“Yes, I’m thinking about it. But no matter what you offer, I’m not working on a corpse. Not on a Sunday.”
“Goddammit, are you listening? I said it’s personal, and you know I don’t fuck corpses.”
She gives an extended harrumph. “Like that’s an important distinction, given what you do to the people you do fuck.”
I smile, because the truth is this woman amuses me. Few people have the nerve to throw attitude at me, and I find rare moments of joy in the ones who actually do. Which is part of the reason I fell so hard for Andi.
“I’ll pay quadruple your hourly fee for you to do the work today.” I split my screens, looking at the acquisition who caught my eye a few weeks ago. I open a video montage I’ve put together of the real Andi, from the eyes that I have on her. “We did the heavy lifting with surgeries, and she’s healed. I estimate you’ll need eight hours.”
“Jesus H. What do you want me to do to her?”
“I want…everything. I’m sending you a file. Some of photos you’ve taken. Some are other photos. Clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Hair color. Cut. Nail color. Toenail color. Makeup. Make my faux Andi as close to the real thing as you can. If you can fool my eyes, there’s bonus money for you.”
My eyes linger on the video feed of the real Andi, our first time together. She’s naked. There’s a moment before I move in the way, where the hidden camera captures her spreading her legs for me, the treasure that lay between them calling me home and glistening in dewy, lust-driven splendor. Holy shit, but that image does it for me every goddamn time. The reckless abandon Andi brought to fucking was so intoxicating, I’ll never lose the craving for that high. “Even down to the way you wax her pussy hair. And I want her ready by ten p.m.”
Chapter Thirteen
Andi
Opening the door to her bedroom, Andi froze as the aroma of something baking greeted her.
Biscuits?
Had to be. She’d grown up in a household with full-time kitchen staff. Certain culinary memories were ingrained in her senses. Nothing else in the world had the floury-doughy scent of a fresh-baked biscuit. Metal clanged against metal. A lid against a pot? Inhaling deeply, she shut her eyes, while her mouth watered.
Good God, is that bacon?
She’d painted until four in the morning, ignored Agent Smart-Ass each time he checked on her, finally fallen into a dreamless sleep in the studio, and woken up at eight forty-five.
Now, post-shower, she was starving, and a few minutes late for the nine-thirty meeting with the agents. But while the idea of a good, home-cooked breakfast was great, the fact that she smelled food being cooked on a Sunday, when her housekeeper Evelyn wasn’t working, meant that one of the agents was hosting a breakfast meeting.
Really?
None of the other agents had ever cooked in her house. She’d bet her left hand that the agent/chef was the one she’d invited to quit the night before. Agent Obtuse. Agent Do-Everything-Different. Agent Can’t-Take-a-Hint. Agent I’ll-Teach-You-to-Fight. Agent Happy-to-be-Here.
Agent Hernandez, dammit to hell, had decided not to leave. She walked with purpose down the stairs, determined not to start the day with him under her skin—when the truth was, he was already firmly embedded there. Determined that her walls were going to be firmly up—even though her walls inexplicably crumbled every time he looked at her.
He’s an agent. Simply an agent.
But he’s Agent I’ll-Carry You-to-Bed. Agent Unafraid-of-Night-Terrors, when they freak everyone else in the whole goddamn world out.
He’s just another agent. One in a long line.
Forget that he carried you to bed. That somehow it didn’t freak you out. Most of all, forget that it made you feel like crawling into his muscular arms and staying there for the rest of your life. Forget the way his easy smile lights his eyes. The way his deep, smooth voice makes you feel as though you’ve been stroked by a velvet glove.
Hell. The man is like…
Careful. Careful. Careful. He might be different than all the other agents, but he’s the same, in one important respect. He’s getting paid to be here.
Okay. Reality check taken.
He’s like…New Orleans humidity on a hot August day. Seeping into every space. Everywhere. The warm, steaminess of the fresh air he carries with him might feel good for a few minutes, a fresh change from the perpetual chill that was wrapped around her soul. After a while, though, he’ll be just as annoying as the ever-present, thick-as-pea-soup humidity. A few days of him, or even a week, and she’d damn well welcome the freezing chill that came with being her post-kidnapping, post-traumatic stressed-out self.
