by Addison Fox
The doorman’s face never flinched, but his blue eyes went flinty and cold. “Ms. Grant doesn’t accept visitors.”
“Not even those with appointments?”
Again, not a flinch, nor did the man even glance at the calendar in front of him at his station. “Ms. Grant doesn’t have any appointments today.”
Quinn moved a few inches closer, tossing a pointed stare at the date book. “You didn’t even check your book.”
“I know.”
Quinn was impressed with the man’s stoicism. He had the exact qualities Quinn looked for in his staff—firm, harsh demeanor and a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude that would keep most people from thinking twice about making trouble. Alas, Quinn wasn’t on a hiring spree at the moment.
He was on a fact-finding mission.
The elevator doors opened across the lobby as an older couple tottered out, the woman in a large fur that touched the floor and the man in a hat that had gone out of fashion sometime in the fifties. To the untrained eye, it would look as if Quinn were observing the couple, but what he really saw was the open elevator.
And as the lobby doors swished closed, Quinn knew he had what he needed. Now that he had an image of the inside of the elevator, he had the visual he required to port back to the apartment later that evening.
Quinn left the sullen slab of meat at his post in the lobby and whistled a light tune for effect. He had no doubt his image would be reviewed on the apartment cameras later. While he itched to remedy that small fact, Quinn left things alone.
The bodyguard had seen him because Quinn had wanted him to.
Later, he wouldn’t.
Moving swiftly for the street corner, Quinn nearly tripped over a bag lady before righting the two of them. The fragile bones of her shoulders felt as if they would snap in two with the barest pressure of his fingers and the frightened look in her eyes had him dropping his hands as soon as he was assured she had her balance.
As he searched her face to confirm she was okay, her frightened visage morphed as the light of recognition filled her clear blue gaze.
“You came.” The words rushed out in a reverent whisper.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“You came. To help me. Just as I knew you would.”
The city’s homeless problem was well known, and Quinn paid little attention to her words, his focus on getting her resettled where she’d been—or, even better—into a public shelter for the evening.
Which was why her next comment had his breath freezing in his chest.
“Themis sent you, didn’t she? I just knew all wasn’t lost.”
Themis?
Quinn stared deeply into that crystal-clear gaze again, searching for answers that would surely explain how this feeble homeless woman had any idea who he worked for.
The woman leaned in to him, relief palpable in her exhale of breath. “She sent you. She’s not fully immune to my pleas.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Montana is in danger. You’re the only one who can help her.”
Danger?
Several missing pieces fell into place in the mental puzzle he’d been trying to solve.
Was this woman the reason Montana Grant had made an outreach to him?
And why would one of the world’s wealthiest women listen to or confide in an ordinary bag lady?
Quinn had spent the last month dialing up his watch on the heiress. She’d come to his attention a few years back when her firm had tried to hire him and, for reasons he’d never been able to fully understand—and despite turning her business down—he’d kept an eye on her.
What had been, up to now, a bit of keeping tabs had ratcheted up to a full-blown investigation. For no apparent reason, Montana Grant had magically appeared and diplomatically fixed a political problem in Africa, which, on the surface, suggested corporate leadership mixed with a benevolent soul.
That was the suggestion, of course, until Quinn also got wind her company was responsible for a very large shipment of smuggled diamonds that arrived one week later on the black market in New York.
Seeing as how he put absolutely no stock in coincidences of any kind, Ms. Montana Grant had landed smack on top of his watch list. What he still couldn’t quite puzzle through was why she’d made a call to him the day before, making a new, personal outreach to hire his services.
Now he had a bag lady standing outside Montana Grant’s apartment connecting him with Themis?
Quinn felt her small hand at his forearm and he looked down again into that clear blue gaze. Although he recognized pain in those bright blue irises, he saw no hints of madness.
In fact, the clarity with which she stared up at him sent a jolt of awareness down his spine.
Whatever she may appear to be, this woman wasn’t playing around. She knew who he was. And she knew who he worked for. The only question was, if he spent a bit more time with her, could he erase whatever memories she was so fixated on?
“Come on, ma’am. Let’s get you into a shelter for the evening.”
Quinn turned and walked about ten feet to retrieve her possessions from where she’d left them against the side of the apartment building.
When he turned back around, she was gone.
With a glance out at the crowded hotel ballroom, Montana Grant took a deep breath and smoothed the waist-line of her evening gown, her fingers snagging on the heavy sequins of the bodice.
She hated these things.
Thousand-dollar rubber chicken dinners with a side of lumpy mashed potatoes and a serving of vegetables that presumably grew out of a garden somewhere, yet often looked like they were grown in the marshy grasslands of northern New Jersey.
Of course, the food was hardly the worst part. It was the obsequious fawning from the crowd, desperate to “get on her calendar,” or “plan a lunch,” or worse—invite her to speak at the next one of these events.
How had her life turned into one gala after another?
A row of flashbulbs went off as she mounted the dais at the front of the room.
