Two years later…
Hurrying down the New York City sidewalk toward my daily coffee destination, I mentally recite what has become my morning mantra since my uncle’s death: I’m not ready. I will always have a weakness, or two or ten, that I must know and battle every single moment of every day. I will never get overly confident.
I believe those words. I will never stop believing them or living with the constant need to improve myself. Exactly why I was in karate class until late last night, despite the need to finish online homework for a medical pathology class when I got home. And despite the fact that I knew today was Valentine’s Day, because while yes, it’s the day of love and romance, there’s a fine line between love and hate, which makes it a busy day in homicide. It’s also the last day to get my favorite kind of love: the heart-shaped sugar cookies my favorite coffee shop sells, with little droplets of chocolate icing on top.
Reaching the coffeehouse, I open the door and enter the quaint little place with bookshelves filled with books and baubles on the walls, to find the line eight deep, but I am not deterred. I really need my caffeinated cup of “ready” and my dose of sugar love. Besides, I’m excused from the morning briefing since I’m celebrating a fresh arrest on my last case, and there is wrap-up I’m to attend.
The line moves quickly and I reach the halfway mark when Bethany, the sweet young college girl studying criminal justice at the counter, waves at me. “I got you,” she calls out, lifting a cup and pointing at the case of food. “Cookie?”
“Yes please,” I call out, my stomach growling with the very idea of that cookie, but then, I can’t seem to remember what I ate for dinner. Oh yes, I can. A cherry pop tart, which means I really need to eat something for lunch that isn’t sugar and caffeine.
I move two spots up the line when my cellphone rings. Digging it from my fold-over briefcase, I eye the caller ID to find my father’s number. Frowning, I answer the line. “Aren’t you on some European trip?”
“I took a private jet back early this morning. I need to see you.”
The strain and urgency in his tone straightens my spine. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s talk in person,” he says, dodging the question again.
“In other words,” I say, “there’s something wrong.”
“I’m in my office. Can you meet me there?”
“Now?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “Now.”
The emphasis on the word “now” is all I need to hear. “I’ll be there.” I disconnect the call, with three people still ahead of me before I reach the counter. Too worried about my father to worry about cookies and coffee, I step out of the line and walk to the counter. “Excuse me,” I say to the man at the counter before glancing at Bethany. “I have to run,” I say. “Charge my account.” I don’t wait for a reply, turning away and heading toward the door.
Once I’ve exited to the street, I glance at my watch to confirm the early eight am hour, with only one other thing in my mind: my father is either in the middle of some sort of legal issue or he’s sick. He’s not sick. I reject that as an option. He’s only fifty-five and in tip-top shape. That means he needs my professional expertise, which is only mildly comforting, considering my expertise is murder.
Since I’m only four blocks from my father’s office, I take off on foot, and in barely ten minutes, I’m claiming a spot in a packed elevator in his building, and counting every floor that passes. Once the car arrives at the corporate level, I exit and hang a right to the open doors of the lobby.
Kendra, a sweetheart of a receptionist, sits behind the fancy, white built-in desk that reads “Carpenter” across the front in the same gray as the carpet. “He’s waiting on you,” she says as her phone rings.
“Thank you,” I mouth as she answers her call, and walk around the wall behind her to the executive offices. Hurrying down a hallway, it’s not long before I’m in yet another lobby, where Shelly, my father’s secretary, who is probably as gray as him, but colors her hair blonde instead, sits behind a heavy mahogany desk. “Hey sweetheart,” she greets, because she’s been with my father his entire career, which means she’s known me since before the police force made me not-so-sweet. “He’s waiting on you.”
“Thanks,” I say, ignoring the seating area to the left to head right where double doors are now closed. I open one of them and step inside.
My father and the man sitting in front of his desk stand up. My father is my first focus and I find him to be his impeccable self. His suit is blue with a pinstripe and pressed to perfection. His brownish gray hair wavy, thick, and neatly styled. His jaw clean shaven. “Come in, honey,” he says. “Meet Royce Walker of Walker Security.”
It’s then that I size up the tall, dark, and good-looking stranger with him, who is also impeccably dressed. His suit is gray. His shoulders wide. His hair long enough to be tied at his nape. His features hard and handsome. “Nice to meet you, Detective Carpenter,” Royce says, extending his hand.
