Chapter 3 #3
And, worse, it seemed to be Club Drifter—a place where angry, unbalanced young men congregated and spat their rage at the world.
There were two in particular, one black and one white, both dreadlocked and heavily pierced, both with pant crotches down to their knees, both either high or drunk at all hours.
Both fixated on her.
If they happened to see her, it was like some inaudible signal had been beamed to dogs.
They’d stiffen, start whistling, calling out obscenities.
Nicole’s only defense was to get into her car as quickly as possible, hit the locks, and pull out, fast. The other day, horribly, the blond had moved fast and knocked on the passenger-side window of her car just as she was getting in.
She’d closed the locks with a whump and taken off as quickly as she could, heart pounding.
The whole thing was incredibly…unpleasant, to say the least.
And there they were, both of them. Just her luck. As if the door closing behind her were a secret signal, Creepy came out on the porch followed by Creepier.
Sam felt her stiffen, followed her gaze, and tightened his hand on her elbow.
They started with the cat calls and whistles, loud enough to pierce eardrums. Nicole watched her feet and walked as fast as she could. Experience had taught her that looking at them, acknowledging their existence, only made things worse.
She and Sam walked down the street together as he calmly escorted her to his car, a late-model, dark blue BMW.
He seated her in the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side.
He stopped for a second before getting in, looking out over the roof at the two creeps grinning and whistling from the porch.
She knew what they were seeing. A guy dressed like a businessman who…wasn’t. When he’d seen the two, he had instantly morphed into the soldier he’d been. Amazing. She’d been standing next to him, thinking he was so very big when the air around him became supercharged and he grew even bigger.
The man had been a Special Forces soldier, a Navy SEAL, for God’s sake, and had won a chestful of medals. He beat Creepy and Creepier on the male scale, hands down.
All she saw was a chunk of male torso through the driver’s window but the two creeps must have seen more, because the whistling and cat calls stopped, as abruptly as if someone had put a hand around their throats and squeezed.
Males are, above all, animals. Herd animals, with a very keen instinct for the alpha male and when to keep out of his way.
Just a minute’s look, and the creeps’ eyes were on the ground in subconscious submission, another minute and they sullenly turned and slouched back inside, slamming the front door closed.
Never, ever, in a million years could Nicole have achieved that, not even with a gun in her hand, let alone with a look.
Sam got into the driver’s seat, jaw muscles jumping. As soon as he was seated, he activated the locks.
“It’s truly a man’s world,” Nicole said, sighing. “I could never quell them with a look.”
“No, you couldn’t.” He shot a look at the front porch, then his gaze shifted back to hers.
He reached over her, pulled down her seat belt, latched it.
His shoulders were so broad they blocked out the evening light from the driver’s-door window when he turned to her.
“Is that their usual MO? Standing on the porch, shouting and whistling at you as if you were a dog?”
“Yes.” Nicole sighed. Tense muscles started relaxing again. It was almost impossible to feel afraid inside the big, safe, locked car with Sam Reston at the wheel. “I think that they have a very narrow behavioral repertoire.”
His dark serious gaze met hers. “Are they escalating? Becoming more forward? Because that’s what punks like them do. Feel for the boundaries, then push until you push back. You’re not going to pull a gun on them. If you were, you would have already. So they take one step forward. Then another.”
Were they escalating? They’d moved in a month ago.
Or maybe not moved in. They just appeared, like mold, out of nowhere.
The first week they’d stared out of the front window at her.
Then they came out on the porch and stared.
It was unnerving, but she dealt with it.
By the time she got to the corner, she’d forgotten they existed.
The second week the whistles and cat calls started, together with rude gestures.
It took her the entire drive downtown to shake the disgust from her system.
The other day, when Creepy knocked on the car window, well, that had been truly frightening.
“I think—I think they might be escalating,” she said quietly.
There. She’d put it into words, that vague sense of unease hanging like a gray cloud in the back of her mind.
“One of them knocked on the window as I took off the other day. I remember thinking that I could have been in trouble if the car hadn’t started. ”
He nodded. “I was afraid of that. There are things you can do to block the escalation. Even better, there are things I can do…”
He left it hanging in the air.
