The Other Crowd. Alex Archer
Hey, she was a professional. She could handle any assignment Doug lobbed at her. As soon as she got a few more hours of sleep.
“You tell her about Daniel?” Eric asked as he joined them. “Daniel’s a bit of an eccentric,” he said to Annja, “but more normal than any other person on earth. Trust me on that one. But whatever you do, don’t get him talking about wine unless you’ve got hours to spare. The man is really into wine.”
“I can dig it.” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her cargo pants and eyed Eric. Eager puppy dog waiting for a bone.
“Annja, this story is going to rock!” Doug said.
Her producer’s enthusiasm wasn’t capable of lifting even a hint of a smile on her face. Assessing her tense muscles and stiff posture, she realized she was anxious. Not only was she voluntarily traveling three thousand miles to chase after Tinkerbell, now she’d acquired puppy-sitting duties, as well.
“First sign of trouble, I’m sending him home,” she said as she snatched the tickets from Doug’s hands and strode into the airport through the sliding glass doors.
2
His cell phone volume was turned off, yet he’d set it to flash with an incoming call. Garin Braden leaned across the black silk sheets and eyed the caller ID. A familiar, yet unwelcome, name was displayed. He groaned and sat back. A flute of champagne was cradled in his hand, and he ran his fingers through the long blond hair that spilled over his bare chest.
“No bubbly for you?” he asked.
“I’ll be up in a bit,” she said in a husky drawl seasoned with just the right touch of determination. Her head disappeared beneath the sheets.
The red flashing LED had ceased and now the phone vibrated across the marble nightstand. That indicated someone was leaving a message. He didn’t want to talk to the old man at this particular moment.
Slamming back the champagne, Garin set the glass on the nightstand next to the phone that began to blink red again. “Give it up, old man.”
Another message vibrated the cell phone dangerously close to the edge of the nightstand. Just when the phone teetered and threatened to drop to the marble floor, it flashed and Garin snatched it and flipped it open.
“What?” he growled. “This had better be good, Roux.”
“It’ll surely be more stimulating than whatever it is you’re engaged in right now.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Garin said, gazing at his companion.
“Mental stimulation oftentimes exceeds that of the physical.”
“Doubt it. Why the call? I haven’t heard from you in months.”
“The Fouquet has resurfaced. Thought you’d want to know about it.”
“I’m not particularly concerned about ever seeing that thing again. Too many bad memories. A painting. Is that all?” He clutched the sheets. What the hell was the blonde’s name?
“It’s being auctioned off at Christie’s in New York this afternoon. I want you there. Buy it.”
Garin laughed. The blonde popped her head out from under the sheets and grinned at him. He gestured for her to roll to the side. Roux had spoiled the mood.
“I’m not interested in putting that thing on my wall,” Garin snapped. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward. “Ever.”
“It’s not for you or myself,” Roux explained with castigating patience. “I thought it would make a nice gift for our Annja.”
Our Annja. It always startled Garin when Roux referred to her in that manner. It was too possessive.
“Why?”
“Garin, there are more things in life than fast cars, million-dollar acquisitions and women. You know what month it is?”
“I’m not keen on the late-night quiz show, old man. I’ll have you know I was engaged in something far better—”
“Blonde or redhead?”
“Blonde.”
“Common. There’s always another one around the corner.”
True. Garin turned and cast a wink over his shoulder at the pouting female. She got up and lazily wandered into the bathroom. “Why don’t you simply call in your bid?” he asked.
“I want you to look at the thing before bidding. I can’t be sure this is the actual painting. It’s merely attributed to Fouquet and listed as ‘in the style of the fifteenth century master.’”
“So why don’t you go after the bloody thing?”
“Because you’re closer.”
“Closer? I’m in Berlin, Roux. And let me guess—you’re in…Monaco, reclining under the moonlight on the roof of the yacht surrounded by a blonde, a redhead and a brunette.”
“You don’t get points for being obvious.”
“Technically, you’re closer to New York. You go after the thing.”
“At the moment, I’m not near any major airport. And there is a time issue. I found out about this just moments ago. And I know you have a collection of private jets and planes and, who knows, maybe even a submarine or two.”
“Sold the sub last month.”
“I hope it wasn’t to the enemy.”
“Your definition of enemy is vastly different from mine, old man.”
Roux huffed out a breath. Garin loved to tweak at his presumed morals. “No matter. You can get there faster than I, Garin. So you’ll do it?”
Garin sighed and shrugged, rubbing a palm over his face. “For Annja?”
“Indeed.”
“Fine. Send details, an address and get me set up with a bid number so all I have to do is stroll in and take the thing.”
“Done.”
3
Rangy and easy in his skin, Daniel Collins was, from outer appearances, quite the character. Long skinny jeans clung to his legs as if glued to the skin. The pants certainly didn’t require the white suspenders that hung loosely over a black shirt decorated with gold appliqués across the chest. A red-and-black plaid coat, the sleeves rolled to expose his veiny forearms, hung on his lithe frame. Gold hoop earrings clung to both earlobes and were small enough not to be garish, but added an interesting glint to his narrow face, which was mastered by bushy black brows.
A black fedora capped his head, and he tilted it to Annja as she approached to shake his hand.
“You must be the television host Mr. Morrell asked me to drop everything to come and fetch.”
“Sorry about that. Doug tends to think the world moves on his time. So I assume you’re as surprised about this assignment as I am?”
“Surprised, but willing. It’s not every day I’m given the opportunity to show a lovely American lady around my neck of the woods.” He looked beyond Annja. “Eric?”
“You remember Eric Kritz. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said.
Eric looked up from his iPod long enough to nod at Daniel. He didn’t have the earbuds in. He’d explained to Annja during the flight that he used the music player as a backup hard drive to store still photographs. He must be paging through the aerial photos he’d taken from the plane as they’d landed she thought.
“You’re all grown up, Mr. Kritz,” Daniel said in acknowledgment. “So, the two of you, have you got some ID so I can be sure you are