Maybe.
Two more steps down, she reached the first floor, where male voices traveled from the kitchen to the hallway. “Can’t do a level one job without an AK, or similar firepower. No way. Would be the same as not wearing pants in Times Square.”
“Yeah. Like pizza without pepperoni.”
“That would be a damn shame. I prefer double pepperoni.” Agent Pain-in-the-Ass’s voice, the very tone conveying a smile, sounded more authoritative than the others, but no less engaged in the easy, relaxed banter. “Better analogy—Krav Maga sparring without a cup.”
His comment produced an “ouch!” and a solid round of laughter. That was something else that didn’t happen in her house. When the agents typically assembled for the morning meeting, they were near silent until she arrived. Businesslike. No chatter. No laughter. All work. No play.
“Jokes aside,” Agent Hernandez said when the laughter died down, “Black Raven wouldn’t send agents on a Level One job without adequate equipment. Okay. Cookie dough done. You can tell me tonight what you think of my recipe. Some say they’re better than sex. I wouldn’t go that far.”
Andi paused in the doorway of the kitchen. Agents Two and Three were sitting on stools at the kitchen island, gazing at Agent Hernandez with adoring eyes and smiles, obviously drinking in everything he said. To Andi, cult leaders and Kool Aid came to mind.
Agent Two took a bite out of a biscuit, glanced in her direction, then put it on his plate as he stood. Agent Three followed suit. They looked at her with sheepish expressions, as though they’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Good Morning, ma’am,” Agent Three said.
Agent Two gave her a nod as he chewed, then worked to swallow a mouthful. “Morning, ma’am.”
Leaning against the counter, next to the stove, Agent Hernandez wore faded jeans that hugged his perfect thighs, a snug Black Raven logoed t-shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders, and tennis shoes. His gun was holstered at his hips. Dark hair, spikey and damp, looked like he’d barely brushed his fingers through it as he’d towel-dried it. He gave her a nod as he placed a skillet on a burner. “Perfect timing, Captain. How do you like your eggs?”
“Alone.”
He smiled, as though finding great wit in her words. Not her intent. Arching an eyebrow, he asked, “No biscuit or bacon?”
“No. Meaning I prefer to eat alone, Agent Hernandez. I thought we settled that last night.”
He pursed his lips, cocked his head, and studied her for a second, before giving her one of his interminably optimistic ‘that’ll work’ nods. “No. Last night we were talking about last night. Don’t worry. We won’t do this at every meal. I figured we’d multi-task this morning. I’ve gotta be present at the morning meeting, and I’m starving. You need to eat, and my guys don’t know how to boil water. Cooking skills aren’t part of the Black Raven training program. There’s only so much take-out a person can eat, and Tyre and Stevens have eaten take-out since they’ve been on the job.” He did an over-the shoulder gesture with his chin to Agents Two and Three, who still stood at attention. “Tyre’s put on five pounds, Stevens has put on ten since they’ve been in New Orleans. That right, guys?”
“Yes, sir.” Said in unison, the agents’ voices gave every indication they’d agree with anything Agent Just-Plain-Happy-to-be-Alive said.
> Andi glanced at the two agents. If they had gained weight, she couldn’t tell. Then again, she’d barely noticed them. As a matter of fact, she didn’t know which one was Tyre, or which one was Stevens. All she knew was that the man she now thought of as Agent Two had reddish hair and light brown eyes, and the man she thought of as Agent Three had brown hair and dark brown eyes. If they both had brown hair, she doubted she’d have distinguished them at all. They looked young, lean, fit, and with the neat, serious, professional look she’d come to associate with the Black Raven agents who’d been sent her way. They didn’t look like take-out had done them one pound of harm.
Turning her attention to Agent Jokester, she folded her arms, “And their weight gain is my problem, how?”
“If I’m cooking for me, it’s just as easy to cook for the team. So why shouldn’t I cook for you?”
