Page 3 of Crossing the Line
“Apparently not.”
“Hey, kid. I’ll give you a thousand bucks for your camera. Gotta get this bitch doing first aid,” Douchebag Joe said, reaching a road-rashed arm toward the other photographer.
“Bet you can’t guess how he got his nickname,” the guy said, ignoring Joe’s charming proposal.
“What’s your name?” Waverly asked.
“Arnold. Arnie,” he corrected himself, kicking at the bike’s front fender.
“Arnie, if I have to take my pick between you and Douchebag Joe here, it’s gonna be you. So if you can back your car down around the turn and leave the four ways on so oncoming traffic doesn’t turn us into a guardrail sandwich, you can take all the pictures you want.”
“Sweet,” Arnie said, perking up. “Make sure you smile pretty for the camera, Joe.”
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Xavier Saint held himself upright on the low, cloud-like sofa that was threatening to swallow him. His friend and partner, Micah Ross, shifted his rangy, six-foot five-inch frame next to him.
“I feel like we’re in a circus tent,” Micah muttered under his breath and Xavier smirked in agreement.
The butler, house manager, majordomo—whatever he was—had stoically led them into“Mrs. Sinner’s private sitting room”where they had been waiting amongst cream-colored leather, ivory cashmere throws, and dizzying wallpaper that glinted like gold in the late afternoon sun. The ceiling was draped with billowing fabric that gathered above a gilt chandelier decked out with about a thousand crystals.
It was nothing like the tents Xavier and Micah had grown used to. After a long stint in Afghanistan with Army intelligence, Xavier had been recruited by the Defense Clandestine Service. There he met Micah when they spent a week crouched in a frozen ditch watching for a particularly slippery Taliban leader in Tikrit.
Many missions later and Xavier and Micah were disillusioned alumni of the intelligence world with a wealth of security knowledge. They’d put that expertise to work on the West Coast with Invictus Security, a private security firm that provided military-grade protection to those who could afford their services.
Two years out, and Xavier was still getting used to Hollywood mansions and diamond-studded clients. Micah had transitioned to the management side of things, while Xavier continued to chase the adrenaline out in the field and train new personnel. They earned their astronomical fees by offering security services that ran the gamut from protecting high-level executives from kidnapping and ransom threats all the way down to Xavier’s personal nightmare, baby-sitting heiresses whose worst enemies were themselves.
Xavier had a feeling about this job. Through training and experience and well-honed instincts, his gut was practically clairvoyant. And his gut told him this job was trouble.
He glanced out the wall of windows that overlooked a freeform pool bigger than most waterparks and checked his watch. “I thought she said this was an emergency?”
Micah grunted non-commitally. The man’s patience knew no bounds at work or home, where a hobby-of-the-month wife and three daughters—each with his dark hair and bronze skin that spoke of their Colombian ancestors—waited for him nightly.
They’d been waiting for twenty-two minutes for the “emergency” that had required them to drop everything and fight their way through mid-day freeway traffic. Xavier didn’t trust people who threw around the word emergency.
“A delicate matter”that Sylvia Sinner hoped to discuss in person rather than over the phone.
Finally, one of the ornately carved French doors across the room opened. A woman he’d seen on screens large and small glided in. She was a tiny figure in a billowing kimono over what looked like a silk and lace nightgown. Her blonde hair was pinned up in an artful twist and her face glowed with painted on color and contour. It was four-thirty on a Wednesday, and the woman was lounging in a nighty and fake eyelashes.
His gut was never wrong.
“Gentlemen,” she said, floating across the Aubusson rug toward them holding a crystal glass in one hand. “Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. A meeting ran terribly late. Forgive me?” Her voice was a breathy sigh.
Judging from the slick look of her raspberry fingernails and the faint odor of acetone, Xavier was fairly certain what kind of “meeting” it had been.
She was on the early side of forty-five but could easily pass for younger. Even this close, Xavier couldn’t tell if it was good genes or the steady hands of a very talented plastic surgeon.
“Mrs. Sinner,” Micah said, extending his hand. “I’m Micah Ross, and this is Xavier Saint. We understand you have a delicate situation.”
Her laughter, light and airy, trilled through the room. She brought a hand to the swell of her breasts in a practiced flirtation. The woman was used to having an audience.
“Sinner and Saint,” she said, with a slow wink. “It can’t be a coincidence. And please, both of you call me Sylvia.”
Sylvia looked Xavier up and down appreciatively as she held out her hand knuckles up. He wasn’t about to start off a business relationship with a kiss. He firmly gripped her hand in both of his and shook.
She shot him a calculating look before offering her hand to Micah.
“Please sit,” she said, gesturing toward the couch they’d just pried themselves out of. Sylvia arranged herself on a wingback chair covered in stark white fabric. They sat and waited. The elicitation training Xavier had aced with the DCS served him well in business. The quieter they were, the chattier the clients became.
