In Deep with the FBI Agent (22 page)

A dash upstairs and a quick search of her loft-apartment uncovered a king-size emerald bedsheet, a stepladder, and a staple gun. When she returned to the main gallery floor, the reporters called to her through the hole in her front window.

“Ms. Rose, any comment on your father's disappearance?”

“Ms. Rose, what do you say to the hundreds of families out in the cold tonight thanks to your father's theft?”

From the vantage point of the stepladder, Ari sagged under the day's emotional toll, leaving her completely unable to sift through the recommended lawyer-type answers, and she muttered the first thing that came to mind: “Let them eat cake.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she blanched, knowing she'd regret them sorely.

With a deep breath, in a louder voice, she found her standard answer: “All questions regarding the Stanley Rose investigation should be directed to the law firm of Arnault and Skaten. I am happy, however, to field any questions about the upcoming Rose Gallery new artist show.” There, that would show them. Way to keep her cool in the face of adversity, she thought, conveniently ignoring her Marie Antoinette gaffe. A year ago no one had thought she'd be able to purchase and open an art gallery, but she'd done it, even under the scrutiny around her father's scandal.

Silence fell from the press, and then the roar of questions started up again. Of course, all about her dad. With a huff of annoyance, Ari swept up the sheet and stapled it to the top wall corner, then made her way to the other side to repeat. The hard press of the staple gun felt good. She slammed a few more staples into the wall, fixing the sheet to block out the camera crews, fantasizing each staple pounding into her father's traitorous, blackened heart.

With a snort of disgust, Lance clicked off the six o'clock news on what may have been the last non–flat screen television left in Northern Virginia. “‘Let them eat cake?' What a heartless bitch.” Albeit a smoking hot one, if you went for that curvy, let's-have-sex-all-night redheaded look, which he did. But a woman had to have a heart to score his attention for more than a minute. She reminded Lance of all the girls he'd grown up with: status conscious and only worried about their next ski vacation. Thank God he'd escaped that world.

“Arianna's not at all bitchy, once you get to know her,” Jason said. “In fact, she's hilarious.”

He eyed his good friend. “You're biased. She's Valerie's best friend, Valerie's your wife, ergo…”

“‘Ergo' what?” Jason asked with an amused smile and leaned back into the nondescript beige corduroy recliner.

Lance took a long pull of his Sam Adams before answering. “Ergo, you don't insult the best friend if you want to get laid. Even I know that, and I've never been married.” Jason could defend her all he wanted, but a woman like Stanley Rose's daughter ought to have known better than to mutter something like that with a camera crew nearby

Jason released a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “And you're never getting married if you hole up in here moping.”

“I'm not moping,” Lance protested, even though Jason was right. Ever since the shooting, he'd stayed close to home, venturing out only for physical therapy and supplies in the form of beer and frozen pizza. He ignored his buddy's raised eyebrow and took another swig of his beer. He'd better stop at this bottle if he wanted to make a good showing at physical therapy tomorrow and prove to the powers-that-be he was ready to return to work.

The damn physical therapy was torture, but it was necessary if he wanted to be back guarding POTUS in six weeks, which he most certainly did.

Jason laughed. “You have been hiding, but, hell, I'd hide too if the whole world wanted to shake my hand or—”

“Not everyone wants to shake my hand,” Lance said, hearing the darkness in his voice. “Obviously, there are enough people in the world who want the president dead. That's why I have a job and a shiny new scar on my thigh.”

“Maybe the attention's blowing over.” Jason gestured to the television. “One good thing about Stanley Rose doing a runner is that the footage of you taking the bullet is relegated to YouTube or the late-night news.”

Lance smiled, grateful for some things. “Yep, lucky for me America has ADD when it comes to world events.” His fifteen seconds of unwanted fame played on monitors across the country. Hell, he'd even made
The
Tonight Show
, but now thanks to America's most wanted investment advisor, he could go back to anonymity.

“Is your sister still calling every day?” Jason asked.

Lance nodded. His sister wanted him to join her in Manhattan to have her personal physician take a look at his thigh, but he was a Secret Service agent for the president, for crying out loud. NIH docs knew a thing or two, but tell that to his sister. She was convinced the only orthopedist worth his salt was Dr. Peter Weiss on 78th and Lexington.

Jason's cell phone rang and a private smile formed as he answered it. Probably Valerie. Maybe not, judging by the frown that appeared. A low murmur and Jason's grunts of reply revealed nothing about the conversation.

