Ten
Miles Brown had a temp in his office for the week that Celia was on vacation, and when the temp and I both showed up in the copy room the following morning, he asked me which machine I was going to use—Arnold or Bob.
“I’m sorry?” I asked him.
“I don’t care which one,” he said, shrugging.
“No, I mean, Arnold? Bob?”
“Oh.” He grinned at me. “Well, the one on the left there, every time I send a file over the network instead of just running copies off the glass, it kills the file.”
It terminated the file. I got it.
“And the other one is always jamming.”
Bob.
Oh, I liked him immediately.
I offered him my hand. “Jory Harcourt.”
“As in Dane Harcourt?” He smiled as we shook.
“As in brothers, yeah.”
“I’m Pedro. Pedro Blue.”
“Blue?”
“My dad’s from Texas, and my mom’s from El Salvador.”
He was definitely pretty, so I was all for the gene mixing that had produced him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Pedro.”
“So, what’re you doing here, brother?” he asked with a big grin that showed off a killer smile and deep dimples as he released my hand.
“Covering until Dane finds a replacement.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard Brooke and what’s his name got the boot.” He shrugged. “But what do you expect when you hire résumé over experience?”
“Agreed.” I nodded. “You wanna come to Dane’s office after lunch today and interview for his assistant job?”
His eyes got huge.
“Well?” I prodded after a minute of him staring.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” I said, “which my brother likes better than yeah. In fact, he hates yeah.”
“Noted,” he rushed out. “But you’re serious? You’re not screwing with me?”
“No. He needs someone stable and long-term, who can then hire a liaison, the person who does all the legwork with clients, and a typist, someone to get the contracts and all his correspondence typed up—which is, if you ask me, the most boring job on the planet.”
“Agreed on the typist job,” he said with a smile. “And so the assistant oversees everything?”
“Yes, and also keeps people away from him. The gatekeeping is of critical importance. No one can get by you to him.”
He nodded. “And you just met me and think I’m the man for the job?”
“A sense of humor is key, as is loyalty.”
“Both would be, I would think.”
“He’s a great boss, but not easy.”
“Nothing great ever is, is it?”
I smiled at him. “No, it’s not.”
“I would really love to do that—interview to work for that man.”
That man.
“He’s scary, right, my brother?”
“Yes, he is,” he agreed. “But I’ve seen him hold his wife’s hand.”
“Ah,” I said with a sigh. “Then you’ve seen it—his heart.”
“I have.”
“Okay, then, come interview.”
“I certainly will. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
And it was nice that I didn’t have to look far.
When Pedro was there after lunch, waiting nervously, résumé in hand, I was pleased.
When he sat in the chair in front of Dane’s desk, answered questions, and told my brother that if he didn’t know how to do something, he would ask instead of trying to bullshit him, I was even more pleased.
It was a good answer to the situation that Dane had posed.
When Dane asked him about loyalty, Pedro said that, of course, he would be loyal to Dane and that no one’s welfare would go before his—except his mother’s. Mothers came before bosses.
“Of course,” Dane agreed, smiling for the first time.
“And honestly, I don’t think you need a liaison,” Pedro continued. “I think that’s how the last guy got confused. He thought he needed to take clients out, schmooze them, wine them, dine them, and that’s not the case. You have people waiting for months just to see you.”
“Yes, I do.” Dane all but yawned, and I got why. Dane knew he was in demand; he would have to be brain dead not to notice.
“Who would a liaison need to take out anywhere?”
I liked him more and more by the second, and I could tell Dane did too.
“So, why would you need one?”
“I don’t,” Dane agreed.
“I think your assistant could manage the liaison piece quite easily, schmoozing clients and taking care of whatever was needed outside the normal scope.”
Dane nodded.
“You do need your own dedicated typist though, without question.”
And because he thought just like I had, Dane got out his pad from his desk drawer and started talking about what working for him would pay and the benefits included.
The money was phenomenal, but just as important was the medical insurance, the dental, the vision, and the 401(k), which would have immediate vesting that Dane would match at a hundred percent on the first six percent of Pedro’s salary.
“I would like to start working for you now, please,” the young man said, standing up and offering Dane his hand.
Smiling, Dane stood as well, and they shook. He then promised Dane that he would be the best assistant he’d ever had, as well as the last.
It was my hope as well as his.
There were steps he had to take, like informing the temp agency that he was done working for them and ready to start working for Dane.
They would send someone else to cover Celia, and that would be that.