“You’re not answering my question.” Glancing at the island, she eyed the unwrapped stick of butter and a bag of shredded cheese. “You do understand that bacon, egg, and biscuit sandwiches won’t help weight gain issues, don’t you?”
As one of the other agents chuckled, Agent Hernandez reached over to the platter of bacon, lifted it, and offered it to her. “I bought nitrate free bacon. And you forgot the grape jelly. I put that on the side. For dipping.”
“And I heard you say you made cookie dough. That won’t help, either.”
“But they’re chocolate chip. Which means the calories don’t count, because it’s Valentine’s Day. Nothing with chocolate has calories on Valentine’s Day. Actually, if you don’t eat chocolate today, there’s an automatic two-pound weight gain.”
Andi marveled at how he could keep a straight face while spouting such ridiculousness. If he was waiting for a reaction, she refused to give him one.
He lifted the platter of bacon an inch or so higher. Shaking her head ‘no’ to his offering, she ignored the grumbling in her stomach as he set the platter down.
Grocery bags lined the far wall. “When did you get all of this?”
“I went to the grocery store on Royal Street when I knocked off duty at six thirty. I put up the cold stuff before I started cooking. Those are the dry goods.” He nodded in the direction of the bags, then smiled, conveying a look that said, ‘today’s going to be great, whatever it brings our way.’
Oh dear God. Next, he’ll break into a chorus of zippity-damn-doo-dah.
“I’ll organize it later. As you suggested, I reread the contract. Decided I’d be here for a while. Figured it would be a shame not to make use of your fabulous kitchen. Looking forward to pizza night.”
Aw. Hell.
The man could cook. And he actually liked to grocery shop? To save herself from falling for this man who irritated the hell out of her, she needed to fire him. Fast.
“I’d prefer if you cooked across the street, in the apartment I’ve rented for the team.”
His megawatt smile didn’t falter. “I’m not staying there. Or cooking there.” Glancing at the two agents, he said, “Finish eating. We have work to do.” As the agents sat down, he turned back to the stove, returned the skillet to the burner, and gave her a sideways glance. “The contract says one of the agents can stay in a guest room upstairs.
Oh, hell. Damn, but he’s correct.
“For now, that will be me.”
“None of the agents have slept here before.”
He cracked an egg and put it in the pan, then cracked another. As the eggs sizzled and popped, his eyes slid to where she stood, feet firmly planted in the doorway. “Doesn’t mean I can’t stay here now. Have you seen the kitchen over there?” Lifting a spatula, he flipped the eggs. “It’s a narrow galley. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a small man.”
He didn’t need to pause to let that sink in, but he did, giving her a smile that made her want to groan. Of course she’d noticed that he wasn’t small. He was huge. Tall. Muscular. Broad shoulders, long legs, big feet. Big hands. He brought new meaning to DaVinci’s theory of the golden ratio. Everything visible was in perfect, harmonious proportion, which made her wonder about the parts of his anatomy she couldn’t see.
“I can barely fit in it,” he continued. “Much less cook. If you’d prefer, I can stay in the guesthouse across the courtyard. Even that kitchen is better than what’s in the tiny dump the agents stay in.”
“My guesthouse is for someone else, and the place I rented for the agents isn’t a dump.”
She glanced at Agents Two and Three. Silent, mouths stuffed with food, their eyes bouncing between the senior agent and herself, they looked like a pair of oversized kids who had settled in for a serious discussion between parents—thoroughly enjoying themselves, while having enough wisdom to stay silent.
Agent Hernandez glanced at her, one eyebrow arched. “Who’s moving into your guesthouse? File lacks that detail.”
Not waiting for a reply, he reached for a plate on the island. He took a large biscuit off a pan, split it with a knife, placed a pat of butter on the top half, spread it, sprinkled a bit of cheese on top of the butter, then laid two pieces of bacon on the bottom half. After placing a knife full of grape jelly to the side of the biscuit, he turned back to the stove, plate in hand.
“Well,” he asked, “who’s moving in and when?”
“None of your business.”