Jason finally looked up from his phone. “Listen, change of plans. Val's picking me up to run an errand and then we're heading to Georgetown.” He murmured one last thing into the phone, then hung up.

“What's going on?” Lance asked. “Do you need my help?” He made the offer although any change in plans that brought him to a bar or any active social scene rubbed him raw. “But I don't want to go to a bar tonight.” He wanted to grab another beer and lay back on his couch to watch the Nationals play again in the privacy of his own apartment.

“We're not going to a bar, but yeah, I could use your help.”

“I'll do it, but you owe me. I hate Georgetown and fighting the crowds of tourists and drunken college students,” he muttered.

“Stop grumbling. I need you to go to Val's friend's house in Georgetown and wait there for me and Val. Can you drive my truck?” Jason knew Lance couldn't ride his Harley for a few weeks, another benefit of getting shot.

“Fine. But where are you and Valerie going?” He was starting to regret his offer to help.

“We're going to swing by Home Depot, then head to Georgetown.” Jason stood to leave, and Lance followed, trying to be a good host.

“Home Depot?”

“Yeah. Val's friend's having some trouble, and I'm not letting Val head over there alone.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind you're trained for,” Jason said.

He groaned. “I'm a gimp, Jason. How am I going to defend anyone?”

Jason slapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward a few inches. The damn firefighter didn't realize his strength, and Lance's balance was whacked. “Your trigger finger's not gimpy, right?”

“True.” He grabbed his wallet, Glock, cell phone, and keys, shoving them all in the pockets of his jeans, except for the gun. “Let's go.” Both men stepped out the door and Jason waited while Lance locked up. “So who am I going to help?”

Jason grinned. “Arianna Rose. You finally get to meet the heartless bitch.”

V
alerie Wainwright stared at the mostly naked man up on the projection screen in her office conference room. Correction. The uber-hot naked man. Correction again. The uber-hot naked
firefighter
. Normally she never equated the word
sexy
with firefighter. Her ingrained fear of all things rescue related barred her from relaxing around firemen, but in this instance, there was no denying it. The guy on-screen was Hot with a capital
H
.

She had to hide her reaction, however. As the only woman in the room, she had to remain professional. It wasn't as if her sixty-year-old boss or the other two men in the room were ogling his six-pack abs and white daredevil smile that said, “Hey look at me. I'm naughty.”

“Repairing reputations is our specialty,” Peter, her boss, said, and gave her his typical steely-eyed glance, which silently nudged her to speak up and schmooze the prospective client.

Nope, definitely not getting any sexy longing vibes from the boss's corner. She swallowed and refocused her attention on doing what she did best: reeling in clients and changing their lives for the better when the shit had hit the fan, in most instances because the prospective client had taken aim at the fan themselves.

“Like Peter said…” She swiveled in her chair, forcing her eyes away from the decadence on-screen to focus on the county government official who'd landed in their conference room this afternoon. “When we're through with your firefighters, the residents of your county are going to be singing their praises and signing their children up to become firefighters.” She pointed at the screen behind her. “The memory of them parading naked with sorority girls in their stations will be a distant one.”

The county official smiled. “Excellent. I knew we'd be in good hands.”

Peter leaned over to clap Valerie on the back. “The best. Guaranteed.”

Valerie braced both her shoulders and insides, because while what Peter had said about her being the best PR whiz to repair reputations, she wasn't sure she could work her magic for firefighters. She was terrified she'd be more useless than Harry Potter without his wand.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as if she had a choice. She wanted to make partner, and partners did not cry or bow out of assignments, especially a cushy one for a local government that would lead to bigger jobs for bigger government agencies. She was all in.

One Week Later

The unremarkable brick and concrete fire station stood ten feet in the distance, looming like a portal to Valerie Wainwright's personal hell.

“This is a big deal account, isn't it?” Rob Cohen hurried alongside her through the small parking lot toward the building. “Have we ever done PR work for a city government before?”

Rob was new to the firm, fresh out of college and eager to learn and have his hand in nearly everything the firm was up to.

“We've done work for the county before, but yes, if we do well here, we can count on more and bigger projects. So let's kick some butt.” The promise of bigger and better was the only reason she was here now, the only reason she could contemplate facing her deep-rooted fears head-on. Because to her, fire station meant firefighter, and firefighter meant fire.

