This Year's Black (9 page)

“Good morning, Ms. Falcon.”GA bellboy held a large envelope with her name and a Maltese Security return address. His eyes widened when he got a look at her, and he took a step back. “This just came for you,” he said, his voice wobbled as he handed the package to her. “The messenger said it was urgent.”

“Thank you.” She shut the door and ripped open the envelope.

She’d told Tony to back off. If he was trying to micromanage things on top of her having to deal with the asshole across the room, this case could get ugly. The Thanksgiving when Uncle Sal had tried to stab Sammie Jr. with a cannoli would have nothing on her throw-down with her big brother when she saw him again.

Inside the envelope were several eight-by-ten color photographs and a piece of paper. She pulled out the photos and her pulse went into overdrive.
Holy shit
. Obviously, the return address was bogus.

The first showed her and Devin standing in line at customs. The second showed them outside the tea shop. Her vision darkened around the edges as fury swirled inside her. But she couldn’t give in to it. Not yet.

“What it is? Are you okay?” Devin hustled to her side and tried to put an arm around her.

She easily sidestepped the move. “I’m fine.” The bastard had been just about to accuse her of submarining her own case before the bellboy arrived, and now he wanted to comfort her?

Fuck. That.

She blinked until she could focus on the pictures again. In the third, she and Devin were holding hands during the blessing ceremony. The forth showed them in bed, making love, taken through a crack in the curtains. Devin was embracing her in the fifth shot, his muscular arms pulling her close.

Her hands shook and she fought the urge to rip the glossy paper to shreds. But they were evidence. She might be able to find something in the angles or in a reflection to lead her to the bastard who
’
d taken them. And then that person would feel the full impact of her wrath.

Without a word, she passed the pictures to Devin and opened the single sheet of pale pink paper.

Ms. Falcon,

Consider this your last warning. You see how easy it is for us to get close to you. If you value your life, you’ll go home now.

It ended there without a signature, but she didn’t need one to know who
’
d sent it.

“What the fuck?” He tossed the pictures on the bed’s rumbled sheets before fisting his hands.

“The images aren’t grainy enough to be a telephoto lens. One of Sarah’s lackeys must have been practically sitting in our laps.”

“Jesus Christ.” He started to pace the room. “How did we not notice that?”

The previous day rolled through her mind. The car on the road from the hotel. The wine at dinner. The almost uncontrollable urge to touch Devin after she’d drunk it. Her jumbled thoughts skittered to a stop. No one else had drunk from the special bottle.

“Maybe it was a setup. The bad driver in the van. The old woman with the wine?” The possibility made her muscles twitch with the need to move. To jab. To take out the bastard who’d just fucked with the wrong chick. “Sarah
’
s been harassing us since we stepped off the plane.”

Clenching her jaw, Ryder slowly counted to ten, timing her breaths so they lasted as long as each number, until a familiar calm loosened her muscles. Paulie had taught her a pre-fight routine to clear her mind, and she followed it now. She closed her eyes, released the fists her hands had formed, and pictured an empty ring. Her domain. Her home. No one fucked with her there.

“She doesn’t realize it yet, but Sarah Molina just made a grievous error.” Ryder opened her eyes. “She made it personal.”

Chapter Nine

“
Creativity comes from a conflict of ideas.”

— Donatella Versace

Andol Fashion Week didn’t have the glitz and glamor of Paris or New York, but fashionistas from all over South America and even Europe packed into luxury homes and five-star resorts hastily converted into fashion destinations where six-foot-tall models strutted down narrow runways showcasing the best the continent had to offer. The clothes were on display, but all the ladies-who-lunch could talk about that morning were the thieves who’d hit the city’s main hotel and swiped enough diamonds to fund a trip to the moon.

Ryder could give a shit if some ultra-rich women lost a few baubles that were no doubt insured. She’d hauled her ass halfway across the island for one reason only: to find Sarah Molina. A confirmed fashion junkie who’d been a part of the fashion world for three decades, there was no way she’d miss out on the continent
’s premier fashion event.

Walking up the stone pathway to a covered Zen garden, her kitten heels clicking on each flagstone, Ryder scanned the small groupings concentrated near the three bars placed strategically around the potted bonsai trees. These shows never started on time, allowing even the latecomers like her and Devin time to see and be seen. Her earlier rage had congealed like mozzarella cheese on a day-old slice of pizza, leaving her mind free of the red haze coloring her vision. She scanned the glittering crowd as she circled the empty runway, searching for Sarah
’
s distinctive ebony bob. She spotted plenty of blondes, a handful of brunettes, and even the occasional white, but no bob. The lack of results turned her last nerve into a tiny nub of discontent and free-floating aggression. Well, that and the frustration of pretending she was Devin’s happy little assistant even though she wanted to knock him in the nuts for thinking she’d leaked the news about the store’s financial troubles.

A shadow fell across her path. She didn’t have to look up to know the most annoying man in the world had stopped beside her. A tingling up her spine had told her he was near long before he darkened her sight lines.

