Boiling Point
By
Alison Henderson
Boiling Point
Zoe Hargrove’s first solo assignment as a bodyguard is off to a rocky start. On the way to her client’s lakeside estate, a pair of kamikaze bikers nearly runs her off the road. Upon arrival, she learns she’s expected to work undercover as a personal chef—a potential disaster since she can barely burn water—while secretly protecting the client’s pregnant wife from a potential assailant. To top things off, her culinary assistant will be the client’s latest invention—a robotic sous chef named GRAMPA.
And if that isn’t enough, the couple’s dangerously handsome chauffeur, who looks more like a prize fighter than a car jockey, glowers at her as if she’s about to steal the silver. Zoe soon suspects he’s hiding secrets of his own, but can she uncover them in time to stop the escaped criminal who threatens them all?
Boiling Point
© Copyright 2016 Alison Henderson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Art by Creative Author Services
Published by Alison Henderson
United States of America
Electronic Version: October 2016
CHAPTER ONE
Zoë Hargrove jerked the wheel of her red and white Mini Cooper and slammed the heel of her palm into the horn as the rusty brown dump truck clipped her front bumper. She bit off an epithet, downshifted, and glared at the truck’s long side view mirror, hoping to meet the driver’s gaze. He never glanced over.
Where are the cops when you need them?
She swore again and rammed the horn as the truck lumbered ahead up Lake Shore Drive toward downtown Chicago. Grabbing her phone, she pressed it to the windshield and snapped a quick shot of the license plate. With luck, the picture would be clear enough to read the numbers. When she reached Lake Forest, she could email the photo to Risa back at the Phoenix, Ltd. office. As office manager and all-around go-to person, Risa was a whiz at tracking things down.
If the trucking company refused to pay for the damage to her bumper, Zoë could always file a police report. Her boss, Madelyn Li, had enough connections in the CPD to turn on some serious heat. Heck, she might even call in the FBI.
Zoë relaxed her death grip on the steering wheel and drew a slow, deep breath in an effort to slow her pounding heart.
Nothing like a double shot of adrenaline first thing in the morning to set the tone for the day.
She peered ahead through the damp gray haze of early November drizzle at the usual stack-up as the lanes of traffic neared McCormick Place then flashed the wipers. The clock on the dashboard read seven thirty-two. Even with the rain, she should be able to make it to Lake Forest in an hour, easy. She didn’t want to be late the first day of a new assignment.
A loud, whining buzz interrupted her thoughts, and she checked her rear view mirror. Nothing. The high-pitched whine grew louder. When she glanced at the driver’s side mirror, she did a quick double take. A motorcyclist in black leathers and a black helmet loomed on her left rear tail. He bent low over a black Japanese crotch rocket like a malevolent wasp.
Where did he come from?
The rider leaned right then disappeared from view. Zoë twisted and located him in her blind spot, keeping a steady pace with her car.
What a moron.
As she turned back, she caught sight of another black-suited cyclist on an identical bike holding steady just off her right rear quarter panel and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. She was in no mood to play hide-and-seek in rush hour traffic with a couple of kamikaze wannabes.
Up ahead, a rolling wave of brake lights flared. The rust-pitted Toyota in front of her took advantage of a widening space to shoot into the next lane. Zoë had just started to apply more pressure to the gas pedal when a dirty brown tailgate appeared inches in front of her.
It was the same damned dump truck! Had to be. He’d almost changed lanes into her again. What was wrong with the guy?
She downshifted then hit the horn, for all the good it would do. The truck driver was obviously deaf as well as blind.
The whine behind her intensified like a screaming hive of bees on meth. A quick mirror check showed the cyclists bearing down again from both sides, their ugly black machines mere inches from her rear side panels. What were they trying to do? She glanced forward again. The back end of the dump truck filled her windshield. Her pulsed pounded in her ears. If the driver slowed a fraction, she would plow into him.
Just in time, her evasive driving training kicked in and muscled the burgeoning panic aside. Blocked on three sides, she had only one avenue of escape. She glanced in the rear view mirror to gauge her opening then slowed her speed and gave the wheel a quick jerk to the left. The Mini slid sideways into a narrow gap in the neighboring lane, barely missing the back wheel of one of the bikes. Zoë blew out a quick breath and thanked her lucky stars for her car’s compact proportions. Horns blared, but the silver Chevy behind her dropped back to give her a few feet of breathing room. The cyclists’ black helmets turned toward her in unison before they shot forward on either side of the dump truck and disappeared between the lanes of traffic.
Her hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel. She tried to swallow, but her dry throat balked. When she reached for the bottle of water in her cup holder, a drop of cold perspiration trickled down the inside of her arm.
Great. Just great. Not only had a couple of show-off idiots nearly killed her, but now she had to worry about pit stains when she met her new client. Real professional.
Her nerves were already on edge because she’d had so little time to prepare. The client had called yesterday and wanted an agent immediately. She loosened her death-grip on the steering wheel and took a series of deep breaths. She couldn’t blow it. This assignment was too important, especially because her boss was in the Bahamas on her honeymoon, and Zoë had taken the initiative to accept the job on her own. She’d only been an operative of the Phoenix, Ltd. Personal Protection Agency for six months, but she wanted to prove she was ready to take on more responsibility. This job could be her ticket.