“They really screwed up, didn't they?” Rob asked. “Have you ever done an image rehab for something this bad before?”

She paused to give him the kind of smile a big sister gives an ignorant little brother. “Oh, Robert, the stories I could tell…This is nothing.”

“Even though they were caught practically naked in the firehouse?” He paused to scratch his forehead. “I guess that's not so bad, but then it went viral on social media…bad.”

“Bad,” she agreed. Firefighters from this station had been caught on Facebook partying with a local sorority. She'd spent long minutes clicking on the pictures that had gone viral. Her ingrained aversion to firefighters had been tempered by the male eye candy on display. The firefighter in the pictures had been hot. And bare-chested. And she was about to meet him. Surely that was why her legs were quavering. Her wobbly legs and quivery stomach had nothing to do with her personal fire phobia.

Rob sighed, obviously remembering his own partying frat days, or wishing he could've been with the firefighters when they'd hung out with the Delta Kappas.

“Government employees need to understand the ramifications of posting pictures and other private information on public forums,” she said, pretending to remain professional and ignoring the extra care she'd given her appearance this morning, putting on a professional outfit almost like a shield to protect her from her fears.

“I hear you,” Rob said with a knowing chuckle. “I understand social media.”

She didn't respond and simply took a deep breath and, staring down at her pants-covered legs, pushed her way through the single door on the side entrance of Station House 12. She wasn't sure what to expect, not having ever been in a firehouse before. She was here to do a job. She half feared Mr. Naked-but-for-a-towel would be there to greet her, terry cloth and all.

They entered the building and she was surprised to see it looked kind of like a regular office building. There was a short narrow hallway carpeted in gray and two doors leading off the hallway with a wide door that had a glass cutout in the middle. That door led to the heart and soul of the station. A gleaming red fire truck was parked just behind the door. A variety of mysterious equipment hung off the side of the truck.

“I'll give you a tour, if you want.”

She whirled to the side where the voice had come from. A tall man with styled light brown hair leaned against the doorway just off the hallway. She'd been so preoccupied staring at the impressive truck, she'd failed to notice that door had opened, and it led to a decent-sized classroom filled with what were obviously her students.

The man who'd offered the tour tossed a cocky grin her way. He was obviously aware of his brawny good looks and the appeal of being a firefighter. She was half surprised he hadn't been the one caught naked on camera.

“How 'bout it, angel? Can you wait a few for a tour?”

“She's not available right now.” Rob decided at that moment to step up and be a man.

She threw him a scathing look and repeated it for Mr. Cocky. “I'm here in a professional capacity. Would this be the meeting room?”

The firefighter's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then his grin widened even more as he understood that
she
was the PR specialist. “Whoa, when I got suckered into doing this image rehab thing, I wasn't sure I was on board, but, honey, I'll be sitting front and center to hear anything
you
have to say.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped toward the doorway. This smooth firefighter with his wide smile and perfect hair would be running in the other direction if he knew what mess lay under her clothes. She'd be his worst nightmare. She tried to brush by him, but he latched on to her elbow. “What's your name, angel?”

She ignored the question and started to push by him even harder, but another man already seated in the classroom called out, “Give it a rest, Dan. Let her pass. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get it over with.”

Valerie frowned at that telling statement. Were the firefighters not enthused about being part of a professional media PR campaign? If not, she had her work cut out for her. She needed them out in the community smiling and rescuing kittens from trees and helping grannies cross busy roads.

Dan gave her elbow a little squeeze before gallantly stepping aside and gesturing she should enter.

Shaking her head, she strode to the front of the room and surveyed the rest of the occupants. Rob followed with Dan bringing up the rear, strolling indolently to a seat in the back of the room. So much for front and center.

She dropped her chocolate brown leather laptop bag at an empty chair in the corner then made her way to the front. An ancient green chalkboard hung on the wall with chips of white chalk on the metal ledge. She picked one up in a shaking hand and wrote her name on the board. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Valerie Wainwright, from Bernstein and Smith PR.” Only her own media training prevented her nerves from being on display to her audience.

“As you know, you've been selected or volunteered to represent the county in redeeming the reputation of the department.” Her gaze circled the room, trying to meet everyone's stare with a level one of her own.

