I’m telling you—gremlins.
Being perpetually late was a flaw, but I couldn’t help it. No matter how hard I tried to be on time, I always managed to lose myself in my own world.
I should have told my best friend, Tanya, to sneak into my apartment and change the clocks without me knowing—but I lived with my boyfriend, Jayden, and he always loved making me feel bad about being late. I didn’t want to give him more ammunition.
Shaking my head, I took another breath. It would be fine, right? I could tiptoe in without anybody noticing. I’d sneak into my studio whenever I needed a break from the crowds.
Jayden said he’d be there as soon as he finished work, so I could use him for support.
“You okay?” The taxi driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You look nervous. Big date?”
“Something like that,” I answered with a forced smile. It still seemed surreal to tell people that my paintings were being showcased. It was something I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. All the stacks of sketchbooks, the paint-stained clothes, the thousands of dollars I’d spent on art school—it all led up to this moment.
And I was late.
I pulled up my phone camera and checked my makeup for the thousandth time. My phone buzzed. It was Tanya, telling me she’d be a few minutes late.
You and me both, girl.
We turned the final corner and I typed out a quick answer. I hadn’t heard from Jayden since this morning, and I had a bad feeling I’d be going in there on my own. I sighed, shaking my head to clear my jumbled thoughts.
The Russo Art Gallery was a grand building with big white columns and a wide, marble staircase—perfect for making an entrance, and terrible for walking in without anyone noticing. I paid the cab driver and slipped out of the taxi, taking a deep breath. Gianni had organized multi-colored lights to shine on the front of the building, so the whole place looked even more grand than it usually did.
Fantastic.
Just breathe.
My eyes swung up the steps and my heart dropped to my stomach. Right there, hanging from the apex of the roof—draping down the front of the entire building—was a forty-foot banner with my name plastered all over it. My eyes widened and my heart leapt in my chest. A subtle entrance would never have been possible, even if I had been early.
Gripping my clutch in one hand, I gathered the silky, royal blue fabric of my rented gown and started up the steps. A limousine pulled up behind me. I glanced back to see an older woman in a floor-length, black gown and a man in a tuxedo exit the vehicle. They followed me up the stairs, the man giving me a funny stare. I glanced away from him just as my toe stumbled on the last step. My open-toed shoe caught on the lip, pinning my long gown to the stair as I flailed forward and lost my balance.
An ugly little yelp escaped my lips as my arms and legs went akimbo. I went flying forward, straight into the grand marble staircase leading up to my first gallery exhibition.
Of course I did.
Maybe it was a good thing I was late.
On any other day, I wouldn’t mind stumbling. It happened to me more often than I liked to admit. There could be a whole YouTube channel dedicated to me tripping over my own feet. All my cups at home were made of plastic, because I’d grown tired of cleaning up shards of glass whenever I broke something. I was used to it.
This time, though, I hated it. It didn’t matter that it was just me and the older couple on the steps. It didn’t matter that no one would see, and that no one had their smartphone out to film me. It didn’t matter that I caught myself with my hands before ruining my dress on the ground.
This was supposed to be my big day. There was a forty-foot banner above my head with my name on it, and I couldn’t even manage to make it up a set of stairs.
The man jogged up the steps toward me.
“Are you hurt?” He hooked his arm underneath mine to help me up. His voice had a musical lilt to it and a depth that commanded authority.
I snorted. “Only my ego.”
He flashed a grin at me as the woman—his wife, probably—made it to us.
“Gianni should get these steps fixed,” she said. I recognized the same Italian accent that Gianni Russo had. She tutted, shaking her head. “These steps are all different heights. I’ve almost tripped on them many times.”
“That’s very generous of you.” I laughed nervously, brushing imaginary dirt off the front of my dress.
I couldn’t imagine the woman falling over, ever. Her movements were graceful and fluid. She literally didn’t have a single hair out of place, and her ears and neck glittered with expensive-looking diamond jewelry that I’d be too terrified to touch, let alone wear.
The man was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp, blue eyes that drilled straight into my soul. “Marco Russo,” he said, extending a hand, “and this is my wife, Francesca.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Hailey Ford.”
“Ah,” the woman said, clasping my hand. “Gianni has told us so much about you.” She smiled at me and I resisted the urge to pull my hand away. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she kept them trained on me until I cleared my throat.
“Shall we…” I nodded toward the entrance.
“Of course.” Her eyes finally left mine and a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades.
Marco led the way, while Francesca hooked her arm in mine. I wondered if it was to be friendly, or just to make sure I didn’t fall on my face again.
Either way, I appreciated the support. My little tumble had distracted me long enough that I’d forgotten I was nervous… mostly. I walked up the last few steps with my head held high, excitement curling in the pit of my stomach as we made our way to the art gallery’s big double doors.
This was the biggest night of my life. Tonight, my work would be thrust in front of critics and art lovers. I was baring myself in front of them. It was the most vulnerable I’d ever felt in my life—but also the most exhilarated.
