Scandal in Seattle (4 page)

I shoved his chest, channeling my inner teenage diva. “Eww!” I curled my nose and gave him another shove when he leaned back in. “Get off of me!”

After the second shove, he stepped back. “Please. It’s a little late to play the innocent card. You’ve probably been with as many guys as I’ve been with girls.”

Hopping off of the stool, I marched over to the trench coat on the floor and slid back into it. “Maybe. But I’ve never been with a guy who wanted to exchange photographs for sex,” I said, cinching the coat belt tight.

He gave a lazy shrug like it really wasn’t a big deal at all.

I skimmed my eyes down him. “Or been with a guy old enough to be my dad.”

Yep, that right there was the greatest insult I could have thrown at him. I might as well have punched him between the legs from the way the wind rushed out of him. He didn’t say another word, probably because, in his current state, words were impossible.

I made my way for the door. Thankfully, getting out was much easier than getting in. As I marched down the hall toward the elevator, a smile settled into place. A genuine one. The Target was in just the right place. Exactly where I needed him to be. A man like Ian Hendrik needed to be beat down before I could build him back up—like husband like wife—and from that expression, he’d never hit rock bottom before I beat him down there.

I wanted to be done with Ian Hendrik. I wanted to wrap that one up quickly. Not only because he was a slimeball of a special quality, but because the sooner I finished with him, the sooner I could move on to the Errand I really wanted to be working.

The sooner revenge could be served with a side of merciless reciprocation.

I ALWAYS HATED the Errands where I posed as a teenager. For obvious reasons, of course, but also because it meant the car I raced around town in wasn’t the European, luxury make I was accustomed to. Seattle’s ride was a sporty Acura coupe. It was a zippy little thing, but it left a lot to be desired.

I’d barely made it two blocks from Ian’s studio when my G phone chimed. The woman had a sixth sense when it came to when her Eves could be reached.

“G’day, Sheila G,” I greeted in my best Down Under accent.

A sigh followed. “Are you ever going to answer the phone normally when I call?”

“I don’t know. Are you ever going to call to discuss normal things?” I smirked as I punched the gas at the on-ramp.

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, this is normal,” she replied.

The day I ever started feeling like what we said and did was “normal” was the day I handed in my resignation. No matter how little or much I had stashed in my accounts.

“To what do I owe the honor of a phone call only a couple days after an in-person visit?” If G was trying to micro-manage me after years of basically letting me run my own show, that wasn’t going to work. “I haven’t closed the Hendrik Errand if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s not why I’m calling, but since you brought it up, how is Mr. Hendrik?”

My mood darkened just thinking about him. “Let me put it this way—he’s the kind of man who makes me wish I’d been born with wiring that swung for the other team.”

G chuckled a few notes. “That applies to every Target we’ve ever worked, my dear.”

Words to live by . . .

“So what’s up?” I asked.

“Our Ten is what’s up.”

My heart stopped, then thudded back to life—and not in the romantic, lovey-dovey way. Pretty much the opposite of that. “Henry?” I bit my tongue and slapped my thigh, but I couldn’t take back that one word.

G was silent for a few moments, making me slap my thigh again. If I kept making that kind of elementary mistake, I would lose the Errand before I’d even gotten my butt to the Greet.

“Since when have you started calling a Target by his first name before you’ve even met him?”

Since never
was my immediate response. “Since we landed a Ten, and I’m in a bit of unchartered waters. I’m a wee bit excited.” I wondered if my answer sounded as fabricated as it felt. “So shoot me.”

“I just might if you make a mess of this one,” G replied, sounding every bit as patronizing as she could. “This is a big Errand, I get that. If you’re going to make some slips, just be sure they’re with me, not with Mr. Callahan. We can’t afford even one slip with the Target in an Errand this big.”

She wasn’t telling me anything I already didn’t know, so I stayed silent. My role in that Errand would be especially tricky because I wasn’t only deceiving the Target. I was also deceiving G.