It was an interesting mix of people of all genders, colors, and ages; exactly what she'd asked for. Most were men, and exactly what you'd think of with the term
firefighter
. Masculine, brawny, somewhat sexy if you went for that sort of thing. Her best friend, Arianna, would love it here. She'd have them paying close attention. As for her, well, law students in Brooks Brothers were more her speed. But she could do this. Hadn't
Capitol Magazine
highlighted her as a person to watch in the PR world last month?

“The first rule of playing nice with the media is to not sexually harass anyone of the opposite sex.” She enunciated her words and looked everyone in the eye, ending with her hallway greeter. Her clearly worded statement got everyone laughing and sitting up a bit in their chairs. She smiled and tried to relax.

“But seriously, I saw you got in a bit of trouble thanks to Facebook a few weeks ago.” She looked around the room to see if the firefighter whose hot body graced the pictures was in the house. Hmm. Her eyes scanned the room and then, holy hell, her gaze came to rest on him. It was the firefighter from the picture. The one who could've been on a firefighter calendar. He sat stony-faced with a blank notepad and pen at the ready.

In person she saw that his hair wasn't black as she'd thought, but dark, dark brown, and when the sun streaming through the window hit it, flecks of blond and red came through as if he had flames leaping in the strands of his hair. His massive, strong body filled the typical conference room chair, while his muscular forearms rested on the desk at his front.

And his smile in person wasn't just naughty. It was naughty and knowing, as if to say he knew you wanted him.

Damn him. She kind of…did.

“Before I highlight my plan for rehabbing your image, I'd love to hear what really happened. I don't like to be surprised. An image on social media tells one story, I want to hear yours.”

To her surprise, all eyes swung, not to the sexy dark-haired man at the front who was at the center of the controversy, but to the back, where Dan the flirt sat with his legs up on a chair in front of him, and his arms folded behind his head.

“What can I say—” he started to drawl.

“You can say nothing other than a clear play-by-play of the events leading up to me being in front of you today,” she interrupted, knowing she needed to get a firm handle on the group of men or they'd walk all over her. “I'm not going to explore the reasons one of you was parading nude with sorority girls in your government place of work, but the fact remains, you let it get photographed. First mistake.”

A hand raised in front. It was him, the firefighter who'd been photographed in the buff, the one whose pictures she stared at long into last night. For work reasons, she'd told herself, strictly professional.

“Yes?” She swiveled to face him.

“I wasn't naked. I had a towel.” His voice was low, deep, and slightly gravelly. And then the man grinned, and her heart thumped with an uneven jump as her weak legs wobbled. She took a breath as the classroom volume rose with chuckles.

She swallowed, fighting for composure and control of the room. “Nevertheless. Do your best not to put yourself in compromising positions, but you must always, always control the message. The citizens of this community are paying you for peace of mind. They want to feel they're safe and secure because competent men and women are willing to put their lives on the line when their homes or families are in danger.”

She heard the words coming out of her mouth and was surprised how passionately true they felt to her. She was a PR specialist, she was full of “messaging to the media that would make good sound bites.” But this wasn't her usual bullshit. This was important. She owed her life to people like the ones in this room. Average citizens could sleep at night knowing they were safe thanks to people who took risks.

A flash of memory of getting carried through her smoke-filled home wrapped in nothing but a blanket entered her mind. No, she couldn't mentally go there now. She had to focus and get the job done. Dredging up her past would bring a wave of sadness and undermine her objective.

A female firefighter, sitting on the aisle, raised her hand and, with a calm demeanor, detailed the events that got the station occupants in trouble. Apparently—surprise, surprise—Dan had invited a group of sorority girls in the house. And Jason—hot man in the front row—had walked out of the shower only to have been surprised by the visitors. Visitors who took advantage of him by snapping inappropriate pictures on their phones.

She felt her head bobbing as she listened and noted that Jason was staring down at his desk with a stoic expression, but his cheeks had faint strips of pink as if he were ashamed.
Interesting.
It was a scenario that was becoming more and more common in this digital age. A camera phone picture told a thousand words, all of them fiction. She walked over to her bag, riffled through it, and pulled out a paper flyer. She held it up to the room. “This is your new county-wide photography policy. I want you to hang this in all public spaces of your stations. Can anyone take that task on?”

Jason, the man who was at the center of the trouble, raised his hand. “I'll take care of it,” he volunteered. Again, interesting. Between his quiet demeanor, his shame at the photos, and his willingness to work, she was quickly reassessing her mental file on him.