Hot Chick for Hire Page 3

  FOUR

  I still hadn't gotten over the idea of my new job, but I had to admit, once I got past the stress of spending someone else's money I really got into furnishing the office.

  My new boss was lucky. Barely scraping by and pinching pennies for years had made me an excellent shopper.

  I set down my latest purchase on Zane's desk—a brass banker’s lamp with a green glass shade—and took a step back to appreciate the results of my hard work.

  Just one week after that fateful day when I'd walked in here by mistake, and walked out with a job I never thought I'd have, the office looked pretty damn good.

  My favorite antique co-op had supplied my desk. In a Chinese Chippendale style it fit the masculine vibe I wanted for the office while still being scaled down in size. A genuine antique, it had been a steal at five hundred dollars.

  That desk was the exact opposite of the one I chose for Zane. A resale store find, Zane’s was massive and masculine, a heavily carved, solid wood piece worthy of the Oval Office in the White House.

  In great shape too, and still less than I would have paid for a new one. I paired it with a new leather desk chair. A splurge but worth it since it would be the focus when my boss met with clients.

  On the wall behind his chair hung my favorite find. The one I was most proud of. It was an old oil painting of a ship—a nod to his time in the Navy.

  The same thrift store had supplied a wooden bookcase I'd put against the wall by Zane's door to hold the books and objects I'd found in the cardboard boxes that had been here the day I'd interviewed.

  On another wall I'd had the guy who'd installed the locks and new door hang the big screen television. Contrary to my first guess—that it was for him to watch football—Zane had said they'd use it for presentations.

  It made sense, I guess, but I still wasn't convinced he wouldn't be watching the Army-Navy game on it come football season.

  I turned and moved to the outer office where I'd be working, just as happy with the results out there.

  I had found a set of six new upholstered dining room chairs discounted at a furniture outlet. Two with arms, four without.

  The two armchairs were set in front of Zane's desk for clients. I took one of the armless ones as my desk chair. The last three I set against the wall for extra client seating.

  The new coffee maker sat on top of a small fridge I'd bought. Next to it was a single wooden kitchen cabinet I'd picked up at Home Depot to store things like cups, stirrers and sweetener since the one closet was going to be the weapons vault.

  It was still surreal, this job I'd stumbled into. And now that my decorating assignment was done, I supposed I'd have to wrap my head around the other part of my duties. The military contractor and security services part.

  Jesus. Who'd have thought this would be my life? Certainly not me.

  But hell, I could think of worse things than hanging out with Navy SEALs all day.

  Even though I had recently discovered my boss was taken I still had hopes that some of his hot friends would be single and available. A girl could dream . . .

  Drawing in a breath, I folded my arms and smiled at the vase of fresh flowers I'd splurged on this morning with my own money to celebrate my first check.

  Today was payday and I’d discovered that direct deposit was a wonderful thing. Like magic a thousand dollars—minus taxes—appeared in my checking account this morning.

  I felt like Cinderella and Zane was my fairy godmother. I was sure he wouldn't appreciate that reference so I kept it to myself—not that he was here.

  He'd been absent all week. I'd heard from him only a handful of times, which had been disconcerting considering I'd been spending his money like crazy for the past week.

  It was nerve wracking. What if he'd wanted all modern stuff? Glass and chrome and modern art, and here I'd gone and bought a bunch of traditional things and antiques I couldn't return. I kept taking pictures of the furniture I wanted to buy and the office after each new addition and texting them to him until he finally called and told me it looked great and I could stop checking in.

  I didn't know where he was or when he'd be back, or if he'd be happy when he returned, but at least I was happy with the results. That was something, I supposed.

  I moved around my desk and sat in front of my brand new computer. That item Zane's partner Jon had ordered and sent to the office.

  It looked like a normal desktop to me, but supposedly it had been outfitted by the company's computer guy to be super secure. And since my background check had come back clean and I was cleared for my new super secret duties, I guessed I'd be getting some assignments or instructions soon.

