Chapter 1 #4
She was beautiful and buffed to a shine, with perfectly round breasts and duck lips, wearing what he imagined at a rough guess—Sam’s wife Nicole would probably know the amount down to the dollar—to be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of…
stuff, from the designer purse, designer shoes, designer shades to the big flashy designer jewels.
She’d carefully and slowly crossed her legs, showing a pantyless crotch that had been shaved except for a little landing strip in the middle, so she had a designer twat, too.
Harry hated this shit, but he had been designated by Sam and Mike as the go-to guy for the asshole clients and he owed his two brothers so much he accepted the Asshole Detail without complaint.
Plus, they both knew that he was constitutionally incapable of being rude or discourteous to a woman.
His curse.
After quoting double their usual fee, Harry got the details, the copy of the tape of the delectable London fucking the man du jour, and the name and website of the so-called journalist who was going to post the tape tomorrow.
Five minutes after the door had closed behind London, Harry had found the file on the online tabloid’s servers, degraded it, left some spyware and a very clear message that any attempt to post the file would lead to the entire archives of the site being degraded beyond repair, effectively putting them out of business.
He toyed with the idea of signing the message The Twat’s Avenger, but decided not to.
It was touch and go there, for a moment, though.
Have to get your jollies where you can.
Five minutes, fifty thousand dollars. Not bad. And twenty five thousand of those fifty were going into their Lost Ones Fund, their own personal Underground Railroad.
Twenty five thousand dollars from London’s trust fund would not be used to buy a fur or a week at a fancy spa or luxury rehab or a Rolex.
That money would be spent on some abused woman who was running for her life.
Most of the women who came to them left their homes under cover of darkness with nothing but the clothes on their backs, sometimes—tragically—with their kids.
They did that because if they stayed, they’d be beaten to death.
Harry and his brothers gave them a new life and enough money to start that life.
Great, great feeling. Maybe he should have charged London triple their usual fee? Buy some safety for a lot of little kids, that would.
He was frowning over that when Marisa announced the next client, a Ms. Nora Charles.
She’d had an appointment with Sam, but Sam had called to say that Nicole was having bad morning sickness and he’d come in when she was better.
Harry knew his brother Sam. Not even the threat of nuclear war would keep Sam from Nicole’s side when she wasn’t feeling well. Sam would stay by her side until she felt better. That was the bottom line.
Harry respected that. He liked Nicole, a lot. And he liked it that she made Sam so happy. Well…happy. Sam seemed really happy with her in between panicking whenever he saw danger to Nicole around every corner. And now that there was a kid on the way, whoa.
Sam was going to have to dial down his crazy overprotectiveness, though Harry doubted he could.
Sam Reston, big huge tough guy, good with a rifle, good with his fists, was a total wuss when it came to his wife.
And the little girl on the way? Sam would probably keep her under armed guard throughout her childhood and let her date when she turned thirty. Maybe.
Mike was out on a recon for a jeweller who had received death threats.
So today Harry was It.
Nora Charles, huh? Did she think no one could remember the Thin Man movies? He sent up a little prayer. Please, God, not another heiress under a fake name. Harry had had his Heiress Quotient for the year with London even though it was still April.
He was bracing himself for more nonsense as his door slid open.
And then Marisa clicked twice on the intercom—their code—and he thought oh shit. Nora Charles had called on their special hotline, the underground railroad.
And then the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen walked into his office.
Women were rarely clients of RBK Security, the mainstream overground part of it, anyway.
Mostly the clientele was corporate—something was leaking money and they wanted it stopped.
Or they wanted their security system upgraded.
He and Sam and Harry mostly dealt with their opposite corporate numbers, heads of security, or with the Big Guy himself—the CEO.
Mostly men. And, of course, the odd heiress.
But the woman walking into his office was definitely not an heiress.
Not with those plain, nondescript clothes that were so rumpled they looked as if she’d slept in them.
Not with those nails bitten down to the quick.
Not with that glorious red hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
Not with those dark circles under beautiful green eyes that were revealed when she pulled off her big sunglasses.
No, Harry thought sadly as he rose to greet her. She wasn’t a pampered heiress. She was one of the Lost Ones.