Chapter 11
I Like Me Better
Caleb
THE BUILDING LOOKS like one of those museum cases used to display royal jewels and shit like that.
Even with sunglasses on, I have to raise my hand to the wall of glass to shade my eyes and stop from squinting.
Just to be certain I’m in the right place, I read the address again, “700 Front Street,” and then look down at the piece of paper in my other hand. Yeah, I’m in the right place, and it’s anything but demure, that’s for sure.
It’s not the same location I was ordered to last night at five. Yet, it still breathes money from every corner, just like his estate.
The ultra-modern designed building speaks volumes as to the extravagant lifestyles it accommodates—six floors and six residents. A lot of building for so few. Pretentious, self-righteous, spoiled, arrogant—these are just a few words to describe what stands in front of me.
Presuming this is going to be a cakewalk, I drive under the covered space that serves as the ground floor of the complex. It houses at least twelve private garages, and aside from the entourage of black SUV’s and my shit box Jeep, there isn’t a car in sight.
One of the six security detail muscle-heads, wearing a black suit and earpiece, appears to be waiting for me.
Getting out of my car, I approach him, surveying my surroundings as I do. I take notice of the staircase next to the elevator and look around for other means to get in and out of the residences. I don’t note any.
When I hit the platform, the muscle-head looks me over. “Mr. Cruz is waiting for you upstairs, and he doesn’t like to wait.”
I glance at my watch. It’s eight fifty-seven. “I’m not late.”
Ignoring me, he hits the up button and within moments the elevator door opens. “Next time, be here early,” he grunts.
“Will do,” I tell him, because I’m easy going that way.
I pass by him and hit six. Last night I was informed that Cruz’s mistress lives on the top floor of the building.
When the car stops and the door opens again, I’m immediately greeted by the remaining five security detail goons. They are all standing guard outside the door to her condominium, and they look like they’re ready to draw their weapons.
Just as I pass by them, the glossy, white door swings open and Cruz stands in the entryway. His dark suit, tie, and expensive shoes don’t take away from the fact that he is dirt. He glances at his designer watch and then at the guy who I know leads the team. Smith looks at his own watch and nods.
I guess I’m on time.
Lucky me.
“Mr. Holt,” Cruz states as he moves to the side. “Come in and let me introduce you to Miss Heart.”
“Mr. Cruz,” I acknowledge and follow him inside to a very sterile-looking apartment.
He puts a hand out, stopping me. “Stay here,” Cruz orders.
I stand in the foyer and watch Smith step in. He’s quiet as he closes the door and takes his place right beside me. He’s on guard. I’m not sure what the hell I am.
Turning back and coming right up to me, Cruz exhales a worried breath and says, “Before I bring Gemma out here, I want you to know I received another threatening letter late last night. Until we track down the sender, I don’t want her out of your sight when she leaves here. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” I tell him. “Can I see the notes you’ve been receiving?”
His eyes narrow. “I’ve already told you they are threats. That’s all you need to know.”
“It’s just—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
“Will there be a problem doing what I’ve asked?” he dares.
I have to remember who I am right now. That I am his employee, not an agent. “No problem, sir. I understand completely what is required.”
“Good. Gemma is very precious to me and if anything happens to her . . . well, just make sure nothing does.”
“Sir, I’m good at my job. That’s why you hired me.”
He nods and a slight frown crosses his lips, as if he’s having second thoughts, but then he hands me a piece of paper. “This is where you are to take her today.”
I glance at the address and before I can ask him the name of the location, he disappears down the hallway.
The condominium is immaculate. So much so that the large space looks unlived in.
The furniture is modern and sparse. A large, crisp-white leather sofa centers the room and floor-to-ceiling windows line the entire outer wall, allowing an abundance of light in.
It’s like a blank canvas except for a painting above the fireplace and another of a café in Paris above the dining room table. Drawn toward the one of Paris, I walk in that direction. When I’m close enough, I read the sign painted on the building, “Les Deux Magots.”
I think I’ve been there. Before all of this. Before my life became taking down the cartel.
The piece is unsigned and I find that odd since Cruz is a huge art collector. He only buys signature pieces on the dark web. I’ve tracked so many of them, I’ve lost count. Still, none of them are in sight.
I stare at the artwork some more.
The colors are vibrant.
The feelings it evokes are joyful.
Still, something about it makes me shiver. The way it’s painted, perhaps. Not precise but yet nonetheless perfect. Like it’s a saving grace. A place that will make everything right.
Pulling my gaze from it, I glance outside. The windows are uncovered, and therefore a safety hazard. I make a mental note to discuss this at a later time with Smith.
