“St-Pierre, here. What’s up?” Jones was his captain, the one he’d earmarked to take over when he retired. Something must be wrong if he couldn’t deal with it.
“We’ve got an unscheduled arrival. Insley. His last consultation ended three hours ago. His account is flagged high priority, so I thought I should call you, over.”
“His card shouldn’t activate the front gate if he doesn’t have a pending consultation, over.”
“The gate is open this week for renovations in mansion five, over.”
“Shit,” he said, pulling out his phone and tapping on an app. Four surveillance camera views popped up on the front glass. He watched a black Ferrari drive slowly along the road, moving from one screen to the next.
“The car doesn’t match his log, and there’s a female driving it. And, well, she’s driving somewhat erratically, over.”
“Define ‘erratically,’ over.”
“She stalled it when she slowed down at the gate. And then again at the first hill, over.”
Dimi brought up another screen on the glass. He entered ‘Insley’ into a field and brought up his file. Sure enough, he’d registered a Toyota Prius.
Using his phone screen as a mouse, he moved the cursor to a hidden button on the bottom right and tapped then entered his access code.
A new screen opened, displaying an attractive young woman. Her name was Anya Wilcott, a twenty-four-year-old pre-med student.
He glanced back to the live video, walking over to one of the displays and zooming in by sliding his fingers on the glass.
“Holy shit,” he murmured. The woman driving the car was the same one in Insley’s private file. Anya Wilcott. She looked younger than twenty-four, but it was definitely her.
He activated the walkie-talkie.
“Wait for further instructions from me. Out,” he said and clipped the unit back onto his belt.
As he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on, he pulled out his second phone. It was his private line to Yuki. He tapped her contact name and waited.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice clipped.
“Anya Wilcott has just driven onto Cavendish property,” he said.
There was a pause and some keyboard tapping in the background. “You’re sure it’s her?”
“Yes.”
“Which location?”
“Cavendish Seattle,” he replied. There were a handful of reasons Yuki put a watch on people, and for the girl’s sake, he hoped it was for a good one.
“I’ll fly in by helicopter. Take her to my office and hold her until I arrive.”
Yuki hung up before he could acknowledge.
Instead of radioing Jones, he decided to go down and take this problem off his hands face-to-face.
* * *
The private elevator let him off in a small room, just big enough for him to step out and reach for the doorknob to the main hallway. He swiped his RFID wristband against the sensor to open the door. Down the hall was the main elevator and, opposite it, the security command center.
“Hey, boss,” Jones greeted when he entered his office and closed the door behind him. “Protocol is to retrieve the card and escort her off the property, but Insley’s file is flagged to contact you.”
“Yeah, there’s a higher protocol for the woman. I’ll deal with it. You can go back to business as usual.”
“Higher protocol than you?” he asked, and then his eyes widened. “Higher, as in Ms. Shika?” he asked. He forgot the mystique Yuki had purposely built among the staff.
He didn’t say anything, just reached over to Jones’s keyboard to close the video displays on his screen.
Jones buttoned up his shirt and tightened his tie, looking around for his jacket.
“Stand down,” he said to the man. “You’re not meeting her.”
Now, Jones looked disappointed but sat back down in his chair.
Dimi turned and left the office, not looking at any of the other six security personnel in the main area. Once at the elevator, he punched the only button and rode down to the underground tunnels.
The command center sat at the end of a network of tunnels that led to every other facility on the estate. They were just wide enough for two of their electric carts to pass each other. Three tunnels led away from the mountain and then branched off to each of the nine mansions. He took the nearest cart, sliding his platinum card through the activator.
Insley’s last consultation had been in mansion five, second from the last house on the road. He tapped the on-dash screen and activated the nearest mansion’s front camera. Though the card the woman had with her activated the house’s gate, the car was stopped on the road. Stalled? he wondered. Or nerves about what she might find?
Usually, boyfriends found out about girlfriends who were consultants. Or jealous wives found out about husbands who were clients. This was the first time someone on Yuki’s hitlist had shown up. He had no idea what to expect, but for the first time in a very long while, he was interested in his job.
He pulled up to the parking area and turned the cart’s key to Off. He took the elevator up to the mansion’s security office.
“Sir!” said the man in the Cavendish Security shirt, jumping to his feet. Dimi didn’t know all the security staff anymore, but he was glad they seemed to know him. And respect him.
“What’s your name?”
“Cormier, sir.”
“We have an unexpected guest I’m going to take care of. Radio building three for me and let them know Ms. Shika will be arriving by helicopter.”
“Yes, sir,” the man almost shouted and scrambled for his walkie-talkie.
Dimi walked to the far wall and swiped his wristband then opened the door that led to a narrow hallway. At the end, he swiped again and walked into the entryway of the house.