G continued. “I just heard from the Client that Mr. Callahan’s business trip ended sooner than anticipated. His flight just landed.”

“Yes?”

“So guess which red-eye you’re taking late tonight?”

From one Errand straight into the next. If that kind of back-and-forth was to be expected, I’d need to be careful to keep my Errands straight. “The one from Seattle to San Francisco?”

“Your flight leaves in an hour,” she replied. “You’d better hustle.”

Instead of taking the exit I was planning on, I kept speeding down the freeway toward SEA-TAC. “Hustling.” I felt a fresh surge of adrenaline trickle into my veins. “What do you want me to do about the Hendrik Errand?” I wouldn’t have minded too much if she said to put it in the brain delete folder and forget about it, but that wasn’t our style. The Eves’ reputation hadn’t been built by bailing on Errands; it had been built by closing them out.

“Mr. Callahan is only stateside for a couple of days before flying out of the country on another business trip,” G replied. “Use these couple of days to study his routines, maybe even to stage the Greet if you think the timing’s right. You’re on the first plane back to Seattle once Mr. Ten gets on his.”

“Sounds like I’ll be racking up plenty of frequent flyer miles,” I joked, keeping in the sigh that wanted to be released. Back and forth, working multiple Errands simultaneously, exacting revenge on an ex-flame who happened to be a powerful, married billionaire . . . It was enough to make a girl want to curl up and hibernate.

“Fifty-eight minutes,” G said in a sing-song voice before the line went dead.

Normal conversation? Hell, I could have been appeased with a normal goodbye.

I’d cruised into SEA-TAC, parked the Acura, and was boarding flight 3910 to San Francisco fifty minutes later. I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back, my purse, and my briefcase. Clothes could be purchased; toiletries could be tracked down. But revenge . . . that couldn’t wait.

I slipped into an oddly peaceful sleep before the plane lifted from the runway.

I WAS RUNNING on two hours of sleep, and I had never felt more energized. Revenge was an odd thing—it could motivate a person like nothing else. It was my opinion that people who lacked motivation in life had a deficit of revenge. That wasn’t my problem, though. When it came to revenge, I had an abundant surplus.

G hadn’t only rented a swanky condo on the beach for me; there was a flashy red vintage Mustang parked outside of the condo. It was a convertible and mint. Plus, it was fast. I didn’t need to look under the hood to make sure. Some things were obvious.

Since it was almost sunrise by the time I’d showered and changed, I didn’t have time to familiarize myself with my sweet new pad. If I wanted to catch Henry alone, I knew just where to find him. The notes Mrs. Callahan had provided were helpful, sure, but Henry was a creature of habit. His morning runs on the beach were one of those habits.

Five years ago, those runs spanned the San Diego coastline. I’d joined him on plenty. Fast forward a few years and a few hundred miles of coastline to the north, and Henry Callahan and I were about to have a deja vu moment.

G might have preferred me to take a couple of days to stand off in the distance and observe Henry, but that was like commanding a tiger to sit and stay as a lamb trotted by. Nope, sitting on the sidelines for any amount of time on that Errand wasn’t happening.

After I slid inside of the Mustang, I turned the key in the ignition. I couldn’t help the smile that formed when the engine roared to life. I also couldn’t help stroking the dashboard affectionately. I’d seen some sweet cars in my life, but that one knocked the rest out of the water. It was only temporary, of course, and only selected because Henry’s file noted he was a fan of classic cars. But for the second, I would forget all of that and just enjoy the random happy moment. Those were the only joys I experienced anymore.

Once I’d shoved aside my one-sided love affair with the car, I pulled out of my parking space and headed north. The Callahans’ oceanfront mansion was about five miles up the coast in a part of town that looked like the sidewalks might have been paved with gold. If G ever wanted to land the Eves another Ten, all she had to do was patrol that stretch of Northern California coastline. I doubted anyone around there made less than Ten.