I hear something. Cruz is raising his voice. He’s clearly not happy, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
While I wait for him, I continue scanning the area for security risks. But instead, what I note is the lack of any personality to the space. Everything is white, white, white.
Sterile.
It’s a bit strange.
A few minutes pass and I decide to use my time assessing my surroundings—how many steps to the door, how many windows there are, where the two hallways might lead. Over by the windows, I estimate how many yards it is to the beach. Then there’s the foliage to the right that provides opportunity for cover. It needs to be trimmed.
My mind is in a myriad state of calculations, escape routes, and back-up plans when I hear heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
I take a deep breath and swivel toward the hallway from the expansive bank of windows I’m anchored at and prepare to meet my next assignment.
I’ve already had a really shitty day and having to babysit this hidden away little sex kitten is not what I really want to be doing with my time. However, I remind myself, it’s a means to an end. I also have a need to validate the threat against her that Cruz has presented—make sure he’s on the up and up and that he’s not on to me, to us.
Cruz enters the room and the woman who will be my detail follows slowly behind him. When she comes into view, she’s nothing like I’ve been envisioning.
Standing in front of me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s definitely not the young plaything I imagined Cruz would have tucked away.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s not old by any means. Probably not even my age—somewhere around twenty-six or twenty-seven would be my guess. Yet, for some reason, I had been envisioning a floosy-like girl in her early twenties. This woman looks more like a wife than a mistress.
Although they shouldn’t, I can’t stop my eyes from subtly sweeping over her, scoring every detail of her into my mind—skin white and smooth like fine china, hair toffee-colored and bouncy, hanging past her shoulders, a body that is very fit, and clothing which is polished and sophisticated looking.
I can’t shake the oddest feeling of déjà vu. I know this woman. I try my hardest to place where I’ve seen her. Is she an actress hired to fill a role? No, I don’t watch enough television that I’d recognize someone like that.
A person who worked in his office building, perhaps? No, I worked security there for two months though, and I’d remember her.
I rack my brain, mentally sifting through cases to remember where I might have seen her before, hoping it wasn’t in an agent capacity.
My mind begins to catalog my past encounters, where we might have met, when we met, how we met.
Did I arrest her?
Interrogate her?
Fuck her?
No.
No.
And no, I’d definitely remember that.
Then she removes her oversized sunglasses and the world falls from beneath my feet the moment my gaze lands on those big brown eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I do know this woman.
She saved my fucking life. I hope she doesn’t remember because one against six doesn’t account for good odds.
I’m a fucking dead man.
As soon as she averts her gaze, a look of terror seems to wash over her, and I know she remembers. Yet, she says nothing.
Either this woman is afraid of me or I’m wrong and she doesn’t remember me at all. In fact, she’s so collected, I feel like a pussy that’s pissing his own pants. Other than her jaw dropping, she remains calm, cool, and composed. Still, she refuses to look directly at me.
I don’t have this problem and keep my eyes trained on her, waiting for the bomb to drop.
Nothing.
Cruz’s voice booms, and without looking at her, he says, “Gemma Heart, this is Caleb Holt. He will be accompanying you anytime you need to leave here. No exceptions.”
Getting ready to extend my hand, I walk toward the center of the room and so do the two of them. The intention is to meet in the middle. Neutral ground or a standoff, I don’t have a fucking clue. It could be my death march for all I know.
She takes her time, walking slower than him, almost behind Cruz. It occurs to me she’s shielding herself.
What the fuck is she worried about? I’m the one whose cover is about to be blown.
Once she meets up with me, her gaze finally lands on mine and our eyes meet for what we both know isn’t the first time.
Recognition flashes in her pupils.
I know she remembers me and sweat coats my brow.
Shit, is she going to blow me in? Am I burned before I even get started on this job? If so, I might need a body bag to get out of here.
“Gemma,” Cruz warns, his tone harsh.
She bristles but quickly recovers. I notice a blankness cross her face as she lifts her hand. It’s a mask. “Nice to meet you,” she politely says to me. She doesn’t call me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m in the clear.
“Gemma.” I dip my chin, shaking her hand, getting into the role as her security detail, her bodyguard.
“You’ll refer to her as Miss Heart,” Cruz scolds me.
“My apologies. Miss Heart,” I correct myself.
Smith clears his throat from behind me. “Sir, we should be heading to the airport. The plane is fueled and waiting.”
I take note of Cruz’s upcoming trip. My team has no information on his plans to leave the area. Somehow, we missed that. I missed that. I knew I shouldn’t have gone away for five days.