He was looking forward to seeing me the following day and having me run him through all the specifics of the job.
Dane was smiling when he left.
“He’ll do well, Dane.”
“Yeah, I feel the same way I did when I hired you.”
“See, I told you, you should have put me in charge of hiring a long time ago.”
“Yes, I should have.”
Agreement was good to hear.
I had declined Dane’s invitation to have dinner with him and Aja and some other friends because I wasn’t up for the company.
“We’re hangin’ out too much.” I chuckled, smiling at my brother.
“God, I couldn’t agree more.” He gave me a shadow of a smile before he patted my arm and turned for the parking garage.
So, I went home, had dinner, watched some TV, missed Sam, knowing that I would be alone in my bed that night, and was changed and ready to head back out for a run when I opened the door and Eddie Liron was there.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Hi,” I greeted him in my running shoes, joggers, and a long-sleeved shirt. “What’s going on?”
He cleared his throat, and I could tell right then that he was nervous.
“Jory,” he said, taking a breath, “I need you to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Cristo needs to talk to you about things.”
“What things?”
“Just …” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Just come talk to him. It’s a short ride, and then he’ll ask you some questions, and then you’re done.”
“None of what you said or how you said it sounds appealing at all.”
“Jory, you saved my life. I owe you. I would never let you get hurt.”
“But if I say no, are you gonna make me?”
“Yeah,” he said, but he sounded pained.
“Okay,” I agreed, “lemme grab my keys and my wallet and my phone.”
He exhaled sharply, and I could tell that the fact that he didn’t have to “make me” was very appealing.
I was quiet on the drive downtown and kept track of where we were going, the alleys we drove down, the buildings we passed, until we reached a pub. I was surprised, really. I had expected a locked garage or a pier or something infinitely more sinister, more Scarface or The Godfather.
Inside the pub, it smelled damp and like wood polish.
I followed behind Eddie as we passed people eating at tables, sitting at the bar, throwing darts, playing pool.
It was crowded, and that made me feel a little better.
I looked out of place in my running clothes, but no one stared too long.
I started to calm … until I reached the table.
Sam was sitting at a round table with Agent Calhoun, two other men I didn’t know, and Cristo Liron.
And I could have blown it off, tried really hard to ignore the torn lip and the red blotches that would become bruises on Sam’s face, but his eyes lifted, found mine, and heated.
There was no missing, to anyone who was even remotely perceptive, that he was looking at what belonged to him.
But thankfully, no one was giving Sam any attention. All eyes were on me.
“Jory, there you are,” Cristo greeted me, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Here I am,” I returned, looking at him.
“Well?”
I squinted. “Well what?”
“Go to him,” he taunted me, tipping his head at my husband.
“To who?”
“To your man.”
“What are you talking about?”
He snickered. “That’s your detective, right?”
“Who?” I hoped I sounded annoyed. I was trying for it, even as my heart pounded in my chest.
His brows furrowed with the first trace of uncertainty.
“Him.” Cristo pointed at Sam.
“I guess I’m not understanding what’s happening.”
“Then I’ll make it clear for you.” His voice rose. “Is this or is this not your detective?”
“Who?”
“Him,” he barked at me, pointing at Sam.
“You think—oh, sorry. Not.”
“What?”
“Not,” I repeated.
“Not?”
I glanced around. “I’m so clueless right now.”
“This man is not your detective?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” I said slowly. “Have you not pulled up a picture of Sam Kage? I figured you would have, with all your interest in me.”
“I never said I was in—”
“Okay, wait.” I raked my hands through my hair. “So, you’re sitting there, telling me you have no idea what Sam Kage looks like?”
Time ticked by, and there was a second flicker of doubt on his face.
“Seriously?”
“Jor—”
“I figured you, with all your connections and stuff, could for sure get into police department files. The bad guys can always do that kind of stuff in the movies.”
“So, I’m a bad guy now?”
I gestured at Sam. “Well, you’re clearly not the good guy if you’re beating people up.”
He glared at me.
“What did you do to him?” I asked, going around the table until I was beside Sam. It took every drop of concentration I had not to touch his face.
“I told him,” Sam said, his eyes on mine, “that I didn’t know you.”
“But that’s not true.” I smiled at him. “Because we met on the yacht the other night.” I looked back over at Cristo. “You were there, remember?”
And his eyes widened, like maybe—just maybe—he had forgotten that. When I returned my gaze to Sam’s bruised face, he took a quick breath.
“I do remember that now,” Cristo said softly.