I’d left home when I was seventeen and for ten years, I struggled to make anything of myself. This was my big break. Or at least… I hoped it was.
My future was about to be decided.
2
Freddy
“What have you got?” I asked as Gary snapped the last few pictures with our long-lens camera. I watched as the trio of people on the steps entered the Russo Art Gallery and disappeared out of view. Tearing my eyes away from the door, I tried to ignore the heat coursing through my veins. That girl…
Gary glanced at the screen on the Canon and angled it toward me. “Marco and Francesca Russo were talking to a woman on the steps. Didn’t look like they knew each other.”
“Marco and Francesca are here?” I frowned, staring at the screen. “We haven’t gotten any notifications from Border Security.”
“You think they used false passports?”
“I’ll have to find out. Get HQ to check. Let me see those pictures.”
Gary handed me the camera and I zoomed in on the faces. I scrolled through the photos, frowning. Marco and Francesca Russo hadn’t been in the country in almost three years. My current assignment at the CIA was to expose Gianni Russo as the human-trafficking piece of shit he was. My team and I suspected that Marco and Francesca were involved in an international ring that traded young girls for large amounts of cash, but we’d never been able to pin anything on them. On paper, they were clean. The older Russos left most of the actual work to their son, Gianni. The fact that they were in the country meant something was going on—something big.
I flicked through the photos again, sighing. “You didn’t get a shot of the girl’s face.” I didn’t mean to sound so disappointed. I zoomed in on a photo of her, taken right after she fell, wondering why my heart was beating so erratically.
Her dress clung to her curves like it was painted on, and even from a distance—without a clear shot of her face—I could tell she was beautiful.
“She never turned this way.”
/>
I cleared my throat. “That’s a shame. It would have been good to get an I.D. She might be important.” I handed the camera back to him and looked at the wide steps leading up to the art gallery. This was my first lead role on an operation. It was the first time I wasn’t playing backup for someone like Chris or Zane. I didn’t want to mess it up. My boss, Berkeley, was relying on me.
Not only that, but I’d spent the better part of my life working to be exactly where I was at this moment. It felt significant. If I could get a big bust and put these greasy, pedophilia-supporting assholes in a cell, all the better for me—and my career.
The lights on the art gallery changed colors, throwing the big, white columns into multiple shades of blue. My jaw ticked. “I’m going in.”
“What?” Gary’s eyes bugged behind his wire-framed glasses.
“I have to see what Marco and Francesca are up to.”
“We’re only supposed to be gathering intel, Freddy.”
“Yeah, and that’s what I’ll be doing. What kind of intel are we gathering from this van, while everybody is in there? We won’t learn anything until the whole event is over, and by that time, the Russos could have already made contact with whoever they’re here to see.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but I also know that I can’t just sit in here waiting.”
Gary pushed his glasses up his nose and chewed his bottom lip. He didn’t like this. Hell—I didn’t like this. But I wasn’t going to go back to headquarters empty-handed. Sitting on the sidelines had never been my forte. I had to do something.
I reached into the backseat of the van and pulled out my suit jacket. I kept a spare suit jacket and an extra change of clothes nearby wherever we went, because I never knew what kind of situation I might find myself in—like attending the biggest art exhibition of the year.
I threw my suit jacket on and pulled down the visor to check my hair in the mirror.
“Freddy…”
“Watch the door, okay?”
Garry huffed, but finally nodded. I slipped out of the van and scanned the road before jogging across. I took the steps two at a time before coming to a stop in front of the massive double doors. My heart thudded, and I took a moment to compose myself. I had to be smart. In a moment, I’d be in the same room as our targets, and I couldn’t afford to blow it. This whole operation was resting on my shoulders.
With a deep breath, I pushed the doors open and stepped through.
I was greeted with the sound of delicate, classical music, interspersed with intermingling conversations and glasses clinking. Everything stank of money. I’d grown up surrounded by people like this, and an uncomfortable feeling started crawling up my spine. I never fit into places like this, and memories of prep school—of never fitting in—started to tickle the base of my skull.
The walls in the gallery were stark white, which made the artwork on them stand out even more. The edges of the room had smaller pieces of art hung up on the walls, with small huddles of people admiring the paintings.
Directly in front of me, in the position of honor, with a crowd of at least a dozen people in front of it, was a huge canvas. My eyes widened. The painting was pure agony in visual form. A woman tore at her face as her body melted off the bottom of the canvas, with angry brushstrokes forming her every curve. I stood still, staring at the canvas from across the room. Noise faded and all my senses honed in on the painting. I could almost smell the oils from the paint. It was exquisite.
I wasn’t an art person. I’d never been to a gallery opening, and I’d never really understood what the big deal was. I grew up needing to do well to provide for myself and my family. I was the first person in my family to go to college. I was pragmatic. Utilitarian. Even though I got scholarships to the best schools, there had never been time to spend on things as frivolous as art.