  Until then I was a bit at loose ends. No clients called. No one came by the office except for the occasional deliveryman. It really did feel like a shell company. But at least, thanks to me, it didn't look like one anymore.

  We even had a sign with the company name on the front door now, like a real office.

  I booted up the computer, which had been hardwired directly to the Internet so no one could hack it over WiFi, I'd been told. I needed to order some office supplies online on my super computer. I was just deciding between the blue and the green post-it notes when the door opened.

  My first unscheduled visitor scared the hell out of me and I jumped.

  Standing, I nearly fell off my chunky heels when I saw him walk in. Had I been a cartoon character, my eyes would have popped out of my head with a spring sound.

  Boing!

  The intruder-slash-visitor was handsome, to say the least. Like glossy magazine ad model handsome. Like television cologne commercial handsome.

  At those thoughts I realized I spent much too much time coveting things I’d seen advertised.

  Here I was standing face to face with a living breathing personification of one of my drool worthy ad men and I was slack jawed, staring at him like I was an imbecile.

  I should take advantage of the situation. Say something clever.

  The seconds ticked by, getting nearer to the minute mark since he'd stepped through my door, and I still had nothing clever to say.

  Maybe clever was over rated.

  As he glanced around the office, I said, "Can I help you?"

  Not real original, but it got the job done.

  His deep brown eyes caught on my gaze and held. "Yes. Right, you can help, I hope. I'm looking for Zane Alexander."

  And that's when my knees went weak because—oh my God—my ad man spoke with a British accent.

  I seriously needed to sit down—possibly in his lap. God, wouldn't that be nice?

  Exactly how long it had been since my last romantic liaison hit me as I started to drool. I really needed to invest in a vibrator or something.

  "Uh. Zane isn't here." Real smooth, Chelsea! I berated myself silently and cringed.

  The beautiful man in front of me drew in a breath and nodded. "My fault, I suppose. Showing up unannounced. Though it was a bit of a last minute situation. I was hoping he could help me."

  "Maybe I can help you." I took a step forward, closer to my dream come true, my libido taking control of the situation since the rest of me seemed incapable.

  His brown hair was a tad bit on the long side, so it curled over his forehead and around the collar of his trench coat.

  Yes, he wore an honest to goodness, stroll the foggy streets of London, trench coat. I liked the look.

  In fact, I liked everything about this guy.

  Of course, I reminded myself that looks could be deceiving. A pretty package could hide any number of things. Psycho killer. Philanderer. Jerk.

  Please don't let that be the case. I offered up that silent prayer to the gods of romance. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t imagine what I could do for this guy to keep him here.

  At least not long enough for me to charm him into sweeping me off my American feet to whisk me back to his estate in the British countryside where his King Charles Spaniels romped on the vast lawns and his m
other and father served high tea when they weren't in attendance to the Queen.

  "I suppose you might solve the problem." He looked me up and down. "Yes. You'll do nicely."

  Now that I had his attention, I wasn’t sure I liked it. Not after that full-body perusal. "Um, okay. What would I be doing?"

  "You own a formal gown, I assume?" he asked.

  "Yes." I had a question of my own—why was he asking?

  "A dress that will distract a room filled with men?" His follow-up question answered mine.

  "Um, yeah."

  "Outstanding. When can you be dressed and ready to go?"

  Go where?

  "Um, I just have to go to my apartment, change and I can be right back here."

  Shit, was I really agreeing to this?

  "All right. I'll wait." He moved to one of the chairs, sat and crossed his long legs.

  Wide-eyed, I watched as he settled in, looking as if he was indeed going to wait for me to go don my distracting formal dress for some unknown reason.

  Could I leave him here alone in the office? What if he picked the lock on the weapons room?

  My only comfort was that he seemed to know Zane. Though he could have found out the name of the business owner with enough research.

