Page 71 of Sawyer
“Your client,” Riggs says, “also asked specifically forme.” He glares like it’s a trap. “And I don’t do glitter tours.”
“Which client?” I ask, already suspecting.
Rae spins, grin feral. “Vanessa.”
The name hits like a thrown match in dry brush. I school my mouth. “Ah.”
Riggs scowls harder. “She’s chaos in heels.”
“You are a human lock,” I say. “Could be a match made in safe-cracking.”
Dean slides a file across the desk. “Someone’s been sending her organization’s inbox some creative threats. Mostly noise, one or two notes that got the ADA’s attention—timing, insider details about her stops. She’s moving a lot of money and attention; that attracts moths and wolves. She trusts us. She trusts you.”
“I can protect her,” Riggs says, “but I won’t babysit a publicity circus.”
“Protecting her is the job,” Dean says. “Paparazzi are weather. Work around it.”
Riggs stares at the carpet like he might chew it. “She talks. A lot.”
Rae snorts. “So do you. Usually in three-word sentences.”
I rest a hip on Dean’s desk. “What’s the real rub, brother?”
Riggs meets my eyes. For a second the grizzly flickers and I see the man who held the line with me in places where maps ran out. “She makes fun of me,” he admits. “And I… don’t hate it.”
“Translation,” Rae says, “he likes the sunshine but refuses to admit he needs SPF.”
Dean slaps the file once. “Flight tomorrow. Your advance pack is done. We already pinged local PDs and did venue sweeps. You’ll be primary. Rae’s your remote. Don’t make me regret splitting you two again.”
Riggs takes the folder like it weighs a hundred pounds and a feather. “If she calls me Beard-Mountain in public, I’m going to?—”
“—smile,” I say, “and move her three inches left to give the camera a better line of sight.”
“Go away,” he mutters.
I clap his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
“Tell that to my blood pressure.” But when he turns, I catch the reluctant spark. The big man likes a challenge. He always has.
As if conjured by complaint, the office door bangs open and Vanessa breezes in trailing citrus perfume and a storm of scarves.
“There he is!” she says, pointing at Riggs as if selecting a prize on a game show. “My favorite monolith. Ready to live on planes and eat mini-pretzels while glaring at millionaires?”
“No,” Riggs says, deadpan.
She beams. “Perfect.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. Rae bites her knuckle. I press my lips together to keep from grinning.
Vanessa spots me, kisses my cheek, then plants a more decorous one on Dean’s airspace out of respect for rank. “Cam says you’re bringing dessert tonight to celebrate my imminent martyrdom.”
“Croissants,” I say. “And earplugs for Riggs.”
“I don’t need earplugs,” Riggs rumbles.
She pats his biceps. “You will.”
They square off for a heartbeat—her spark to his flint—and then, like a physics trick, both edges soften by a degree. Dean meets my eyes over their heads:see?I nod:Oh, I see.