I step to the visitor seat opposite him and accept his hand for a quick, firm connection that ends with me folding my arms in front of me. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking between them.
“Let’s sit,” my father says.
I want to stand, but doing the opposite of what you want to do requires the kind of discipline that catches criminals, which is why I sit. Once I’m firmly planted in my seat, my father and Royce follow. They share a look, and when it lasts too long, I focus on my father. “What is going on?”
“I’m navigating a merger for the company with a competitor. Tensions are high. Protests have been frequent. Royce’s company is taking over the security for the company, and for that reason, I felt you should get to know him. His firm is highly respected. In fact, they’re impressively in charge of every positive change to airport security in the past three years.”
“It’s a constant battle to get the right people to listen,” Royce comments, “and a battle we fight daily. Additionally,” he adds, “I’m a former FBI agent and my entire team is made up of highly skilled, highly educated individuals. My youngest brother is ex-ATF and married to a former FBI agent. My middle brother is a former member of SEAL Team Six.”
“You’re making your case to me,” I say, and then look at my father. “You’re making his case to me and you don’t justify your actions ever. Translation: You deal with threats all the time, but there’s a new one and this one is different. You hired Walker Security for personal protection.”
“Yes,” my father confirms. “I did.”
The firmness of his voice, the lack of inflection, tells a story. This is serious. “Have you contacted the police?”
“I felt I should talk to you before I made that particular call,” he states. “The threat is against you, Jewel.”
I blanch, but recover quickly. I get threats. It’s part of my job. “What kind of threat?”
“There are a series of notes that fixate on you as the target,” he replies.
“Can I see them?”
“They’re with my team,” Royce states. “I wasn’t expecting your father or this impromptu meeting this morning, or I would have brought them to you.”
“An explanation that indicates knowledge of the notes for an extended period of time,” I comment. “How long?”
“Four days,” Royce replies.
I look between him and my father. “We’ll circle back to that timeline. The general tone of these notes is what?”
My father responds. “One example that sticks out: She’s a chip off the old block, so it has to be her.”
“You’ve gotten letters before,” I say. “Why are these different?”
“I’ve never gotten letters focused on you,” my father states. “That’s what’s different.”
“I’m a detective,” I say. “I’m sure this fool knows that. Don’t let them get to you.”
“We aren’t simply dismissing this,” my father replies, dismissing my statement instead. “Royce is putting a man on you.”
“His name is Jacob King,” Royce adds. “He’s one of our best and—”
“No,” I say in instant rejection. “I do not need a man on me.” I laugh without humor. “Believe me, I really do not need a man at all. Have him protect my father.”
My father leans forward, jabbing a finger at the desk. “You will do this,” he orders. “You will take this protection.”
My lips thin with his tone, which takes me back two years, to his demand that I quit my job. It had taken me two weeks to calm him down then, but I try to reason with him now anyway. “I have a job to do. I can’t babysit a security guard. It could put lives in danger.”
The intercom buzzes. “Jacob is here,” Shelly announces.
“Meet him,” my father says.
“He’s one of our best,” Royce reiterates. “He’s quiet. He doesn’t interject himself into conversation or activity unless it’s critical, which is why I felt he was a good match for you.”
“I’m a detective,” I say. “I’m surrounded by detectives and members of law enforcement. I’m safe.”
“You’re surrounded by people who have jobs to do that don’t include protecting you,” my father says.
“Actually,” I argue, “we all protect each other.”
“Just meet him,” my father presses, his tone and body language dogmatic, his fear for me palpable. “What harm is there in meeting him?”
“Fine,” I concede, certain he will have no peace until I agree, no matter how illogical his request. “I’ll meet him.”
My father wastes no time hitting the buzzer. “Send him in,” he orders, standing up with myself and Royce following. “Work it out with him,” my father urges. “Do this for me. Please.”
The deep burn in his voice, and the look of desperation in his eyes, which I haven’t seen since right after my uncle died, is what guts me. “Fine. I’ll figure it out with him.”
“He can shadow you,” Royce suggests. “You’ll never know he’s there.”
I whirl on him. “Of course, I’ll know he’s there,” I say, “and it’ll distract me from my work.”
“You won’t know he’s there,” Royce repeats as the door behind me opens.
