that to happen, they ne
eded their main reporter alive. If Warren Bell could break this case, it would save the news corporation from going under. It was a Hail Mary plea to the gods for the station to hire Gene’s company, and one for which they were willing to pay through the teeth.
Gene made another call, dialing the number he still knew by heart from three years ago.
“Valencia.” The greeting was rough.
“Just make sure you get her back to her apartment by this time tomorrow. She has a fundraising event to attend. With me.”
The only answer was a resounding click.
Gene sat back and smiled. He had a feeling he’d be seeing Marco again very soon. Probably at the CableNette dinner tomorrow night at the Bellisimo Hotel.
* * * *
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Marco couldn’t help himself from shouting at the woman sitting in front of him. He hadn’t known where to take her, so he’d brought her to one of his many apartments, this one in Brooklyn.
“No. Maybe you’d like to tell me?” Grace jutted out her chin, lifting her breasts under the tight sweater.
Marco felt desire rush through him like an avalanche, clouding his vision. “Not my job,” he ground out, trying to regain his center of gravity. “I’m to have nothing to do with you from this point out, but for Christ’s sake, tell that boss of yours to keep you out of the direct line of fire if he’s not going to give you any information.”
“If you want that,” she said with an edge to her voice, “you’ll have to stay out of the heat, yourself. The one thing Gene did tell me was to follow you. That’s my only instruction. And I plan to do it. I will not let him down again.”
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