As she walked toward the podium, the clear screen of the teleprompter offered her a small moment of comfort. Although she could probably give the speech in her sleep, Montana believed in always having backup.
At least professionally speaking.
Matthew Stone, the celebrity spokesperson for the environmental organization honoring her, held out his hand with a small, flirty smile. She took it as soon as she was within arm’s length of him, then tilted her head up to place a small peck on his cheek. The action ensured the next round of popping flashbulbs would be tied to at least half-a-dozen newspaper stories linking the two of them together in the morning.
The month prior, the borderless, worldwide goodwill organization now honoring her had contacted Grant Shipping. Peace talks had taken a decided turn for the worse between two North African nations after a pirate attack off the southern coast of the smaller nation. The attack was seen as an act of aggression and battle had nearly broken out before Grant Shipping stepped in and helped settle the dispute.
Even now, Montana couldn’t understand how it had happened or why anyone thought her interference was worth honoring. While she’d fully believed in offering her help—Grant Shipping’s vast, worldwide resources made it easy enough; her belief in being a citizen of the world made it necessary—the fact that she was being credited with avoiding war between two countries was a tough one to swallow.
Matt finished his remarks and stepped away from the podium to allow her access.
Another round of camera flashes, coupled with a standing ovation, greeted her as she said hello to the crowd. Montana held her remarks and fought to keep a serene smile pasted across her face. Despite her discomfort—or maybe because of it—the moment seemed to stretch on interminably. And with it, a small kernel of unease whispered up her exposed backbone.
“Thank you. Please—” She held up her hand when the crowd wouldn’t quiet.
Another whi
sper-light frisson of apprehension followed the last and she focused her gaze, seeking a clearer view of the audience standing before her.
Was someone out there?
Although Montana hated public speaking, it was a part of her job—a part of her life—and she accepted it as such. So why did she feel this weird, almost preternatural sense of discomfort?
The clapping slowed naturally and the crowd began to take their seats. Montana took another deep breath, eyeing the clear teleprompter screens that flanked either side of the podium. As she shifted to focus on the screen to her right, her gaze skated oh so briefly across the far end of the ballroom.
And into the dark, dark eyes of a man who embodied every sinful thought she’d ever had.
His frame was draped in the finest-cut tuxedo, clearly custom-made. The black fabric stretched across his shoulders, making them look enormous where he stood at attention against the ballroom wall. She followed the line of the suit, admiring the muscular look of his body and the long legs encased in black silk.
Wow, was this guy a piece of work.
Was he the reason for her unease?
Even as the thought flittered across her mind, she had to admit he didn’t set off any internal warning bells.
Montana did a quick scroll through her mental Rolodex. Who was this guy? And why did she have a vague sense of the familiar, like she should know him, even as she knew with certainty they’d never met? And why was he standing up, looking as if he were guarding something?
She knew she’d never seen him before. That wasn’t a body a woman forgot easily. Add in the thick, wavy hair that was a luscious sable brown and the impressively corded neck that looked like a very nice place to grab on to and, well…
With a startled glance, Montana saw the videographer standing below the dais wave at her to begin.
With another quick thank-you, Montana shifted her focus toward the teleprompter and the opening lines of her speech. The words scrolled as she spoke, the visual a welcome distraction from her thoughts of the large man across the room. Switching to the cadence she reserved for public speaking, she vowed to ignore the mysterious stranger as she extolled the virtues of the organization that had invited her.
“The continued efforts of this organization to bring and keep peace the world over are to be commended.”
A small bead of sweat ran the length of her spinal column. The unease that had gripped her upon taking the stage spread through her again, morphing distinctly into fear as it did a merry dance along her stomach lining. What was wrong with her this evening?
“Th-the belief in the equality of all humanity isn’t simply a noble cause—it’s a necessary one.”
Montana made a pretense of pushing a lock of hair behind her ear as a way to wipe at the moisture covering her hairline. The move did little to make her feel better as the moments ticked by along with the words on her teleprompter. The normal rhythm that took over after her nerves calmed simply wouldn’t materialize. Instead, the small waves of panic began to grow larger and more pronounced.
Feral.
Shifting her gaze from the teleprompter to scan the rest of the room, Montana fought to keep her voice even and level. The words of her speech were so practiced they were virtually memorized and she used that shift into mental autopilot to her advantage.
Quadrant by quadrant, she scanned the room, searching for something out of the ordinary as she allowed the benign words about corporate responsibility and what it means to be the world’s largest shipping company float toward the audience. All that looked back at her was a sea of smiling people dressed to the nines and in various stages of happy, glowing, open-bar inebriation.
Even as she told herself this reaction was silly, Montana’s gaze sought the corner where he had been. The tuxedoed man no longer stood against the wall and for some reason, that small fact made the fear coursing through her system spike uncontrollably.
Suddenly, unease morphed into a desperate need to get out of there.
The flicker of the teleprompter drew her attention brief moments before two things registered.
A loud scream pierced the air as the room went black and a wave of static electricity washed over her with harsh, piercing needles. Montana reached instinctively to protect herself, wrapping her arms around her midsection and bending at the waist to stop the jagged pain coursing through her.