“I’ll know he’s there,” I insist, turning to find a GI Joe version of Royce Walker with short military-style brown hair. He’s also sporting an abundance of brawny muscles which are impossible to miss considering he’s wearing a snug black T-shirt and jeans that hug every single damn inch of him. Not know he’s shadowing me? Seriously? How can any woman not know this man is shadowing her?
He lifts his hands to indicate the coffee and bag he’s holding. “White mocha and sugar cookies. You left your order back at the coffee shop.”
Realization hits me, and I do an angry, slow rotation to face Royce. “You had him following me this morning?”
“For the past four days,” my father says. “I didn’t want to tell you any of this on the phone and I flew back the minute I got a break in Europe which came last night, right along with another threat.”
My jaw goes slack and I look at my father. “Four days?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “Because I love you. And I need you to make this work for me.”
My cellphone buzzes with a message and I grab it from my bag, to find my boss asking for my presence. I stick my phone back in my bag. “I have to go.”
“And you’ll do this for me?” my father asks.
He is rarely unreasonable, but when he is, it’s usually about me and my safety. He’s fucked up over the loss of people he loves, and I get it. I am, too. I hang photos of dead people around my house. And so, I give him peace of mind. “I’ll work it out with Jacob,” I say, but I don’t leave room for more questions or clarification. I turn away and walk straight for Jacob, but I don’t stop. He reads the message to back up and he does just that. He backs up and allows my departure, and damn it, he smells way better than I want him to smell. Why am I even noticing how he smells?
Frustrated, I don’t wait on him. I make my way back to the main lobby and then the elevators. I feel him at my back, pressing forward, all macho alpha expectancy, but then, I’m used to his kind. Mr. Thinks-He-Can-Save-The-World-Better-Than-Anyone-Else and look better than most doing it.
I punch the call button to the elevator and the doors open. Wasting no time, I enter the car, and when Jacob, predictably at this point, joins me inside I hit the lobby button. After all, he can’t. His hands are filled with my coffee and cookie, which he got after I left the coffeeshop. And I didn’t know he was there. That idea burns inside me and the minute we’re sealed inside alone, we face each other, and if he expects me to fade to the other side of the small space, I do not. I step up to him. “You followed a detective?” I demand.
“Yes,” he says, offering no apology or explanation, his expression hard, unreadable.
“That’s what I call illegal in about ten ways I can recite if needed to, starting with stalking. Do it again and I will have you arrested.”
“I take it that this means that you have no intention of keeping your promise to your father back there?”
Promise.
I want to hit him for using that word.
“I said I’d work it out with you and I am. You get a free ride. Say you’re with me and then go to the gym and pump up your already pumped-up muscles some more. Or go see a movie. Just go do it all without me.” The elevator stops, and I step away from him as several people join us. He doesn’t let me get away though. He moves in my direction, and before I know it, his shoulder is pressed to my shoulder. Damn it, I’m oddly, intensely aware of this man. Okay, it’s not odd. He’s gorgeous and big and I managed to have this specimen of man follow me and I never saw him. My uncle’s voice plays in my head: You’re not ready yet.
Damn it, I’m so obviously not ready.
Then the doors open. I exit and leave him behind again, only he’s still on my heels. I am midway across the lobby and I stop to find him right behind me. “Stop following me,” I say.
“I was a Green Beret.”
“And?”
“And I’m not what any detective expects. I could fuck you and make you beg for more and then have you beg me to kill you afterward. That’s how good we are.”
“Did you really just say that with a straight face?” I challenge.
“I got your attention,” he states. “And that’s what I was after to make a point. I’m not what you’re used to knowing. That’s why you didn’t know I was following you. And we both know that’s why you’re upset right now.”
He’s arrogant. And worse, he’s right. That is what’s bothering me. And now, I really am pissed off at him or me. Or both of us. I take the coffee and bag from him and when our hands touch, heat darts up my arm. I’m definitely pissed at him. “If I was any other woman,” I say, “your arrogant good looks, along with this coffee and cookie might make my panties wet. But I’m not any other woman. I’m not what you’re used to knowing. Goodbye, Jacob ‘Green Beret’ King.”
I turn and leave. A few steps into my departure, I know that he isn’t on my heels, but that means nothing. There’s no question in my mind that I haven’t seen the last of Jacob King.