After cruising by the Callahans’ and the rest of the football stadium-sized mansions, I cruised a couple of miles north until I came to a public park. The parking lot was quiet except for several cars and one hippy Volkswagen van with a couple of surfboards on the roof.

The air was cool on my legs, making me glad I’d tossed on a tunic sweater. After marching a few hundred yards down the beach, I spread out my blanket and plopped down to enjoy the morning. Or to pretend to enjoy the morning. I wasn’t there for the morning sun—I was there to lure an ex-flame into my web.

How did I know Henry would make the first leg of his run north? Because he’d always started his beach runs heading north. He’d run a few miles north before turning around and heading back. He said going south always felt a bit more uphill, and he liked saving the hard part for last.

Saving the hard part for last was a novel concept to me. Life—and all its bits and pieces—had always seemed like the hard part to me. Except for that part. The revenge part.

That was just plain fun.

The waves had almost lulled me into a trance when a familiar figure jogging up the beach caught my attention. His mop of hair bounced with every other step, and while his gait was familiar, his pace had slowed. Even from a distance, I could see he’d grown slimmer. Henry had never been a muscled-out beefcake, but he’d been a far cry from lanky thin. So time hadn’t been kind to the young runner’s body of his I remembered. That should have made me overjoyed, but the first emotion I felt was something that tipped the sad scale.

The moment that registered, I gave myself a hard pinch on the arm and twisted. I should have followed it up with a slap to the face. I couldn’t believe I felt any kind of remorse for Henry Callahan.

I hoped that face that used to make me sigh and gasp—depending on its expression—had seen the same wear and tear his body had. The closer he got, however, revealed that his face was just as sigh-gasp-worthy as it had been when we’d first met.

Well, shit.

But I knew what was behind that face, what that person was capable of, and I wouldn’t fall for the easy-on-the-eyes facade again.

Just as I was about to rise and “casually” meander down the beach to stage our totally coincidental meeting, I noticed the equally familiar four-legged figure jogging by Henry’s side.

But not before the giant dog noticed me. With one low, thunderous bark, the Great Dane switched directions and tore toward me, kicking up clumps of sand. I heard Henry call her a few times before loping after the dog. I’d been anticipating our meeting since the night I wound up with his file, but as Henry Callahan jogged in my direction, everything I’d planned—my entire game plan—flew off with the sea breeze. I felt like the same tongue-tied, stupefied girl I’d been when we first met.

Yeah, that wouldn’t do.

The giant dog skidded to a stop in front of me, panting in my face and whipping its tail around. The combination of the dog and Henry was doing a job on me. Biting into the side of my cheek, I forced myself to conjure up the image of Henry in bed with another woman. I concentrated on that picture until I felt pain trickle into my veins. After a couple seconds, all traces of dumbstruck were gone.
Long
gone.

Just in time, too.

Henry’s jog slowed as he approached. I kept my eyes narrowed at the sand and continued to pet the dog’s head, hoping it would calm me.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It had been years, but I still didn’t like hearing those two words come out of his mouth. It almost gave me PTSD.

“Molly, stop that,” Henry ordered as the dog licked me with its huge tongue. “Come here.” He patted his legs emphatically. The dog only licked me faster.

“She still doesn’t listen to you,” I said, shifting my head out of the dog’s shadow so Henry could see it.

The phrase
you look like you’ve just seen a ghost
played out before me. His relaxed smile froze along with the rest of his body. His tanned face blanched a few shades, and he studied me like I wasn’t real. I was careful not to look him in the eyes. I didn’t trust myself to look into those brown eyes. That smile and those eyes had torn right through my defenses when we’d first met, and I didn’t want to chance a repeat. So I focused on the bridge of his nose, or his eyebrows, or the dark hollows beneath his eyes. Anything was preferable to looking into Henry Callahan’s eyes again.