Before she could even utter a sound, Montana felt large arms wrap around her just as her knees buckled from the pain. The last thing she felt before going utterly numb was the sensation of falling against a very large, broad chest as the man cushioned her suddenly lifeless limbs and dragged her to the ground.
“Shhh. Don’t say a word.”
Quinn felt the long, supple lines of the woman in his arms and—for the briefest of seconds—forgot the danger that surrounded Montana Grant like a haze of noxious smoke.
Her luscious breasts pressed against his chest and his inner thigh lay against the taut lines of her outer leg where they sprawled as he’d fallen with her in his arms.
What the hell was this woman involved in?
Every instinct he possessed suggested she was anything but the peace-wielding, beloved-by-all heiress of Grant Shipping.
The static that had taken hold of her body when Quinn first touched her was gone. The effect of his body, as well as the room’s sudden plunge into darkness, killed the field of view of her attacker. Almost immediately, she began to struggle, pushing at him, hissing in a dark throaty voice still trying to recover from the unexpected electric charge. “Get off me!”
“Shhh, heiress. Not yet.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Her words spewed anger, but she could do no more than whisper them.
Quinn tightened his grip on her, well aware the He-man routine wasn’t going to win him any points in the “trust me” department. “Your savior, unless you insist on struggling away from me.”
“What do you want?”
“A really good corned-beef sandwich. An ice-cold beer. World peace. I’m relatively easy to please.”
The hotel’s generator kicked in and a dull, grayish wash of light filled the room. Montana’s bright blue eyes never left his, her long lashes framing a stubborn gaze. “Who are you?”
“Quinn Tanner, Emerald Security. At your service.”
He shifted slightly, moving off of her but still keeping her body shielded from the ballroom. He suspected her attacker had moved on, but he wasn’t taking any chances until he could check out the room himself.
Extending a hand and helping her into a sitting position, he couldn’t resist adding, “I’m your new shadow, sweetheart.”
Quinn shook the leaded glass tumbler in his hand, considering the clinking ice at the bottom of his empty club soda. He had to admit surprise—and was that disappointment?—at the lack of fight Montana had put up.
Despite the late hour—the society holding the benefit had oh so thoughtfully refused to shut down early once the lights had come back on—Montana had allowed him to accompany her out of the ballroom and to her limousine, where they now drove in a winding, roundabout path through the city as they headed in the direction of her home.
“Are you going to tell me why you’ve taken a sudden interest in me, Mr. Tanner? Especially seeing as how I haven’t actually retained your incredibly expensive services.”
“You know who I am?”
“Why else do you think I let you in the car? I couldn’t place you until you said Emerald Security. Then it all came tumbling back.”
“It?”
“Grant Shipping tried to hire your firm two summers ago, yet you had no interest in bidding on the business. I remember investigating you at the time.” She waited a beat before adding in a prim voice, “I also believe I have an unreturned call awaiting your attention.”
Quinn recoiled inside, his gut clenching in a tight fist. While the information age had been very kind to him, both in his business and in the Warriors’ ongoing fight with Enyo, goddes
s of war, he loathed the fact that there was data—both visual and written—on him. Although he sought to minimize it—and erase or tweak said information wherever possible—it simply wasn’t a realistic goal to steer completely clear of the grid.
The reprimand on the unreturned phone call didn’t sit all that well, either.
When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “I do my homework, Mr. Tanner.” Montana folded her arms, the action pressing her breasts even higher above the luscious neckline of her dress. He gave in to an appreciative glance, then shifted gears to focus firmly on her face. “Yes, well, I didn’t appreciate the scope of work the assignment entailed.”
“Didn’t appreciate it? That’s awfully diplomatic of you.”
“Your people had too much power. I don’t take jobs I can’t control as I see fit, Ms. Grant. As to the second call. I wanted to do a bit of research before calling you back.”
“How kind of you. Based on the line of business you’re in, I’d have to imagine you lose a lot of customers that way.”
“There aren’t many who do what I do.”
Her voice held all the smokiness of good, aged whiskey; the notes were threaded with steel. “All the more reason you likely lose customers. Death threats have a way of coming true if there’s no one to counteract the threat.”
“I was going to talk to you tonight. In person.”
The lift of one delicate eyebrow over those bright blue eyes conveyed her skepticism as clearly as a shouted retort.
Quinn couldn’t help the slight quiver at the corner of his mouth. Damn, but this woman had some fire. And she proved it with her next words.
“So why are you here? Or, perhaps more accurately, what do you now think you can control?”
Quinn stopped clinking the ice in his glass. How to play this one?
Honesty was out.
No one liked to know they were being followed as a person of suspicion. And based on the attack in the ballroom, he certainly wasn’t sharing the small tidbit that he needed to know how she was mixed up with Destroyers. Those supernatural assholes didn’t make their own decisions—they simply took direction from others—so clearly she had pissed off someone with very powerful connections. With a Destroyer attack, the likely candidate was Enyo.