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 you’re sure,” Sam said, untying his Arapahoe apron with a frown. “I just don’t want to leave you in the lurch.”
Sam was a nice guy. The woman who’d left him and their newborn to go to New York to be a dancer was a fool. Smiling, she shooed him out.
She wanted him gone in case Elliott came in. She had to set the bodyguard straight. To apologize for unloading on him the day before. What had she been hoping? That he’d betray his client and give her a rundown on everything he knew about Liam? Like she didn’t already know far more than Elliott would ever know about the man who’d been one of her two best friends for more than a decade—since she and Gabi had lived next door to him their freshman year in college.
Liam wouldn’t purposely or knowingly hurt Gabi. Or her, either.
The door rattled and she looked up to see...not Elliott. A young woman, dressed in leggings and a spandex top with expensive-looking running shoes, wanted a cappuccino with peppermint spice. Drink made and money collected, Marie watched the woman out the door and couldn’t help glancing up and down the sidewalk. No Elliott.
She didn’t see him every day. Or ever know what time he’d show up if he did. He had other clients and was a private investigator as well as a bodyguard—a private security expert, he’d once told her. And it wasn’t as if he was working for her. Liam was the one getting threats.
Liam’s dad, Walter Connelly, had had a bodyguard on staff for years. When you worked in high finance, you made a few enemies.
And when your company stole millions of dollars from investors, even if you didn’t know it was happening, people still blamed you. Still, there hadn’t really been much danger around the Arapahoe. Early on, Liam’s car had been vandalized—but not when he was home. He and Gabi had been in-line skating late one night and Liam’s car had been the only one left in the park’s lot.
After that they’d received a total of three anonymous notes: one left at the coffee shop shortly after the car incident and two others slid under the door since the first of March—when Liam’s first installment of a series he was writing about his father’s life was published. Both of those notes had arrived during the night when the shop was closed, proclaiming that Liam would get what was coming to him. All three notes had been addressed to Liam. Not Gabi or Marie.
When Liam’s car had been painted with graffiti just after news of the Ponzi scheme at Connelly had hit, Elliott came to them as a recommendation from Walter’s bodyguard. Elliott had been to school for both guarding bodies and investigating. Was certified and licensed in both fields.
From the beginning Marie had felt safe with him.
A mild feat considering her ready propensity for mistrusting the male species.
But she didn’t really know that much about him. He couldn’t talk about his work—clients’ business was private, and there was a code of ethics he was sworn to follow or risk losing not only his good reputation but his license to practice. He had an aunt and cousin in California somewhere. His parents had been killed in a small plane crash when he was a toddler.
She
