Alpha Bravo Seal. Carol Ericson
tilted his head. “Okay. Nice to meet you. Any friend of the Hastings women has gotta be good people.”
Slade swept the hood from his head and held out his free hand. “Slade Gallagher.”
“Leo Veneto.”
Slade glanced at the tattoo on Leo’s forearm. “Marine?”
“Yes, sir. Tenth Marine regiment, artillery force. Served in the first Gulf War.”
Slade pumped his hand. “Hoorah.”
“Hoorah.” Leo gave Slade the once-over. “Navy, right?”
“You got it—SEAL sniper.”
“You boys saved our asses more than a few times.”
Nicole broke up the handshake and the mutual admiration. “We’re going to go up now.”
Leo grinned. “I’ll be right here.”
Slade followed her to the elevator where she stabbed the call button and turned to him suddenly. “I never knew Leo was in the Marines.”
“Has Semper Fi tattooed right on his arm.”
She finally snatched the mail from his hands as the doors of the elevator whisked open. “See anything interesting in my mail?”
“You didn’t give me a chance to go through all of it, but it looks like Harvard’s hitting you up for a donation.”
“They wouldn’t dare. I’m not even an alumna, and my father already funded a library for them.”
“So why’d you go to NYU instead of Harvard, where I’m sure they would’ve found a spot for you?”
“Film school.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not all family connections, you know.”
“Doesn’t hurt.” He should know.
They rode up to the tenth floor in silence, but he could practically hear all the gears shifting in her head, forming questions. He didn’t blame her. He just didn’t know if he’d have any answers that would satisfy her—rather than scare the spit out of her.
The elevator jolted to a stop on the tenth floor, and he held the door as she stepped out. “No penthouse suite, huh?”
“My mom didn’t want to be too ostentatious.” Her lips twisted. “And I’m being serious.”
Still, there seemed to be just two apartments on this floor. The size and location of this place must’ve run her mother, Mimi Hastings, more than five mil.
Nicole swung open the door with a flourish and watched him out of the corner of her eye as she stepped aside.
His gaze swept from one side of the opulently furnished room to the other, taking in the gold brocade sofas, the marble tables, the blindingly white carpet, the curved staircase to another floor and the artwork he could guarantee was worth a fortune. “Impressive.”
“This is my mother’s place. I’m here watching the...”
Before she could finish the sentence, a ball of white fur shot out from somewhere in the back of the apartment and did a couple of somersaults before landing at Slade’s feet, paws scrabbling for purchase against the legs of his jeans.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s a dog, believe it or not, and I’m taking care of her for my mother.”
Slade crouched and tickled the excited Shih Tzu beneath the chin. “Hey, little guy.”
“It’s a girl, and her name is Chanel.”
“Let me guess.” He straightened up. “She has a diamond collar.”
“You pretty much have my mom all figured out.”
“Where is she, your mother?”
“Are we discussing my mother or why a Navy SEAL is spying on me in Manhattan?” She crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her running shoe.
He waved his arm at a deep-cushioned chair. “Can I sit down first? Maybe something to drink? This spying is tough business.”
Her lips formed a thin line, and for a minute he thought she was going to refuse. “All right.”
“Water is fine, and I’ll even get it myself if you show me the way.”
She crooked her finger. “Follow me, but no more stalling.”
Was that what he was doing? He had to admit, he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news—and he had bad news for Nicole Hastings.
The little dog jumped into the chair he was eyeing, so he followed Nicole’s swaying hips, the Lycra of her leggings hugging every gentle line of her body. She was thin, but curved in and out in all the right places.
As she passed a granite island in the center of the kitchen, she kicked the leg of a stool tucked beneath the counter. “Have a seat.”
She yanked open the door of the fridge. “I have water, sparkling water, iced tea, juice, soda, beer and a 2008 Didier Dagueneau sauvignon blanc—a very good year.”
Was she trying to show off, or did that stuff just roll from her lips naturally? “Sparkling water, please.”
She filled two glasses with ice and then set them down in the middle of the island. The bottle with a green and yellow label hissed as she twisted off its lid, and the liquid fizzed and bubbled when it hit the ice.
She shoved a glass toward him. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s get to the main event.”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be one to mess around, either, the way you dropped that pirate who had me at gunpoint.”
“This is different.” He took a sip of the water, the bubbles tickling his nose. “You know that Giles Wentworth died in a car accident last February?”
“Went off the road in Scotland.”
“A few weeks ago, Lars Rasmussen committed suicide—took an overdose of pills.”
“I know that.” She hunched over the counter, drilling him with her green eyes. “What I want to know is the location and general health of Dahir Musse.”
He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, and it fizzed in his nose. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ve already connected the dots.”
“I don’t know if I’ve connected any dots, but Giles has driven on some incredibly dangerous roads without getting one scratch on the car, and Lars was about the least depressed person I know. Girl trouble?” She snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “He had a woman in every port, literally.”
Had she been one of those women?
The thought had come out of left field, and Slade took a careful sip of his water. “So, you already have a suspicion the deaths of your friends weren’t coincidental.”
“It’s not just that.” She caught a drip of condensation on the outside of her glass with the tip of her finger and dragged it back to the rim. “You said you’ve been here in New York just a few days?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve had a feeling of being watched and followed for about two weeks now, ever since I heard rumors about Lars.”
“Anything concrete?”
“Until I caught you going through my mailbox? No.”
Heat crawled up his face to the roots of his hair. He’d tried to tell the brass he’d be no good at spying.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here and why you were going through my mail.”
“Someone who