She told herself his efficient moves between the stove and the island weren’t mesmerizing. It was a total lie. The short-sleeved t-shirt revealed muscles that rippled as he moved, even when he cooked. The bulge between his bicep and tricep produced a horseshoe of an indent, which got her back to thinking about proportions, angles and curves. He’d make a great model to sketch. Nude. A class she’d taken at the academy had used nude models that posed for timed intervals, while the students sketched. She’d love to have this guy pose for her.
Holding the plate where he’d partially assembled the biscuit sandwich, he flipped the eggs again. After pressing the spatula down, he lifted the eggs onto the biscuit, and pressed the top down. “Clause in the contract says we do security clearances on people who live on the premises.”
“If and when someone moves in there,” she said, “I’ll let you know.”
Damn, but she was starving. For food. And, face facts, him.
Humidity, remember? That’s all he is. He’s only attractive because he’s warm and you’re freezing. He makes the air feel different. That’s it. You’ve been cold for too long.
He gave the plate with the loaded biscuit a not-too-gentle push. It slid along the island, stopping magically at the edge closest to her.
If I tried the same move, the plate would’ve crashed to the floor.
“That’s yours. You missed the opportunity for a special order. If that isn’t to your liking, don’t worry. It won’t be wasted.” He reached for the platter of bacon, grabbed a piece, took a bite and chewed as he studied her. “I’m starving. That’s how I eat it. If you don’t want it, I’ll eat yours and mine.”
He turned back to the stove and cracked two more eggs. “Morning meeting officially convened while I cook my eggs. Marks?” Talking to the agent who wasn’t present was a reminder that the agents were connected to each other by a comm system. It was easy to forget, as their earpieces were nearly invisible. Agent Hernandez paused, then chuckled. “Well, next time I’ll add more cheese. Tyre, if you’re through, start cleaning. Make it spotless. I don’t clean when I’m cooking for able-bodied people over the age of five or under eighty. Stevens, pull up a map. Tell us your plans for the day, Kemosabe.”
He glanced at her with a smile that made her insides melt, while her brain screamed ‘fire this guy.’
Chapter Fourteen
Gabe
He’d never been so happy to see a woman reach for a plate of food.
Using peripheral vision, he watched her carry the plate to the counter space closest to the refrigerator. She lifted the top of the biscuit. Dipping the knife in the grape jelly, she smeared some on the egg. After reassemb
ling the sandwich, she leaned her hip against the counter, took a bite, chewed, then bit into it again.
Hallelujah.
She wore faded jeans and an oversized blue-green sweater. Her feet, slender, smooth, and elegant, were bare.
He’d figured out she didn’t wear shoes in the house, except in the workout room. Sometime, he didn’t know when, he’d evidently developed a thing for a woman’s feet. As he studied the gentle curve of her toes, he realized her feet could do it for him.
Matter of fact, they were doing it for him, because he was going from soft to semi-hard, and…dammit.
Think about something else.
She opened the refrigerator, looked inside, shot him a look that was somewhere between surprise and annoyance, and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. He’d bought a fresh bottle of the brand that had been almost empty. Fresh squeezed, calcium enriched, and pulp-free. He’d also filled the shelves with things he liked to eat and made a few guesses as to what she’d eat. She poured a glass of juice, then ate another bite. He assembled his biscuit, then sat on a stool, facing her. “Plan for the day?”
“Before that, the missing person reports you said you were monitoring. Was anything reported overnight?”
Gabe had already gotten a report from Tyre on that. “No. Not yet. We’ll alert you if that changes.”
She nodded. “Today, I’ll paint in Crescent Park. Near the old wharf and the Piety Street footbridge. Same as yesterday. These agents know the streets I like to take.” She glanced at Tyre, who was now standing by the sink, scrubbing a skillet, and Stevens, who had pulled up a map of the area on his iPad. Her gaze fell to Gabe. “We’ll leave in a half hour.”
“Tyre and Stevens will get you there,” Gabe said. “Stevens. Map the routes for me.”
Stevens reached for his iPad. “For Crescent Park, we have a main, and two alternates. Ms. Hutchenson lets us know if she’s uncomfortable on any one route.”
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