Risking It All, London Calling Book Three Preview
A
LSO
BY
K
AT
F
AITOUR
A Matter of Trust, London Calling Book One
Copyright © 2016 by Kat Faitour
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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D
EDICATION
For Mama
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Tamara Lush — fellow author and critique partner. Thank you for your honesty, graciousness, and assistance. I look forward to many more years, books, and chats.
Editor — Todd Barselow (
http://www.apparatuspress.com
)
Editor — Megan Cavanaugh (
http://www.meganedits.com
)
Cover design by James,
http://www.goonwrite.com
CHAPTER ONE
S
UMMER
, 1995
A
NGELINE
D
UBOIS
S
INCLAIR
was a runner.
Not any longer, but she had been for most of her life. Now, standing absolutely still, she waited on the rectangular porch of Telfair Academy, the oldest public museum of art in the southern United States. With a surreptitious movement, she checked the thin gold Cartier tank watch on her wrist.
The city commissioner was late.
She eyed the large Corinthian columns that flanked her, tempted by their sturdy assurance of a place to lean. She fought the urge to fan herself with her hands. Across the street, Telfair Square beckoned with its heavy oaks and dripping moss along brick paved pathways. Iron park benches summoned her with their promise of cool relief, a place for her to slip off her high-heeled pumps and relax.
She remained where she was, standing straight and motionless.
Angeline was a woman of cool poise, undisturbed by tardy politicians or sultry heat shimmering from the concrete and asphalt streets of downtown Savannah. After all, she was supposed to be a woman born and bred to the South. Unaffected by blazing summers, and unfazed by the slower pace the brutal temperatures and humidity dictated.
After so many years, she could almost convince herself she was a native. The barest smile tilted the corners of her lips.
A portly man bustled up to the porch, interrupting her thoughts. Clutching a linen handkerchief, he busily mopped the sweat from his forehead before pocketing it in his seersucker suit.
A wide smile blossomed across Angeline’s face as she offered her hand, steadfastly ignoring the moisture still clinging to the commissioner’s palm. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fremont. I appreciate your time.”
He stared, keeping her hand tucked in his for a beat longer than was strictly polite. Angeline allowed it, used to the response she provoked in men.
The commissioner cleared his throat. “Ms. Sinclair. It’s very nice to finally meet with you. I’m so glad Savannah has hired one of its own to help preserve and promote our cultural art scene.”
She didn’t correct him. Since moving to the area, she’d subtly altered her accent from a Louisiana drawl to one more distinct to Georgia’s native cadence. Her husband, John Sinclair, hadn’t even noticed.
Of course, he’d never noticed her New Orleans dialect wasn’t original either. She was confident enough to believe he never would. After all, there would be no purpose to informing him of her deception at this point. They were married with a small daughter they cherished. She wouldn’t do anything to risk the security she’d worked so hard to achieve.
Turning to the commissioner, she motioned for him to lead the way into the gallery. Picking up the thread of his earlier comment, she answered in kind. “I’m very pleased to be part of Savannah’s historic art community.” She paused as he held the door for her. “We must preserve what is special and magical in Savannah, while carefully selecting new pieces for the public’s enjoyment. I’m very happy to hear about the riverfront exhibition this evening.” She glanced over her shoulder to catch him ogling her legs. “After all, art isn’t stagnant. And neither are Georgians, Mr. Fremont.” She deliberately continued to address him formally, a reminder that her interest was solely professional. She’d learned the aptitude of men to assume more where there was less.
He flushed, obviously embarrassed at being caught staring. She led him into her office, clearly marked with her name and title of assistant curator. Reveling in the flash of pride she felt reading it, she decided to exercise a little mercy. Taking her seat across from him, she smiled gently. He beamed in return, as she’d known he would.
She would be kind, she decided. Relax a little. She lived in Savannah, a treasure of a city she’d read about as a young woman. She was beautiful and smart, with a gorgeous and talented husband. Her daughter was exceptional, a wellspring of love and joy.
Her life was everything she’d never dared to hope it could be.
