“It’s not the Ritz,” Ky said, “but as safe houses go, it’s not half bad.”
The Ritz it wasn’t. Not even close.
“Your room is at the top of the landing, second door on the right,” Jon told her. “I’ll drop your stuff up there.” He moved up the staircase, her suitcase in his hand.
“Quick lay of the land,” Ky said. “Two floors and the basement. Living room, den, eat-in kitchen, bathroom down here. Three bedrooms upstairs, two baths. You’ll have your own room with an adjoining bathroom.”
“You’ll both be staying here?” Gemma asked.
Ky nodded. “In addition to some of my other men. We’ll take shifts. I still need to coordinate with the rest of my team while we’re here, but for the next day or so the three of us will be together constantly. Hopefully, we can end this whole thing before it drags on too much longer and we can get you back home as soon as possible.”
“Hopefully is the operative word in that statement,” Gemma said.
The frustration in her tone was obvious. She’d been quiet on the drive from Manhattan to Queens, sitting in the backseat, arms folded across her chest, staring out the window with a look of childlike petulance on her face. The few times he’d glanced in the rearview mirror, he could see the barely controlled anger filtering through her eyes. To say she wasn’t happy about the current situation would be a total understatement. This was one pissed off woman. A fine looking one, but furious nonetheless, and Ky couldn’t blame her. Through no fault of her own she’d been thrown into a situation where she’d tried to do the right thing, and it wound up coming back to bite her in the ass.
He knew he wouldn’t be happy, either, if his world was suddenly turned upside down. His only hope was they could quickly find the assassins and her attacker and allow her to go back home, as he’d told her.
“A few house rules,” he said. When she just stared at him, her mouth tight, eyes narrowed, he could feel the irritation sliding off her.
“You can’t use your cell phone to call anyone or check data. It needs to be shut off at all times.”
“No one? Not even the clients I’m being forced to bail on because of this, this—” her hand flailed out and swept the room, eyes blazing.
Ky shook his head. “Cell phones are traceable, as are computers. Since Ritandi knows who you are, I’m sure he’s already had one of his people find out all your basic information. Cell phone number, e-mail address. All the accounts linked to your phone and computer. A digital fingerprint spans a wide berth these days, and it’s easy for a hacker to find you. Too easy.”
“This gets worse by the minute. What am I supposed to do? Just not show up at my client appointments? Do you know what that will do to my professional reputation? I’ll never get another job offer if people think I’m unreliable and capricious about my work commitments.”
“You can use my phone to call your clients and any staff members you have. It’s blocked and untraceable. There’s about fourteen layers of security attached to it. As long as you make the call quick and don’t linger to gossip or chat it should be sufficient.”
The anger barely contained beneath the surface bled out in full force.
“First of all, I work alone. I don’t have any staff or anyone helping me. It’s my name, my business.”
Ky nodded.
“Secondly, and more importantly, I don’t gossip with clients. I’m a professional. I’m there to do a job, a job they’ve hired me for. What am I supposed to tell them when I call to cancel? Sorry, but I can’t photograph you today. I’ve got this little annoyance of a maniac looking for me?”
Ky forced his annoyance down. “You can tell them you’re sick and will call to reschedule when you can.”
“It doesn’t work that way in my world,” she said. Her breathing had quickened, her beautifully sculpted nose flaring with the effort. “If I can’t make my obligations, my clients, my powerful, rich, and unforgiving clients, are going to hire someone else, someone who they can depend on to do the job. My world is one of deadlines. Quick, harsh, you’d-better-meet-them-or-else deadlines. Calling in sick to cancel, whether real or otherwise, is professional suicide.”
Her arms were crossed over her chest again, the corners of her lips pointed down toward her chin.
“Would you prefer to honor those commitments knowing someone, someone who doesn’t hesitate to kill those around him he considers inconvenient, is looking for you? And just say you do go to your scheduled appointments. Forget the danger you’re putting yourself in by doing so. Have you thought about the danger you’re putting your clients in?”
The space between her eyebrows pulled into a thin, tight line.
“What are you talking about?”
“The man who I think ordered these hits today has shown, many times before, that collateral damage means nothing to him.”
“Collateral damage?”
“Yes. In order to get to you, he wouldn’t think twice about having your clients killed as well. He doesn’t leave witnesses behind. Ever.”
Her color blanched and for a moment, Ky thought she’d faint.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt about it,” he said, softening his tone, “but you need to understand the gravity of this situation. Two of my men died today, just for doing their job. I’m sure you wouldn’t want the same fate for your clients.”
“N-no,” she said, her head shaking violently. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Ky nodded. “Then please, just do as I ask. I’m only trying to keep you and everyone else around you safe.”
They stood, silent, each watching the other.
Gemma Laine was a woman used to being in control of her life, not relinquishing that control to anyone. He’d figured that out within five minutes of meeting her. Ky hated the fear and uncertainly he saw in her eyes now, knowing he’d forced her to confront the reality before her.
“How is your knee feeling?” he asked, wanting to divert her thoughts. She’d only been limping a little from the car to the inside of the house, but he knew the emergency room doctor had given her something for the pain before discharging her.
Her delicate shoulders rose once in a careless shrug and she took a deep breath. “It’s tolerable.”
Ky remembered how bruised it had looked when he’d seen her in the x-ray suite. It had already started turning deep purple and green, and he knew from experience the stiffness that accompanied the hurt would be worse in the morning.
“The ER doc gave you something to take with you for the pain, didn’t he?”
“I’d rather just ice it down. I hate taking pills.”
Because he did as well, Ky didn’t push the point. “Do you want to go upstairs and lie down for a while? You’ve had a pretty exhausting day.”
Gemma shook her head and when the fringe of her bangs swished across her smooth skin, Ky felt that sudden, increasingly familiar tightening in his midsection.
“I need to do some work,” she said. “I’ll rest later.”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
Gemma turned and, with care, walked to the stairs, her cameras slung across her shoulder. Ky watched her plod up the steps, her uninjured leg taking most of the weight. He knew her knee was sore, but instinct told him she would never admit it. Another thing he’d learnt about Gemma Laine since meeting her was she was a woman who would never show weakness. To do so was tantamount to an admission of frailty. And frailty was not a word in her vocabulary.
While she made her way up to