But at that moment, I stood rooted to the ground, staring at the painting.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. Gianni Russo stood next to me, his face angled toward the painting. His curly, black mop of hair was wild on his head. One side of his scalp was shaved, and his shirt had one button too many undone. He was thin and wiry, with long, slender, almost feminine fingers. He glanced at me, a light twinkling in his eye.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s awesome.” I cringed at my word choice.
Like I said—not an art person.
Gianni chuckled and waved over a waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne. He took two flutes off the tray, handing one of them to me. “I’ll agree with you there—it is awesome.” His slight Italian accent made the word sound more sophisticated than it had on my own tongue. Gianni touched his glass to mine and took a sip. I nodded, only pretending to drink. I hadn’t had a sip of alcohol for ten years, and I didn’t intend to start now.
“Is that one of Hailey Ford’s?” I asked, remembering the name on the banner outside.
“It is. Come.” He nodded his head toward a side room. Following Gianni Russo into a side room on my own wasn’t part of the plan. I scanned the crowd around me, suddenly nervous. Was this a set-up? Did he know I was CIA?
Gianni Russo—one of the United States’ most notorious criminals, suspected of funding at least half a dozen human trafficking rings from here all the way to Asia—was leading me away from the main gallery. All my alarm bells blared. I gripped the champagne flute so hard I thought it might crack between my fingers.
We made our way down a short corridor and turned a corner. I almost panicked as the walls started closing in around me. An excuse was on the tip of my tongue, ready to make my exit. I needed to leave. Nothing about this felt good.
Gary was right. I should have stayed in the van.
But then, the hallway opened up onto a smaller gallery room, and I knew that this was the jewel of the exhibition. At a glance, I could tell that every piece was Hailey Ford’s. Her paintings all bled pain and anguish, but looking at them made me feel oddly hopeful. This was a woman who understood pain, and who didn’t let it destroy her.
Gianni took a deep breath, standing in the middle of the room. He swept his arms around and shook his head. “Have you ever seen anything so glorious?” He took a step toward me and continued talking without waiting for an answer. “I could tell by the look on your face as soon as you entered the gallery that you were taken by her—by Hailey. Everyone else in there…” He waved a hand. “They don’t get it. But you? You’re a true art lover.”
I almost laughed. “That’s not how I would describe myself.”
“But you feel it, don’t you? You feel her paintings right here.” He poked me in the chest so hard I took a step back.
I cleared my throat. “I… I guess so.”
Gianni sighed, looking around the room again. “In a few minutes, we’ll open this side of the exhibition to those pretenders out there, and they’ll soil the room with their empty comments and pretentious airs. I wanted to show it to someone before it was ruined.”
“I… Thank you.” Standing in that room, watching Gianni’s rapt expression, I almost forgot he was our target. The way he spoke about the art made me think that he really was just an art dealer, and maybe we’d had it all wrong. He had such reverence for the paintings that surrounded us that I could tell he was being honest.
How could this man be behind the uptick in child abductions that had been happening from D.C. to New York? How could he be selling young girls for profit?
Gianni looked at the paintings, and I looked at him. We stood still for a few moments, until he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Well, I suppose it’s time to let that crowd ruin it all.”
I glanced around the room one last time as Gianni turned toward the exit. Movement caught my eye in the far corner of the room. A door swung out into the room, its outline so smooth that it almost looked like part of the wall. My jaw dropped as the woman from the steps outside walked out. She was turned away from me, closin
g the invisible door again.
Up close, she was far more stunning than I’d anticipated. Her soft, brown hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, which curved gracefully upward from her spine. Her dress flowed like water as she moved, the open back revealing her silken skin. Something familiar curled in my gut. My fingers itched to run up the length of her spine and tangle themselves into those curls, and my whole body leaned in toward her.
She was magnetic.
I longed to find out what she smelled like, how her voice sounded, how my name sounded on her lips. I wanted to hear her moan in my ear as I pressed myself inside her.
Vaguely, I felt Gianni move beside me but all I could look at was her. She turned toward us and lifted her eyes to mine.
“Hailey,” Gianni said, extending his arms toward her. “The star of the show.”
For an interminable moment, Hailey and I stared at each other. Recognition flashed over her face, just as it did across mine. The heat in the pit of my stomach burned hotter, and I had to stop myself from reaching out toward her.
She was the woman that I’d lost ten years ago. She was the one.
Her name wasn’t Hailey Ford. Her name was Hailey LaFleur, and she was the love of my life.
3
Hailey
Freddy fucking Finch.
My heart stopped. I hadn’t seen him in almost ten years, but he still made my whole body turn electric.
Just like he did right before he broke my heart.
I could see those wicked green eyes from across the room, pulling me in exactly like they used to do when we were teenagers.
But now… He was all grown up.
From a lanky kid, Freddy had turned into… Well, he’d turned into an Adonis.
Broad shoulders filled out his suit jacket, stretching the fabric across his frame. He wore a plain, black shirt underneath, and I could see by the way it clung to all the right places that he was built. Muscular. Hot.
The Protector: The Complete C.I.A. Romance Series Page 37