***
John Sinclair poured a measure of single malt Scotch into a cut crystal glass. He took a moment to appreciate its amber richness reflecting under the dimmed light of an overhead chandelier before tipping it to his lips. The smoked peaty flavor exploded over his tongue to scorch a path down his throat. Without fail, he was nostalgically reminded of his father, an immigrant who’d compensated for homesickness by spinning vivid, colorful tales of the land he’d left behind.
Taking a seat in a large, overstuffed leather chair in the study, John made himself comfortable. He and Angeline were due to attend an art exhibition in less than an hour. It was an exclusive event, one they’d missed out on getting tickets to. Apparently, she’d charmed a city councilman earlier in the day. He’d offered his two tickets so they could attend.
It had been a late change, but John and Angeline loved spontaneity. Of course, she’d promised to leave work early so they could enjoy an aperitif before departure. She liked the formality of Southern traditions, like drinks before dinner, even though they rarely succeeded in carrying them out.
After all, Angeline was always late.
He smiled to himself, thinking of the woman who’d become his wife seven years ago. She’d been working at a gallery in New Orleans when he’d ambled in to escape the incessant, pervasive heat of the city. He’d known it would be an oasis of cool air and humidity controlled relief as people protected art in the same ways they protected other fine things—like wine and Scotch.
Seeing her the first time, he’d sworn the priceless art surrounding her was merely a foil, a background to complement her exquisite beauty. Standing tall and regal, she’d been wearing a sheath dress the color of forest moss. Her feet were clad in high-heeled black pumps. Glossy chestnut hair was coiled into a perfect chignon.
John moved quietly through his world, soundlessly entering spaces where a piece of information—or opportunity—might be found.
So, it was no surprise that Angeline Dubois failed to hear him come in that day. And John Sinclair was forever grateful for that as it allowed a glimpse into a personality she rarely showed others.
“Tell me
exactly
what you were thinking when you thought you could steal these.” She raised both her hands, each holding antique crystal salt cellars from the eighteenth century. A young woman stood in front of her, shoulders stooped and eyes fixed to the floor. “Don’t stand there mute, Courtney. Tell me what you thought you’d accomplish. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Silence greeted her in response.
Carefully placing the cellars on a nearby table, she approached the girl. In a gesture at war with the confused anger in her voice, she lightly placed her hands on the girl’s upper arms. Almost too softly for him to hear, Angeline repeated herself. “
Tell me
.”
John was surprised when he saw the girl crumple, sobbing, into Angeline’s arms. She welcomed her with an embrace, allowing her to cry out her troubles on the lovely silk faille of her dress.
Just as John was about to announce his presence, the girl spoke.
“I needed the money. And that little antique shop on Jones Street is looking to buy these for a collector.”
Angeline pushed the girl’s shoulders back so she could look her in the eye. “Courtney, I don’t understand. You come from a wealthy family. Why do you think you need money?”
The girl averted her eyes, staring at the floor again. “Because I want to leave.” She raised tear-drenched eyes back to Angeline. “I
need
to leave. My family, it’s not what it seems. I can’t be there anymore.”
Angeline pulled the girl back into her arms for a hard hug. “Listen to me. I’ll help you, do you understand? We’ll go into my office and you will tell me everything. And we’ll get you out of whatever situation from which you think you need to escape.”
The girl’s face filled with cautious hope. “Do you mean it, Ms. Dubois? Really?”
“Yes, I mean it. You could have come to me, Courtney. But now I know. And I will help you, but on one condition.” She looked at the girl expectantly, waiting for Courtney’s answering nod in agreement. “You will not continue stealing. I’ll give you what you need. But you will conduct your life in the future with honesty and integrity. Agreed?”
The girl nodded again with a watery smile. “I promise. I give you my word, Ms. Dubois.”
“Good. Now, go into my office and wait for me. I’ll be there in a moment.”
After Courtney left, Angeline turned to see John standing across the room near the doorway. She hesitated briefly before walking toward him, fixing a bright smile of inquiry on her face.
“Welcome. Can I help you find anything or would you prefer to browse?”
Up close, John couldn’t help but stare into the warm glow of Angeline’s striking eyes. They were intense, mysterious, yet warmly inviting. He dropped his guard and baldly asked, “Are you really going to help that girl or were you just telling her that?”