Or her perceptions were too skewed to see reality.
Whatever. One thing was for sure. She was going to stand up. Be strong.
She was going to be ready if Gabi needed her.
AT 1:22 A.M., Miss Sailor Harcourt, twenty-five-year-old heiress to a $2.3 billion fortune, texted him.
Sorry I’m keeping you so late.
His job didn’t entail a response to Sailor’s comment. He was being paid to keep her safe. Not happy.
When he heard his phone buzz again, every nerve in his body went on alert.
Something was going on. Sailor, who obviously found him a nuisance, usually ignored him.
The man I’m with doesn’t know I have a bodyguard. He doesn’t know I’m related to Rod Harcourt or that I’m rich enough to need protection.
He didn’t need a blow-by-blow of her evening. He’d prefer if she’d get her butt outside, into his car and let him take her home. He had to be back to get her in a matter of hours to take her to the airport.
He’s asked me out to breakfast. I’ve agreed to go.
The third text had him out of his car, gaze glued to the door of the club. And then, ready to move, he texted her back.
You ride with me.
No.
This isn’t my deal. You made the deal with your father. You go out only if I drive you. I’m just doing my job.
His fingers might be overly large, but they could text as fast as any kid’s. Came from a lot of hours on surveillance, sitting in his car with only his phone for company.
His phone buzzed again.
I know. I’m an adult. My father can’t make me get in a car with anyone. Or prevent me from doing so, either.
He can take away your allowance.
This wasn’t Elliott’s first time chaperoning the spoiled heiress.
I’m twenty-five. I have access to my trust. And I’m a working girl now.
Daddy had hired her to manage the production of a fashion magazine he’d inherited in a buyout the previous fall. According to him she’d found her niche, but Elliott figured there were probably highly experienced professionals doing a lot of the work.
How many drinks have you had?
He didn’t expect an accurate account. But he needed to know how bad the situation was going to be.
None.
It was going to be bad.
I’m a working stiff who needs to get paid for this job. Please come out and get in the car.
Even drunk she’d know he meant business.
He felt for the revolver he was wearing under his black sweater. And another text came through.
I understand what you think you’re dealing with here. I admit on other occasions I’ve given you reason to treat me like a recalcitrant child. But I’m different now, Elliott. I’ve found my own purpose in life, separate and apart from my father. I’ve also, just tonight, met a man who has somehow enticed me to spend the entire night sitting in a corner talking. We didn’t drink. Didn’t dance. Just talked. And now he’s invited me out for breakfast. I intend to go with him.
Even someone who texted as a primary means of communication shouldn’t be able to string that many letters together, that quickly, on a QWERTY keyboard, without a single mistake. Most particularly if they’d been drinking.
Could she be telling the truth? She’d met someone without trying to impress him with Daddy’s money? And hadn’t had a thing to drink?
Before he formulated a response, she’d sent him another text.
You can follow if you’d like. I’m an adult. Legally, you can’t force me into that car with you.
She was right. He had several certifications and licenses, but not one of them allowed him to get away with kidnapping.
So he’d follow. Glue himself to them. And make certain that he didn’t let the two of them get out of his sight.
But first...
I’ll make a deal with you. He typed fast. Not wanting her to think he’d given in. You sit tight long enough for me to check his credentials and then I’ll concede to following you on your breakfast date.
He expected argument. Was prepared to enter the club, show his identification and get his charge out of there.
Deal. His name is Terrence Metcalf. He says he’s a yacht designer, Sailor replied.
And Elliott didn’t like it one bit.
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER, after Elliott had sent the okay, Ms. Sailor Harcourt burst out the front door of the well-known, upscale club she’d been in since 10:00 p.m., her bare arm entwined with the suited arm of a man Elliott had never heard of before that night. Not in the dossier he’d been handed by the woman’s wealthy father—a respected client who’d been on Elliott’s roster for four years—nor in any research he’d done on his own in preparation for Miss Harcourt’s impending visit to Denver.
But he’d run the man on his member-only people-finder database. And had seen plenty. From charity contributor, to the Better Business Bureau. The man was clean. And who he said he was.
His vehicle was running and he was standing outside it, just in case Ms. Harcourt sent him any kind of signal that she’d changed her mind. His eye was on the man still attached to Sailor’s arm. He was of average height. Slender. Clean-cut. The spitting image of the man Elliott had just pulled up on his tablet. Elliott could take him with two fingers. Not that he wanted to hurt anyone. Ever.
When Ms. Harcourt didn’t even so much as glance his way, Elliott slid quietly behind the wheel of his car. His clothes were dark. His hair was dark. As long as he stayed behind the wheel, he’d blend in. Remain anonymous. And see Ms. Harcourt safely to her plane a few hours hence.
But he wouldn’t hesitate to put someone’s lights out if he had to do so to keep his charge safe.
* * *
MARIE WATCHED FOR Elliott all day Sunday. Though things had calmed down a lot since George Costas, Liam’s father’s attorney, had been formally indicted for fraud, Liam was still paying Elliott to keep an eye on things around the apartment building. He’d also permanently hired the security team Elliott had brought in to man the private residence entrance in the back of the building.
“You can leave that. I’ll get it,” she said to Sam, a twenty-four-year-old single father who was in his third year of a business degree program and also one of her full-time employees. He worked weekends to make up for the two days of classes he took during the week, and did the rest of his studies online or in the evening, while his mother watched his two-year-old son. “You said your mom had to leave for the funeral at three.”
“I’m off at two,” he said, continuing to restock under the cupboard supplies from the back room. A chore he did every afternoon that he worked. “I’ll make it in time.”
Sam lived with his mother in an apartment a few streets over. “Go now,” she said, motioning him toward the door. “I’ve got this.”
They’d had their Sunday morning rush. It was past noon and the only people in the shop—three tables’ worth—were sitting with computers. She’d finished the weekly orders. Grace had handled the baking. The walk-in was filled with the veggies she’d need to make sandwiches in the morning.
“If