“Do you see her?” The intensity in Devin’s hushed words made a mockery of his casual stance and the loose way he held a champagne flute.

She shook her head as a short man in a blue seersucker suit rushed toward them. Immediately on guard, she pivoted and braced her shoulders in case of attack. He had a paunchy belly, teeth so white they were nearly florescent, and a bulbous nose that would make a perfect first target. She rose onto the balls of her feet, keeping her muscles loose but ready.

The man started talking before his feet even stopped moving. “Mr. Devin Harris, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Louis Pucci, The Andol Republic’s cultural minister.”

She relaxed back onto her heels, wishing she could exhale the fight-or-flight adrenaline rush from her veins instead of having to let it tweak through her system, making her muscles contract under her black lace sleeves.

“So good to meet you.” Devin shook Louis’s hand. “We’ve been impressed with the setup for the shows today.”

The other man beamed. “Thank you, we are most proud of our South American geniuses.” He turned to Ryder. “Madam, I apologize for so rudely interrupting your conversation, but I could not let an opportunity to talk to Mr. Harris go by.”

“That’s not a problem. This”—Devin turned to Ryder—”is my assistant,
Ryder Falcon.”

Louis’ smooth fingers clasped hers and he brought them up to his lips. “We are so pleased you are both here with us enjoying the wonderful designs. Let me take you to your seats.” He walked them to the chairs lining a raised, sixteen-feet-long catwalk. “I made sure you have premium seats. We really are hoping you find a local designer or two to feature prominently at Dylan’s Department Stores across the globe when the merger goes through.”

“That is the goal today.” Devin’s voice had a breezy tone, but his left eye twitched.

Muscle spasm or something more? She didn’t give a shit. Her job was to track down Sarah, not be Devin’s babysitter, and she refused to give him an inch after this morning. The only nursing she’d be doing would involve a grudge—or a bottle of tequila.

“I hope you have found our country pleasing so far.” Louis stopped in front of a pair of front-row seats located three-fourths of the way down the runway and held out his hand.

Again, Devin shook the man’s hand, but his gaze flitted around the gathering. “It is beautiful here.”

“Wonderful.” Louis executed a short bow toward Ryder. “If there’s anything you need, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

“There is one thing.” She ignored Devin’s censorious look. He wasn’t running this investigation and it was time he realized that. “We’re hoping to chat with Sarah Molina while we’re here. You haven’t seen her yet, have you?”

“No,
se
ñ
orita
.” His posture stiffened and a vein quivered against his otherwise smooth forehead. “But if I do, I’ll be sure to let her know you
’
re looking for her.” He took three quick steps back, not bothering to wait for a reply.

After practically fawning over Devin, now he couldn
’
t ditch them fast enough. Alarm bells clanged in Ryder
’
s head, but she wasn
’
t about to let him get away that quickly.

“Do you know her well?” She gave him her best just-a-dumb-employee eye flutter.

He paused, one foot caught mid-step, hanging in the air. “I do. Her family and mine have been close friends for generations.”

“How lovely,” she gushed.

He returned her smile, but the dull flatness in
his
hard eyes sent a chill down her spine. “Indeed.”

Devin must have felt it, too, because he inched toward her until he was close enough for the heat from his body to dissipate the frigidness the cultural minister inspired.

Annoyed at the relief she felt, she stepped away from him and closer to the other man. “Could I bother you to take my card, so you can reach me when you see her?”

Louis
’
s smile held about as much warmth as the Arctic Circle. “Of course.”

“You are too kind.” She handed him a white business card that only listed her name and her cell phone number.

He pocketed the card, shook Devin’s hand once more, and left as fast as his little feet would take him to mingle with the other guests wandering around looking for their seats.

Watching him go, she took the opportunity to cast a surreptitious glance at those gathered close by. There were South American versions of Harbor City society’s great dames in color-matching looks from their wide-brimmed hats to their spike-heeled sandals. Men and women who obviously believed in the power of fashion-with-a-capital-F dotted the landscape and were dressed in avant-garde touches—including one woman with a tree-branch fascinator that curved forward to cover half her face. In between those extremes were the “It” girls and fashion forward boys who were here not only to see, but to be seen. It was a people-watching paradise.

But the one person she wanted to see remained hidden.

Reaching inside his jacket, Devin pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses and put them on before sitting down. “Look, about what happened at the hotel room earlier. I—”

A painful tightness gripped her throat, making her response scratchy. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” He twisted in his chair, turning away from the crowd.

“No.” Her grimace projected back at her from his sunglass’s reflection. “We got caught up in the whole island vibe or were drugged, maybe both. Everything just righted itself back to the natural order of things. But I
didn’t
leak the story and you damn well know it.”

“You’re right.” He paused. “About almost all of it.”

Everything inside her head screeched to a halt. “What do you mean
almost
?”

“Well, there!” A voice boomed between them.

Ryder jerked her focus away from Devin, annoyance and the interruption making her snarl. She did a double-take at the giant of a man standing in front of their chairs.