  This whole thing was too odd and I was much too new to be making these kinds of decisions on my own.

  I held up one finger. "Um, just let me make one quick call."

  "All right. We have time. We need to be there in—" he glanced at the watch on his wrist. "Ninety minutes."

  An hour and a half. Not a lot of time but I’d gotten ready in less. I could do it . . . as soon as I’d called Zane.

  I turned, about to go into Zane’s office so I could phone him in private, when I realized I needed more information. I turned back. "Um, what's your name?"

  "Tristan Fairchild"

  Good name. The perfect name for a hot guy. Or a TV character. Or a fake persona for tricking gullible women like me.

  I committed the name—fake or real—to memory, along with his vital stats in case I needed to identify him later.

  Strong chin. Brown eyes with flecks of darker brown and gold. Broad shoulders. Arm muscles that showed even through his coat. Strong thick thighs . . .

  I cleared my throat, attempted to clear my mind of what might be between those thighs, and said, "I'm Chelsea."

  Tristan nodded. "Pleasure, Chelsea."

  The pleasure was all mine—unless he turned out to be a madman.

  I cleared my throat and tipped my head toward Zane’s office. "All right, I’ll be right back."

  He nodded again.

  Closeted in Zane's office, I dialed his number and counted the rings. After the voice mail prompt sounded, I said, "Please call me back as soon as you can. There's a British guy here looking for you. Tristan Fairchild. I told him you weren’t here and he said I might be able to help him so I said I would. I hope that's okay. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

  Especially if I ended up in a body bag.

  "All right. That’s it. Bye." I disconnected and stood there completely at a loss.

  I had the number of Zane's partner Jon Rudnick. I also had the number for the main GAPS office in Virginia. I called the office number first.

  Maybe someone there could clear me leaving this guy alone here in the office. And more importantly, authorize my going with him. Or hell, tell me no, don't go with him under any circumstances.

  I really needed some guidance here. I was flying blind with Zane being away. I had a suspicion I should get used to that.

  That was fine. I was a self-starter. But this seemed like an awfully big decision for me to be making on my own.

  The ringing on the phone was replaced by a voice saying, "GAPS. Chris Cassidy speaking."

  "Um, hi, it's Chelsea." Not knowing if this guy would know who I was, I decided to elaborate. "Chelsea Bridges from the GAPS office in D.C.."

  "Oh, hey there. I heard about y'all getting a new office. How's it going?" His thick, slow as molasses southern drawl would have been charming if I weren't so desperate for answers and quick.

  "Um, good. But I have a guy here to see Zane. But Zane is out of the country. Is Jon around?"

  "Seems Jon is away with Zane. Sorry. You could try his cell, but I doubt he'll answer. I just called him a few minutes ago and it went to voice mail."

  Shit. Not the answer I wanted to hear.

  "Yeah, so did Zane's when I called him. Okay. Any chance you know a British guy named Tristan Fairchild?"

  "Sorry, darlin'. Can't say I do. Never heard of him."

  "All right. Thank you anyway."

  "Sure. Anytime. Anything else I can help you with?" he asked.

  "No. That’s it. Oh, but if either Jon or Zane check in with you, can you let them know this Tristan Fairchild guy is here with me?"

  "A’ight. You got it."

  "Thanks." I disconnected and moved back out to the front office.

  "So I'll just go home and get changed. I shouldn’t be more than an hour if the Metro is on time."

  He frowned but somehow managed to make the expression handsome. "The Metro? Don’t be silly. I can drive you instead. I have a car here. It's how we're getting to the party."

  A party. At least I had a clue now, though I had to wonder what kind of party it was.

  "Oh, um, okay. Uh, where is this party anyway?" I asked.

  "The British Embassy."

  Hmm. Well, that didn't sound so bad.

  I figured I might as well accept the ride and go with him. Tristan was either going to kill me and dump my body in the Potomac, or earn me a raise because Zane was so appreciative I'd helped his friend.