Building number five was nicknamed Baja House and gave guests the fantasy that they’d just stepped into a Spanish palace, right down to the special HVAC system that stayed at an Equator-like setting of humidity. He rarely saw the mansions from their client’s point of view, since he moved more quickly using the back hallways and hidden doorways. His job had been to get to trouble as fast as possible—and remove it as quietly as possible.
Today was no different, with a dark passage taking him quickly to the front foyer. Dimi swiped to step into the mock outdoor courtyard and open the front door.
It was raining, so he reached back inside behind a palm tree and pulled a large black umbrella from the five that were in the stand.
He headed down the circular driveway, seeing that the woman had pulled the car through the gate but had stopped at that point. He could see her face through the windshield, looking up at the house behind him, not even seeing him.
Each mansion had its own style, from the roof to the grounds, and it felt a little like fantasy island come to life for most people. If Yuki could find a way for each house to have its own weather, she’d do it. No cost was spared to meet the fantasy of Cavendish clients, either sexual or aesthetic.
As he approached the car, the woman’s gaze fastened on him and her eyes grew rounder. He knew his huge body made an impression, usually an intimidating one, which had served him well in his life. But now he needed this woman to remain calm. He didn’t need any of the workers down the street to get suspicious. Especially since he didn’t know what Yuki’s plans were for her.
He approached and did his best to smile. Smiling was alien to him, but it must have worked, because the woman rolled down her window.
She looked younger than twenty-four, even with the black-framed glasses. They gave her a professorial look, as did her neutral expression. At least she didn’t seem pissed off.
Her hair reminded him of the color of wheat. She’d pulled it back into a ponytail, which probably shaved a couple more years off her age, but it seemed to glow, which was odd on a rainy day.
Tiny silver stud earrings glinted in her ears, and her clean face had no traces of makeup. The glasses did nothing to
hide the unusual shape of her eyes. Tilted up at the corners, they gave him the impression she was laughing, although her lips were straight.
She stared at him steadily, and he stepped closer. His gaze swept the interior of the car, making sure he could see her hands and that they were empty.
Her studious expression analyzed him. Her body seemed impossibly small, disappearing into the black bucket seat of the sports car. As if a child was playing at driving a car.
“Hello,” he greeted, curious to hear what she had to say.
“Hi. Uh… is this Cavendish Club Entertainment?” she asked.
“May I ask who you are?”
“I’m a friend of someone who works here. Trevor Dinsmore.”
Her eyes moved from his face to his shoulders, taking in his hand holding the umbrella. He saw her throat move as she swallowed, but her eyes came back to his with an inquisitive glint.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
He side-stepped answering. “Nice to meet you, friend of Trevor Dinsmore. Do you have a name?”
“Anya Wilcott,” she said without hesitation. And truthfully. He wanted to warn her not to be so trusting with strangers.
“A pleasure,” he said, extending his hand into the window. She looked at it with a thoughtful expression then pressed her lips together and put her hand in his, giving it a firm shake. “I’m St-Pierre. And this estate, along with all the houses you passed, is Cavendish Club.”
Her mouth dropped open, as he’d expected, but then she reverted to her original expression. “Are you the manager?”
“It depends on why you want the manager,” he said, raising his eyebrows in question.
She watched him with that steady gaze. He could almost see the wheels of her mind working. She didn’t look fearful, more like she was calculating something. And he knew the minute she was done.
“I guess,” she began, leaning slightly toward him, “I want to see… if there are any job openings.”
3
He was a mountain; she could think of no other way to describe him.
His brown hair was cut in a perfect fade, wavy on top and extremely short on the sides, showing a little silver at the temples, which made it hard to pinpoint his age. Definitely over thirty, she’d guess.
His brow was strong and shadowed his eyes, but his shoulders took her breath away. They were so wide he couldn’t have fit through the car window if he tried.
His mouth was straight and stern, although his demeanor was friendly. It set off no alarm bells, and she completely trusted her instincts when it came to threats.
Her brain was weird like that. It existed in a state of calm, and the one time she’d been in a dangerous situation, it had jumped into action. It had analyzed the situation, calculating the best move to safety, resulting in her dragging a screaming Jenn away from the knife fight that had broken out in Jenn’s favorite club.
This last week of money problems had introduced her brain to a new state: stress. It could be the only rational explanation as to why the sight of this man had put her on edge. Not stress, exactly. Or any danger. More like a low hum of tension.
Twice, she’d had to keep her hands still when they’d wanted to tuck a stray hair behind her ear or adjust her glasses.
And now he was speaking, and she had no idea what he just said.
“I’m sorry—what was that?” she asked, covering her embarrassment with a brisk tone.
He held his very large palm out, hovering it over her door, and said, “I’m going to need Trevor’s card back first.”
“Oh. Of course.” She dug into her raincoat pocket and pulled out the metal card, placing it in his hand. His fingers closed over it, hiding it completely from view. “How did you know I had it? Does it have a sensor in it?”
“I think I can help with your request,” he said, ignoring her question. “But I have to advise you that you’re on private property, and that covers all information you learn or hear. This is a type of verbal NDA. Can I get your agreement on that?”