The client, Lyman Prescott, had been fuzzy about the details of the job when she’d spoken with him on the phone. She’d gotten the basics. He wanted to hire a bodyguard for his wife, someone who could also work undercover as a personal chef. The rest of the conversation had been a bit confusing—something about a person named Watanabe and a grandpa. She would sort everything out when she reached Strathmoor, the Prescott family estate on the western shore of Lake Michigan.
Last night she’d Googled Lyman Prescott and learned he was the grandson of notorious Prohibition-era Chicago bootlegger, Frankie “No Nose” Prescott. According to the articles, Lyman was some sort of inventor. Apparently, he was also a bit of a recluse, since none of the articles included a photo. She pictured a short, bald man with thick, round glasses, rattling around in a laboratory full of mysterious gadgets. This could be a fun assignment…if only it didn’t involve cooking.
She wasn’t as hopeless in the kitchen as her mother claimed—she had, in fact, never burned water—but what were the chances the Prescotts would be satisfied with scrambled eggs and BLTs?
The thick gray drizzle enveloped her the rest of the way to Lake Forest. Roadside landmarks disappeared in the mist, but every couple of miles a green and white highway sign leapt
from the fog like a Halloween goblin. Once she reached the tony suburb, finding Strathmoor became an even greater challenge. Along the lake, mansions hid behind ivy-covered walls and massive iron gates. The roads were poorly marked—probably to keep the riffraff out. If you didn’t know where you were going, you probably didn’t belong in Lake Forest in the first place. By the time she’d driven down the wrong lane three times, Zoë was cursing her GPS in language that would have given her grandma hives.
On the fourth try, she spotted a gate with an elaborate “P” worked into the black wrought iron. She checked the address number on the stone wall and released a pent-up breath.
Finally.
She pulled into the driveway in front of the gate and rolled down her window. But when she reached for the button on the intercom, her finger fell several inches short. Rats. Lack of height was one of the few disadvantages of her precious car.
She cut the engine then swiveled in her seat and unfolded her legs. If there was a graceful way to exit the Mini in a skirt, she had yet to discover it. That was a minor annoyance since she rarely wore skirts, but she’d dressed up today, wanting to make a good impression on her new client.
As she stepped out, a high-pitched buzz caught her attention. She glanced down the street and spied a pair of black-clad motorcyclists, side by side, approaching rapidly. It couldn’t be coincidence. They had to be the same idiots who’d tried to play chicken with her earlier, but why would they follow her here?
As they neared, they slowed their bikes and gunned the engines. The dark shields of their helmets obscured their faces, lending an air of menace to their solid black figures, like a pair of ninjas preparing to strike. Zoë shot a quick glance over her shoulder at her bag still on the passenger seat of the car. Her weapon was inside. Could she reach it in time, if necessary?
Before she could act, the cyclists cruised by, moving just fast enough to stay upright. As they passed, one raised two fingers to his helmet in a parody of a salute. Then they revved their motors and roared off down the street.
Adrenaline zipped through Zoë’s veins. Air filled her lungs in short, sharp pants.
What the hell?
She glanced around, allowing the solidity of iron and stone to bring her back to the present situation. She was here to do a job, which was starting off a lot less routine than she’d anticipated. She stepped up to the two-way speaker next to the gate, took a deep breath, and pushed the button. “Zoë Hargrove to see Mr. Prescott.”
A male voice crackled in response. “Miss Hargrove, please come in.”
When the gates parted silently, Zoë climbed back in her car and drove through. A subtle shiver slithered through her body. The grounds of Strathmoor had probably been lovely once, but now dark, tangled woods surrounded the broad swath of weedy lawn. The woods would be an excellent hiding place for a pair of deadly ninjas.
For the love of Pete, Hargrove, pull yourself together. This is a job, not some C-grade graphic novel.
She slowed the car, grabbed the bottle of water for a quick swig, and surveyed the house at the end of the drive. The sprawling stone mansion was an early twentieth century version of an English country manor, complete with parapets and numerous fancifully-shaped chimneys. It was the perfect place for a rum-running gangster and his machine gun-toting cohorts. Zoë pictured a string of long black Packards delivering bleached blonde flappers in fringed dresses for a night of hot jazz and cool hooch. At the moment, however, only a non-descript brown Ford sedan sat parked at the base of the stone steps.
Not wanting to box in the other car, she eased forward and followed the driveway along the side of the house. Behind the house, she found a wide, cobblestone courtyard in front of a turreted, two-story structure that looked more like a mini-castle than a place to park cars. Only the array of garage doors revealed its true purpose. She flipped up the visor mirror to smooth her short, dark brown bob and refresh her lipstick. No point in looking as ruffled as she felt. Then she retrieved her rolling suitcase, locked the car, and headed around the house to the front door.