  Either way, why go through the inconvenience of taking the Metro when I could get a ride? Still, I would like to find out more. About this man. About this party . . . If there really was a party.

  That thought halted my pondering and I realized something. I had resources at my disposal.

  When I was at Camelot, we'd sometimes get an influx of customers. A crowd would show up on an odd night. Or a large group of men all speaking the same foreign language and hanging out together.

  It would usually turn out that there was some delegation in town for a conference or meeting or—and this was the key to tonight—some big embassy party. And how we usually found out was from one of the dancers.

  When she wasn't at Camelot, she moonlighted as a server for a local caterer who landed a lot of these embassy gigs. Another girl moonlighted serving men as well, but not food or drink. But she gleaned quite a lot of info during pillow talk.

  "Ready?" Tristan’s question knocked me out of my planning.

  "Yup. Just have to lock the door." And grab my purse with the pepper spray.

  Zane had offered to help me get a gun license if I wanted one. I'd said no, but I was starting to change my mind about that.

  When he got back in the country, I might take him up on it.

  I still couldn't picture myself carrying a gun around. I wasn't looking to have a thigh holster under my cocktail dress, although that would be pretty bad ass. But it couldn't hurt to have a weapon locked in my desk drawer here.

  That way next time I was alone in the office, which it seemed I was destined to be a lot, I wouldn't be completely helpless when a stranger came knocking—or walking in without knocking, like my Brit had.

  But even without a gun I wasn't helpless. I had street smarts as well as a purse heavy enough to knock a man in the face and buy myself some time if I needed. And I had taken plenty of self-defense courses, both in college and since.

  I could defend myself—except apparently against a charming man with a sexy accent who wanted to take me away in his car to a party.

  I sighed at how pitiful I was. I complained about men being swayed by a pretty face all the time, yet here I was doing the same thing.

  Only time would prove if I was being epically stupid or not. I was choosing to believe not. That I would help Tristan, Zan
e would be immensely grateful I'd stepped up in his absence and I'd win GAPS employee of the month.

  Sticking to my plan to ask my contacts if there was indeed a party at the British Embassy, I figured I’d text Morgan's number as soon as I got in the hottie’s car. But getting to the car presented yet another moment of shock that nearly knocked me on the butt of my cream-colored pantsuit as he walked directly to the passenger door of a BMW roadster, clicked the key fob and swung the door open for me.

  "This is your car?" I asked.

  "It is. For when I'm in D.C., anyway. In England I had another."

  "Oh." Of course, he did. How silly of me. Why wouldn't he have a car for each continent?

  Who was this guy anyway?

  If he was going to the embassy party, he could be a diplomat.

  He'd come looking for Zane. Did he need protection? A bodyguard? But that's not what he'd asked me to be. I wasn't there to guard him. I was there to distract the men in the room.

  Maybe he too had gotten Angel Escort Services and Guardian Angel Protection Services mixed up.

  Had Siri done him wrong as well?

  But no, he knew Zane's name. And so I came full circle in my conundrum and I still had no answers, though I was determined to get some.

  Sliding my butt into the smooth leather seat, I settled in and whipped out my cell as Tristan walked around the car to the other side.

  Good thing I could type in a text like an Olympic runner on a sprint. By the time Tristan got into the driver's seat, I'd already hit send.

  I'd asked Morgan to check around for me. See if there was a party at the British Embassy tonight. I also told her I'd be attending with a British man named Tristan Fairchild and if for any reason she didn't hear from me, call the police. I even texted what kind of car he was driving and the letters and numbers on the license plate, which I’d been sure to take note of before getting in.

  That was the best I could do. I might not have guaranteed my safety, but at least I'd insured the police would have some clues to work with in the unlikely event of my disappearance.

  Good enough . . . I hoped.

  FIVE

  I wasn't really worried about being alone with this stranger, though no doubt there would be those in my life who would disagree. My roommate being one of them, I was sure.