“Yes, now that this business is settled, I’m ready,” Cruz responds. He gives me a nod, and once I nod back, he vacates the condominium without another word, not a goodbye to his mistress, not a kiss on her lips, not even a glance her way. I’m left stupefied by the interaction, or lack thereof.
Not that I understand relationships, but I know enough to realize they don’t work like that, illicit or not.
Once the door closes behind him, she moves toward the kitchen, and I watch her.
Curious about so many things, I’m drawn to this woman—to the complexities that seem to be playing out before me.
She knows me but doesn’t acknowledge that she does.
Cruz seems distant and cold.
She seems indifferent.
Yet, he’s hiring someone, me, to keep her safe. Again, I begin to wonder if this is a set-up. If my team didn’t know about a mistress because there never was one.
Is she a fake, and does Cruz know about everything?
There’s only way to figure it out. I decide to straight up ask her if this is a set-up and then gauge her reaction. After all, if it is true, my best chances of survival will be getting the hell out of here before the six-man team storms in, even if it means crashing through the big, glass window six floors up.
I open my mouth to toss the question out there, but when I find her staring at me with big, worried eyes, I shut the hell up.
She’s not going to blow me in—I can see the terror in her pupils.
Putting our previous meeting on the table might not be the best move right now. I’ll keep it tucked away in my pocket until I figure out her angle.
Gemma smoothes her tight skirt and then grabs a black clutch off the counter. “I’m ready to leave,” she dictates and heads for the door.
Blinking, I realize she’s going to be giving me orders, and I’m not at all liking it.
The keys are on the table and she grabs them. Like a dumbass, I remain standing where I am. When I don’t move, she glares at me. “Are you coming or staying here? Either way, I don’t really care.”
Okay, we’re going to play it that way, are we? “Miss Heart, you know you can’t leave here without me,” I answer dryly, a little more than peeved at her arrogance.
“What I know is that I am going to Santa Monica,” she informs me and walks out the door, leaving it open.
In a blast, I rush across the room, but the wind slams the door shut in my face. Fuck! After jerking it open, I hightail after her, making sure to lock the door behind me.
Gemma doesn’t stop at the elevator, opting for the staircase instead. She moves swiftly and opens the door at the bottom, once again letting it slam in my face.
That’s enough of that.
Running, I catch up with her and gently take ahold of her arm. When I do, a strange feeling runs through me. I don’t like it.
She stops, glares up at me, and is quiet for a few moments before yanking her arm away and seething, “Don’t touch me.”
Remembering right now I’m not an agent of the law, I have to pull myself into my role. I tighten my lips because Caleb Holt, the man, would tell this lady what a bitch she is being. Sucking in a breath, I remind myself that I work for her. Eye on the prize. “Please give me the keys, Miss Heart.”
Glancing down, she looks at the keys in her hand. “Call me Gemma, and I’ll be driving.”
I stifle a sigh of exasperation. “No you won’t, Miss Heart. I will.”
Her eyes go wide and she stares at me in disbelief. “I don’t want you to call me that.”
Ignoring her, I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
With a huff, she drops them in my palm. I grin and toss them in the air in victory. Childish, I know.
Rolling her eyes, she turns on her heels, stomping out of the garage with me on her tail.
“Which garage is yours?”
“I’m parked next door,” she informs me matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
She turns to look at me. “Not that you’re here for me to answer to, but someone was parked in front of my garage yesterday, so I parked elsewhere and forgot to move it back.”
Looking around at the wide-open space, I can’t help but wonder why. Even if what she is saying is the truth, there are a number of other spots here to park in.
She’s lying. I have no doubt.
The question is, why?
Why lie?
Why park next door?
Something is off.
Keeping it in the back of my mind, I follow her to the neighboring complex—a much busier one than hers.
She comes to a stop at a white Range Rover Sport and crosses her arms, waiting. Ignoring her behavior, I click the unlock button on the key fob. Without waiting for me to open her door, she climbs in the back seat of the passenger side.
I’m not sure what the attitude is for, but she better lose it quickly because it’s fucking annoying.
I hop in behind the wheel and program the address Cruz handed me into the Rover’s GPS system. Once I’m done, I turn to ask where exactly we’re going but I shut up because her eyes are closed. She did look tired, more than tired, actually, and I decide to let her rest.
Twisting back around, I follow the directions being cited to me. As I drive, I steal a glance at her in the mirror every once in a while. Her eyes remain closed and so does my mouth.
With each passing sign signaling, “Santa Monica,” I can’t help but wonder what exactly her deal is.
Who is she?
If she’s with him, why didn’t she blow me in all those years ago?
Why does he treat her like she’s his possession?
What she’s doing with him?
And most of all . . . what she’s doing to me?