Nicole closed her eyes in relief. Oh God, yes.
Let the Dreaded Dreadlocks problem go. Just tip it into those broad, tanned, very capable-looking hands. There was no doubt that Sam could deal with the punks with almost embarrassing ease, much much more easily than she could ever hope to. He’d frozen them literally with a look.
The temptation to let him handle the two punks was so strong she had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands to bring herself back to reality.
Having him take care of this problem for her was a huge temptation. But—she didn’t know Sam Reston at all. He wasn’t her partner in any way. If he warned off the Creeps by acting as her proxy, and she never saw him again, they’d notice and double the harassment.
“No,” she said reluctantly. “I think I’d better handle it. Or try to.”
He nodded, but didn’t switch on the engine yet. He sat, big hands curved around the steering wheel, looking at her.
“Tell you what.” His gaze went past her to where two thuggish faces looked out the porch window.
He gave a sharp punch to the horn and the faces disappeared, the dingy beige curtain fluttering back into place.
“My brother Mike is a cop. I can have him drive by a couple of times in a patrol car. Stop in front of your house and say hello. That way they know you have the cops at your back.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Nicole tried to keep the relief out of her voice. It was a perfect solution. Enough of a deterrent to keep the two thugs off her case, without it being directly linked to Sam Reston. It was an elegant solution. “That sounds great. I’m very grateful.”
“His name’s Mike Keillor and he’ll stop by tomorrow. I’ll give you his number.”
“Perfect. I’ll—” She stopped. “Keillor? I thought you said he was your brother.”
“He is, in every way that counts.” Well, that was intriguing. Sam didn’t elaborate.
“Okay. Having him stop by a couple of times would be a big help. I think those two are dumber than they are nasty, but—”
“You can be stupid and dangerous at the same time.” Sam’s mouth tightened. “The world’s full of very stupid and very dangerous ass—men.”
“I grew up all over the world,” she answered. “I know that deep in my bones.”
She smiled at him. He was still turned toward her, a set expression on his face. However grim he looked, he’d actually been very kind, finding a good solution to a thorny problem while allowing her to save face.
Instead of putting the car in motion, as she expected him to, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss. A peck, really. But Nicole somehow found it hard to breathe. She huffed out a little breath of air, opened her mouth—and nothing came out.
She could object, of course. It was beyond forward to assume that he could simply up and…
and kiss her. Just like that. But Nicole knew herself and knew that pretending to be outraged wouldn’t work, because it would be a lie.
The brief kiss had been far from unpleasant.
Unsettling and unnerving, but not unpleasant.
It had been like coming into fleeting contact with something immensely powerful, something that could burn if the contact was too close. She could almost hear the hum of power coming from him.
He started up the engine and was pulling out before she could react. He was staring straight ahead but she felt he was aware of her every move. Soldiers developed good situational awareness, as they called it.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you moving in.
” The deep voice was matter-of-fact, stating something obvious.
He slanted a quick glance at her, not grinning like a male who’d made an advance.
No, he was deadly serious, as if stating a military objective. “It was better than I imagined.”
Nicole huffed out a breath from a suddenly tight chest. She had no comeback, none at all.
New York
June 28
He was tall, blond and blue-eyed. Very fair, prone to freckling in the sun. Courtesy, no doubt, of a Crusader who had raped one of his ancestors in Acre, bequeathing the cowardly genes of the West. The cowardice had been bred out of him by centuries of Arab warriors, but the coloring remained.
He didn’t mind. It was a gift from Allah. His weapon against the infidels, to be used to the fullest, inshallah. He’d been born for this. Born to fit in with the unclean. Born for revenge.
Muhammed Wahed, aka Paul Preston, had the perfect cover.
A Manhattan stockbroker, one of the tens of thousands toiling in the money mills on Wall Street.
It was a genuine cover. He’d studied economics at Stanford and had made more than $10 million in the past five years investing in futures.
He was one of few traders to profit in the recession.