He was the tallest person she’d ever seen not CGIed into a scifi movie. He had to be just shy of seven feet tall, and that wasn’t counting his purple four-inch platform boots. He’d topped his summer white suit with a caplet and a paisley fedora. He looked like a demented villain from one of her nephew’s cartoons.

Judging by Devin’s stiff posture and vein-popping forearms, he wasn’t pleased to see this newest arrival.

“Imagine seeing you in The Andol Republic, Harris,” the man drawled.

“Nigel.” Devin slathered the name with distaste. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

The interloper plopped down in the empty seat to Ryder’s right. “Well, when I heard the wolf of the fashion world was here, how could I miss it?” He pulled out a purple paisley pocket square and dabbed his forehead.

Devin stared straight ahead, working his jaw like a grinder. “What do you want?”

Ryder had the distinct impression that unless Nigel was looking for a swift kick in the ass, he was so out of luck. Damn, if only she had a bucket of popcorn to go with the show.

“You know.” Nigel rolled his shoulders. “A little of this. A little of that.”

“Go look for it elsewhere, then, because I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Nigel chuckled, seemingly less than intimidated by Devin’s snarling. “So, I shouldn’t even try for a quote about how Dylan’s Department Store is circling the toilet bowl? The word backstage is that you need money—bad. I hope you aren’t so desperate for cash that you turned jewel thief. Half the people here are wearing fake jewels after thieves hit the local hotels last night.”

Ryder’s toes curled in her kitten heels. What a piece of work. It was one thing for her to be pissed at Devin, but quite another for some random dude to hurl insults at her client. She ignored the little voice whispering inside that she’d never been bothered before when that happened with any of her other clients. Her knuckles cracked as she flexed her fingers.

Standing up, Devin loomed over Nigel’s sitting form. “I always knew you had questionable taste. I didn’t realize until right now that you had questionable survival skills, too.”

“Oh my, did I annoy the wolf?” Nonplussed, Nigel leaned back in his chair and swiveled in her direction. “Is this your red riding hood? Is she in mourning for her grandmother or just sartorially challenged?”

She nailed him with her best bitch-please look. “I’m Mr. Harris’s personal assistant.”

“Ryder Falcon meet Nigel Mintus, former style maker and now… What little paper are you working for now?” Devin asked.

“I’m the fashion editor for
The Daily Guardian
.”

“Which comes out weekly.” Devin smirked.

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. That burn served the asshole right.

“An unfortunate development,” Nigel snarled, then shot back, “Does your parole officer know you’ve left the country?”

She clamped her mouth shut to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. Questions ran though her head, each led by a big
what the fuck
.

She
’
d searched Devin’s background, looking for any bit of negative information she could find, and had never come across any criminal charges, let alone a conviction. She
’
d even pulled in Carlos, the Maltese Security computer guru, telling him to look up Devin
’
s background. Carlos could hack into the nuclear defense system if he wanted, but he hadn
’
t found shit on Devin. Who did he know to get his record wiped cleaner than Nonni’s pantry?

“
I don’
t have a parole officer.” Devin stiffened and his hands formed firsts, but he kept them lowered to his sides. The effort cost him, though, because his face turned as red as Sunday gravy.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” Nigel stood, raised an eyebrow, and pursed his lips into a duck face imitation. “Doesn’t your…ahem…
personal assistant
know you killed a man and nearly destroyed another? I always forget, did you kill your brother or the other teenager?”

All of the air whooshed out of Ryder’s lungs, leaving them aching. She whipped her head around to look at Devin. All the healthy color had fled his face.

Reaching down, he grabbed Nigel by the shirt front and yanked him out of the seat. “Get out of here before I shove one of those boots so far up your ass your teeth will be bedazzled.”

Ryder sprang to her feet, squeezing between the two men. The people around them fell silent, then the buzzing began as everyone whispered and tapped their thumbs against their phone touch screens, all wanting to be the first to get out the news. Devin released his hold on the other man and took several steps backward, everything about him as tense as a lion ready to pounce.

“I’m shaking here.” Nigel buffed his manicured nails against his jacket. “You better watch your manners. I’d hate to have to tell Sarah about your boorish behavior. You know she’d feel obligated to report it up the chain to George.”

“So, where is she?” The words tumbled out of Ryder’s mouth as her gaze darted around the crowd, searching for the diminutive older woman and coming up empty.

Nigel waved his hand in the air. “She
’
s holed up at her family pineapple farm, recovering from the party she hosted there last night for the top designers.” He smiled condescendingly at them. “That’s right, I didn’t see you there. So sorry you didn’t rate an invitation.”

The DJ stepped into his booth and a second later, a fast-paced house beat poured out of the speakers.

“Looks like you better find your seat.” Ryder sat down, relief making her lightheaded when Devin followed her lead—for once. “Are you on the front row, too?”

Nigel peered down his generous nose at her. “No. I prefer to have a more realistic experience with the actual consumers.”

“Of course you do.” She used the same voice as when her Newfoundland, Kermit, became convinced he was a lap dog.