Devil's Due. Рейчел Кейн
to, say, Jazz.
Ben’s fate sealed, Lucia turned to practicalities. Her over-reaction with the valet was out of character for her, to say the least, but it told her something of what her subconscious was doing: worrying excessively.
It was time to set up some insurance. As she pulled her car into a parking spot outside one of the most exclusive men’s stores in the city, she hit a speed-dial number on her cell phone that she’d once promised never to dial again.
She’d never been good at keeping promises when it came to Omar.
He picked up on the second ring. “Tell me you’re not in trouble,” he said, and she laughed, because it was just like Omar. “Okay, then tell me you hit the wrong number in your speed dial.”
“No, querido, I’m calling you. And maybe I’m not in trouble—have you ever thought of that?”
“No,” he said. “I heard you’d moved. Kansas City, right?”
“Right.”
“Would it surprise you to know that I’m in the neighborhood?”
“Tremendously.” It didn’t. Stranger things had happened, every day before breakfast.
“Just finished up a job in Saint Louis. So. I’m sure you didn’t call just to hear my voice, lovely as it may be …” And it was lovely, low and full of warmth. Just now, he was using his native accent, which was cultured and British, but he was equally at home with French, Spanish, American, German and a wide variety of Arab inflections. She’d even once—hilariously—heard him do a fabulously broad Scots.
“I adore your voice, which you very well know,” she said, “but no. I was checking to see if you were available.”
“Well, I’m not currently seeing anyone—”
“Professionally.”
He became quickly serious. “Long term or short?”
“I don’t know. We’d best say at minimum a month.”
“Huh. Usual rates?”
“Have they gone up?”
“Cost of living, my love, cost of living. Or, at least, the cost of not getting killed.”
She sighed. Omar did not, of course, come cheap. “Fine. Your usual rates, plus expenses.”
“Starting when?”
“How soon can you get here?”
He was silent for a few seconds. “Lucia, this sounds a bit more serious than your usual tangle. It’s not—”
“Our mutual uncle?” Meaning Uncle Sam, of course. “No. Strictly private. And it’s not serious … exactly. Just—uncertain.”
“I’m peace of mind, then.”
“I can think of no one better.”
“But of course!” She could imagine his wide, charming grin. “I am reliably informed by the wonder of the Internet that there is a morning commuter flight leaving in forty minutes. Where do I go?”
She gave him the office address. “There’s a parking garage, we’re on the second level. I need you positioned there today.”
“Hmm. Watching for what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Call me when you’re in position.”
“Two hours,” he said. After a beat, he said, “Lucia? It’s nice to hear from you.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Don’t get arrested in the airport.”
He laughed. It was something of a standing joke, but not a very funny one, all things considered. Before she could say anything else, he was gone.
She sighed, ordered her thoughts and got on with her part of the bargain with Ben McCarthy: shopping.
One of the first things she’d taken the trouble to do, when she’d moved her operations to Kansas City, was to find the premier clothiers in town, for both men and women. She had a personal interest, of course, but there were always professional considerations. Clients to dress. Undercover agents to outfit for special assignments …
And she always did like to buy quality.
She was choosing the right suit to flatter McCarthy’s coloring and body type when she realized that she was being followed, and had been for some time.
She kept her movements slow and natural as she placed the suit back on the rack and turned to a display of French-cuffed shirts. White would make his prison-pale skin look even more translucent. She held up one the color of cream, studying it, and readjusted the focus of her eyes to the mirror a few feet away.
There was someone outside the store, looking in. He was in shadow, backlit by the morning sun, but she recognized the ill-cut suit. Detective Ken Stewart was dogging her. Why me? Why not McCarthy? Although the thought of Stewart infiltrating a day spa made her smile.
Stewart backed up and moved along, an easy stroll, as if he’d just been idly browsing. He was good at this. That was disturbing. She much preferred dealing with amateurs, and professionals who had inflated ideas of their skill levels. If she hadn’t spotted him before … You weren’t looking for a tail, she reminded herself. You had no reason to suspect anyone would follow you on something as mundane as this. Maybe not, but she’d been hyperaware with the valet. It bothered her that she’d missed Stewart.
After a few more seconds another man passed the glass, this one short, fat and dressed in a dirty blue jean jacket. Shaved head. He hesitated at the door, then opened it and came in. He looked nervous, but that might have been the natural tentativeness of a man ill-used to high-end suits coming in to browse.
No. It wasn’t.
In the mirror, his eyes focused on her. Not in the way that a man normally examined her either—this was a pattern-recognition way, as if he’d been given her description. Or a photo.
She carefully put the shirt back on the table and positioned her hand close to her hip, a split second from going for the gun concealed by the tailored jacket she was wearing. She automatically swept the store for collateral victims. The clerk was positioned safely behind a counter; he’d surely duck if gunplay started. Odds were good he’d survive, unless her newcomer was carrying an Uzi, or was an incredibly poor shot. No other customers, unless they were in the dressing rooms. Nothing she could do to minimize the risks.
She balanced her weight lightly around her center, ready to shift at a moment’s notice, ready for anything, as the man made his way closer. One hand in his jacket pocket …
She’d humiliated herself with the valet. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. That meant waiting until a weapon was actually visible and identified, which would put her at a disadvantage, but …
She turned, and time slowed to a crawl. Tick, and his eyes were rounding in surprise. Tick, and her hand moved the small distance inside her own coat, her fingers touching the cool grip of her gun.
Tick, and his right hand emerged with nightmare slowness from his pocket …
… carrying a red envelope.
Time fell back into a normal rush of color and noise, and Lucia felt her heart hammering, knew there was heat flooding her cheeks. Adrenaline was an earthquake in her veins for the second time in an hour.
The courier held out the red envelope to her. “Here you go, lady. No signature required.” He sounded spooked. She wondered how she had looked to him, in that instant when she was making the decision whether to kill him.
“Thank you,” she said, and took it. Automatic courtesy; she certainly wasn’t feeling grateful. He backed up and hurried out of the store fast enough to make the bell hung over the door clatter like a fire alarm.
She