Her pulse skipped at the words “I can help,” her imagination running away with all the ways he could help her get an escort job. She conjured her grandmother’s face telling her to Prekrati eto, or knock it off. It worked.
“I understand and I agree,” she said. She looked to the house, a Spanish-style mansion, and back to the man, wondering what would happen next.
“To answer your question about a job, I can take you to the person who can answer that. We can walk across the street or you can drive me over. It’s your choice.” His voice was friendly, even though his features barely moved.
“Let’s take the car. I’ll probably never get a chance to drive a Ferrari again.”
“Oh, you never know,” he said and walked around to the passenger side.
He lowered his big body into the seat, closing and shaking his umbrella before laying it in the narrow space beside him. He closed the door and gestured ahead.
“You can follow the driveway around, back to the road. We’re going to the house to the right, across the street.”
She tried to ease the car into gear, grimacing when it jerked and growled at her.
“Sorry. I’ve only driven standard a few times.”
He didn’t answer, just nodded.
* * *
She followed the driveway as he directed and looked ahead to see a black gate opening as if anticipating their arrival. St-Pierre’s hands rested on his lap, and she wondered what magic had opened the gate.
The driveway wound through a stand of trees before breaking into the open. She held in a gasp at the view ahead.
Calling it a house was an understatement. It looked as if it had been transported here from seventeenth century Europe.
It was more manor than house and sat quite a distance from the road. She guided the Ferrari down the gray gravel, taking in the expansive structure and grounds. She had no idea anything like this existed in Seattle, let alone the US.
She counted more than ten windows, all with white shutters set amongst the gray stones. Two lions crouched at either side of a wide expanse of stairs that led to four sets of tall, glass double doors.
The mansion had a sloping gray roof and four chimneys. To the right was a building that looked part garage, part stable, with four large doors dominating. To her left was another building that looked like a smaller version of the manor.
Instead of directing her to the right, St-Pierre pointed to the left where the driveway branched off. She followed it, taking them to the back of the house where there was a long stretch of gravel for parking.
“St-Pierre,” she said as she guided the car where he pointed. “That’s French, right?”
“The name is,” he agreed. She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Follow me,” he said and got out of the car.
She climbed out and pressed the lock button, hearing the car chirp.
He looked at her with amused eyes and she shrugged.
“Habit,” she explained. He responded by holding the umbrella out in an invitation to step under it, which she did.
Instead of the flag-stone stairs and ivy-covered french doors that looked like the rear entrance of the mansion, St-Pierre walked to the wall near the corner of the house. It wasn’t until they were close that she saw the faint outline of a door and a small box to the side.
The three shallow steps led down and were only wide enough for one. He handed her the umbrella while he stepped down. Standing on the lower landing finally put him at her eye level.
He passed his wrist across the box, and a buzzing noise sounded. The door released, swinging slightly inside, and he pushed it to step through.
“This way,” he said, looking up at her. He held the door for her and waited without any expression. She took a deep breath and did what she would have yelled at a movie character not to do, stepping into a secret hallway with a complete stranger who could be a killer. Although, a well-dressed, sexy killer.
She passed
him, and a clinking sound floated down from lights that flickered to life, illuminating a white-tiled hallway. A click sounded behind her.
He’d closed the door, and she noticed it had no handle or locks, just a matching gray box mounted on the wall beside it. No escape. She swallowed, hoping her instincts wouldn’t prove wrong for the first time.
“Follow me,” he said, and she wondered if the tightening of his lips meant he was reading her mind about the sexy killer thing.
He walked past her, and she followed. Despite the tile of the floors, his footsteps made no sound. It was as if she wore noise-cancelling headphones.
At the far end, he swiped his hand again, and the also-handleless door popped open. He walked through and then waited for her.
She passed through and stopped, shocked into stillness.
It wasn’t every day you stepped into centuries-old France, which was exactly how the room felt, right down to a smell of stuffiness and lavender.
The walls were broken up by large panels of fabric bordered by intricate moulding. Everything was in tones of light-gray and blue, and the opulence took her breath away. To her left, the panels alternated with large mirrors, which reflected the windows to her right. And though she still held the wet umbrella, the windows were showing a beautiful spring image of rolling hills and trees that stretched for miles.
“How…?” She raised a hand to point at the windows.
“Have a seat. My manager is tied up in a meeting for another fifteen minutes,” St-Pierre said, pointing to a blue couch. She walked to it and dropped down.
It wasn’t just any couch. It had a carved oak frame and feet, and the blue upholstery was a thick tapestry with different blue-toned fleur de lis woven throughout and gold piping that separated the fabric from the wood.
It had an aged patina that made her think this might have actually come from Versailles.
Not once had the other two men in the room looked up or acknowledged St-Pierre in any way. And St-Pierre now sat at a third desk and worked at a computer, not giving her another glance.
Disciplined Page 3