Mr. Prescott had been as vague about the duration of the assignment as he had about the other details. “Until everything’s sorted out,” he’d said. Whatever that meant. When she glanced up at the imposing stone façade before climbing the steps, a sharp pang poked her chest. What had she been thinking when she’d accepted this assignment? She probably should have called Madelyn first, even in the Bahamas. No one would believe Zoë was a chef. Not only could she barely cook, but she hadn’t even had time to find a proper white coat to help look the part.
Then her old drill instructor’s harsh bark rang in her ears. Suck it up, Hargrove! You got yourself into this. Make it work. She shoved her doubts aside, squared her shoulders, and pressed the antique brass doorbell.
A moment later, the wooden plank door swung open to reveal a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing brown corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket. Wispy curls of indeterminate color topped a high forehead above bemused brown eyes. “Welcome to Strathmoor, Ms. Hargove. Come in, come in.”
When he shook her hand, the strength of his grip surprised her. His appearance suggested a man more at home with mental than physical labor.
“I’m Lyman Prescott.”
Her eyes adjusted to the lower light as she stepped through the doorway into a dark-paneled, baronial foyer with black and white checkerboard floor tiles. A pair of gilt bronze wall sconces in the form of Greek maidens holding torches lit the heavily carved oak staircase. They looked as though they’d been converted from gas to electricity at some point during the life of the house. The aura of a bygone age was so strong Zoë half-expected Frankie “No Nose” himself to appear at any moment.
She glanced further into the foyer and realized she’d interrupted a meeting of some kind. Behind Lyman Prescott stood two men and a petite, very pregnant blonde with her right arm in a cast. The thin man on the left could only be a cop. His small notebook, pencil, and matter-of-fact expression gave him away. Besides, no one but a cop would wear that rumpled brown suit, sad green tie, and industrial-grade orthopedic shoes.
Zoë glanced from him to the other man and took a quick half-step back. She was tall, especially in the burgundy stilettos she’d chosen that morning to compliment her charcoal suit, but this man was several inches taller and heavily built, like a professional athlete just past his prime. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, and a black-brimmed cap dangled from the fingers of one hand. Black hair curled above a strong, square forehead and prominent nose that listed to the right, as if it had been broken a time or two. But it was the intense expression in his dark eyes that made her stomach clench. She was used to masculine appreciation, but this was different. This man wasn’t undressing her with his eyes; he meant to flay her open to discover her secrets. And the lines between his brows suggested he didn’t like what he saw.
Lyman followed her gaze with a small, confused frown then waved his right hand in the general direction of the blonde. “Oh...yes...ah...allow me to introduce my wife. Marian, dear, this is Ms. Hargrove, the personal chef I told you about.”
Zoë turned and smiled. “Please call me Zoë.”
“Of course, of course.” Lyman’s voice had an edge of strain. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, do we, my dear?”
“We certainly don’t. You’ll have to bear with us. We’re not used to having household staff. I’m Marian. I’d shake your hand, but…” She tipped her cast with a rueful twist of her lips.
Marian Prescott was a lovely woman, especially when she smiled, and the tiny crinkles fanning out from her cornflower blue eyes suggested she smiled often. Golden hair tumbled casually from a big clip high on the back of her head. She appeared to be at least fifteen years younger than her husband, but the warm affection in her gaze suggested she was no trophy wife. Between her advanced pregnancy and broken arm, Marian’s need for assistance in the kitchen was obvious, but that didn’t explain her husband’s decision to hire a bo
dyguard.
“I’m pleased to meet you. I’ll try to be as much help as possible.” Zoë glanced at the cast. “I’m so sorry about your arm. That can’t be easy, especially now.”
Marian shook her head and patted her tummy with her left hand. “Between my arm and my belly, I’m pathetically helpless for the next month. Thank heaven the doctor says the cast can come off before the baby’s born.”
Zoë turned back to Lyman. Phoenix, Ltd.’s personal protection business placed the highest priority on client confidentiality, so she didn’t want to ask questions in front of the other men, but she needed more information. The presence of the police detective troubled her. And who was the big guy in the suit? He looked like a nightclub bouncer who was looking for an excuse to toss her out on her rear.
Lyman glanced at the two men. “This is Sergeant Lewis of the Lake Forest Police, and this is our chauffeur Dominic Rosetti.”
Both men nodded in acknowledgement, but neither smiled. Maybe the sergeant was here to arrest the chauffeur for stealing the silver.
Lyman cleared his throat. “The sergeant is investigating a series of...er...incidents we’ve been having lately, but I believe he has finished with his questions for the moment. Haven’t you, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Lewis flipped his notebook closed and tucked it into his pocket. “I think I’ve got what I need for now. I’ll be in touch. Be sure to call me if you have any further problems.” He handed Lyman a card.
“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Lyman ushered the man out and closed the door. He seemed relieved and offered a tentative smile. “Now, Zoë, I’m sure you would like to see your quarters and get settled.”
“That would be great, but first, I wonder if I might have a word.” She glanced at Marian’s questioning face and ignored the glowering chauffeur. “To go over the details of the job one more time. I want to be sure I’ve got everything straight before I start.”
Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 1