Toly called it ostentatious – in his own head. He spoke as little as possible in her presence. In the presence of everyone, really. His accent was thick and unlosable, he’d learned the hard way; it got him looks in places where discretion was the best form.
He allowed himself a deep sigh, here in the privacy of the changing room, then pulled on the suit, careful to preserve the sharp creases in the trouser legs. His shoes were leather-soled, and sharp-toed, and absolutely useless. No ankle support; no place to stash a knife. Once he’d tied their brittle laces into neat bows, he went into the adjoining shower room to do his hair in front of a mirror: a severe slicked-back ‘do that left his face far too exposed, but which highlighted his prominent nose and sharp cheekbones in a way that was more in keeping with the suit and the agency’s environs. Next, he took out his earrings and lip ring. Painstakingly edged each eye with black liner, faintly flared at the outer corners. Just that small amount of makeup altered his appearance significantly; lent him a haughty, effete air that belied nothing of his bratva past, and MC present. In his role as bodyguard, he played Raven’s wasp-waisted assistant, his suits sharply tailored, and he looked every inch the part, now. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him from the mirror.
A variety of weapons concealed on his person, he checked the time on his phone, and then headed back for the elevators, and the twelfth floor.
Intemporelle meant “timeless” in French, which was Raven to a T. Every inch of the agency bore her personal touch, from the antique Persian rugs, to the dainty French desks, to the elegant script on the business cards. A tasteful blend of classic, Old-World charm and modern practicality, layered with tasteful blends of color in an industry swimming in white, chrome, and more white.
Toly might have dressed like a hobo and lived like a terminal bachelor, but he could appreciate the aesthetics of the place, even if he didn’t belong. The elevator doors opened onto a hallway floored with dark gray slates, a dusty pink and pale blue carpet runner leading along a glass wall swagged with champagne-colored drapes. Double glass doors etched with the agency name and logo opened to a reception room with leggy, velvet-upholstered chairs, coffee station, minibar, and high counter manned by slender young women with sleek hair and measured smiles.
Several too-thin women and one chisel-faced man were seated in the waiting room this morning, pretending to page through magazines while nervously checking the inner door. Their eyes snapped to Toly as he entered, then skittered back toward the door. One of the girl’s looked nauseated, clutching her magazine with white-knuckled fervor. Hopeful. Despairing.
The receptionists had learned weeks ago that Toly wouldn’t return their greetings, so they didn’t offer any; merely watched him with a touch of nerves as he strode across the room, flashed his keycard under the reader, and pushed through the inner door into the heart of the agency.
A bullpen of large cubicles lit with desk lamps housed the administrative staff. Beyond, the designers worked in a glass-walled studio, the space laid out with long, narrow tables, sewing dummies, and a variety of sewing machines. The back wall was one giant pinboard papered with design sketches and inspiration photos. There was a full kitchen set up like a cafe, from which the scents of curry and seared steak rolled tantalizingly. Raven had hired a nutritionist and team of chefs to ensure that all her employees, models included, ate a healthy, balanced diet.I won’t have them swallowing juice-soaked cotton balls to look like reeds, she’d said in a meeting during which he’d stood against the back wall.
Then came the offices.
Raven, head of the agency, had the corner office, large and lavish. A non-Dog security agent stood outside of it in an enviably plain black suit, large hands folded before him. He was broad, and square-jawed, textbook hired muscle. Part of a team that traveled with her, intended to draw eyes and project outward strength, who knew that Toly was a Dog, and that he was therealsecurity, the human shield and last line of defense. He ducked a quick, deferential nod as Toly approached.
Toly nodded back, knocked twice, and entered.
Flooded with morning light on two sides, the office boasted a jaw-dropping view of the park, its sprawling undulations and clumps of trees, the last tattered autumn leaves clinging to bare branches as winter came on hard and fast.
Raven was seated not at her desk, but on the sofa in the sitting area, files spread before her on the coffee table, steaming cup of tea in one manicured hand.
Today, she wore a powder blue, clinging turtleneck dress, black tights, black pumps. Before she glanced up, she tucked a lock of shining brown hair behind her ear, revealing a simple, pearl stud earring, lashes dark and curled on her cheeks as she gazed down at the files. When the door clicked shut behind him, she lifted her head, and her eyes seemed to glow in the soft, silver sunlight.
He'd never in his life entertained such a fanciful thought about a woman.
Her smile was quick, professional, but not cold. “Good morning.” Her attention returned to the table. It was alarming the way his gaze went to her lips as she sipped her tea. “Did you get this morning’s itinerary?”
He shoved all unhelpful thoughts aside and stepped deeper into the room. “Yes.” The email arrived on his phone at six on the dot every morning.
“Did you see our ten o’clock?”
Our. She did that. He didn’t know what to make of it.
“Yes,” he repeated, arriving at the coffee cart. A second cart beside it offered a bevy of breakfast options, all of which he ignored, as usual, but he wasn’t a person who could function without at least three coffees a day. He poured himself a paper cup full. “Donovan Smith.”
“Donovan Smith,” she repeated in an incredulous tone. “The real estate magnate. Oh,” her tone shifted, “there’s some cheese Danishes there. And the muffins have cranberries and white chocolate in them. Can you believe? Anyway.” Another tone shift. “His secretary called yesterday andinsistedon a meeting this morning. My secretary explained that wasn’t possible, given our current schedule, but that little brat wouldn’t give up. Lucky for them, Vanessa cancelled last minute, so we had an opening. But, honestly, what does a real estate man want with a modeling and fashion agency?”
“Dunno.” He turned around and leaned back against his usual spot on the wall – to find that she was watching him. Studying him, really.
Her lips compressed, mouth twitching sideways in an expression that wasn’t quite a frown. He was still trying to decipher what it meant, exactly. “Won’t you have some breakfast?”
“No.” He sipped coffee. “Thank you.”
“Hm.” Back to her paperwork. “Anyway.” She shuffled pages, one-handed, found one she wanted, and held it out to him. “I have my suspicions about him.”
He crossed the room to take it, and Raven continued, “Given that I was targeted by Abacus, the association with the club was well-established by Waverly’s people. It stands to reason more than just the top tier of the organization know whose sister I am.”
He nodded and accepted the paper.
“As the new hierarchy establishes itself in New York, it would make sense I’d be targeted again.”
The paper she’d offered was a dossier on Donovan Smith, with a small, professional headshot in the upper lefthand corner and neat, tight lines of text. It said the man was an attorney and head of aForbes-featured real estate brokerage firm. Sixty-two, winner of a bunch of real estate awards Toly didn’t give a shit about, father of four, member of about two dozen charity boards and community club things. He owned three homes, all the addresses listed, and there was a whole section at the bottom and over on the back that marked all the moments – charity events and club memberships – when his path might have crossed Waverly’s, or one of Waverly’s co-leaders in Abacus.
It was thorough, and Toly was impressed. “Who put this together?”
