The Closer (12 page)

Heart hammering in her throat, hands shaking, she shrugged carefully into it and he just as carefully connected the hooks. His fingers were warm, slightly unsteady, and when she met his eyes in the mirror, his gaze was blistering hot with need, tempered with affection. “Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you?” he asked softly. “Any idea at all?”

Probably as much as she wanted him to, Jess thought, bolstered by his obvious appreciation. “You can't,” she said regretfully. “Andre would flip a bitch if you messed up my lipstick.”

He snorted. “Andre can go to hell.”

“Andre doesn't want to go to hell,” the man himself announced, stepping into the little room. “Andre wants to go to the bar and get hammered because Andre is sick of dealing with temperamental supermodels with limited vocabularies, daddy issues and an exaggerated sense of self-importance,” he said. “But that, too, will have to wait.” He shooed Griff. “Go,” he told him. “Sophia is going to help you get ready.”

Griff frowned. “I don't need any help. I can dress myself, thanks.”

He laughed. “Not for a runway you can't. Your other friends are right outside the curtain,” he said. “Now, scoot.”

Jess had to admit that watching Griff get bossed around by a man who'd likely had more manicures than she had was a sight to behold, and more than a little funny.

His blue-green gaze caught and held hers. “I'll see you in a minute,” he said.

She nodded.

The second Griff stepped out, Payne stepped in, making Andre roll his eyes. He huffed dramatically. “Oh, for pity's sake,” he groused. “What do you think I'm going to do? Conk her on the head, whisk her away to some tropical location and sacrifice her to the volcano gods?”

Payne didn't reply, to which Andre leaned forward and said, “He's a chatty one, isn't he? Personality
galore
.”

Jess met Payne's gaze in the mirror and was surprised when he winked at her.

Andre fussed around her, tweaking a hair here and there, then swiped a bit of powder over her cheeks. “There,” he said. “You're perfect.” He quickly produced his phone, loaded the camera and slung an arm over her shoulder. He leaned in close and grinned. “Smile,” he said, aiming the phone an arm's length away, then snapped a picture. “I always like having a selfie of my work,” he said.

Jess merely nodded.

Andre's eyes suddenly rounded. “That's your cue,” he said, hurrying her out of the room.

She dimly noted Payne, Flanagan and McCann, then caught sight of Griff and her heart jumped into an erratic beat. Dressed in a classic tuxedo, his curls smoothed into a sleek forties-era style, he looked impossibly handsome and mouthwateringly sexy. His blue-green eyes were rife with uncertainty—a phenomenon, she was sure—and when he smiled, the ground shifted a little beneath her feet.

“You clean up nice,” she said, giving him a lengthy lingering once-over.

He leaned forward. “Stop looking at me like that,” he warned under his breath. “Or I'm going to ruin the line of these slacks.”

She grinned.

Headset in place, Clarice hurried over, then steered them toward the back of the runway. “Okay,” she said. “You know what you're doing, right? Shoulders back, head up and walk like you're on a mission.” She turned to Griff. “You're the slathering hound on her heels,” she told him. “You're the dog after her bone. While you're watching her walk away, you're admiring everything about her. You want her so desperately you can taste it. Can you do it?”

His humorous gaze tangled with hers. “Oh, I think I can handle it.”

“Excellent.” She cast a glance toward the curtain, nodded when she received the signal. “All right. You're up. Go.”

Because the bra was the finale piece of the showcase, Jess was supposed to work all three runways, giving everyone in the room an ample view of the piece. This was it, she told herself, the moment her father had worked so very hard for. A flash of images fired through her brain, all of them of him—his head bent over the bra, tools in hand, stretching his aching back, his happy expression when he'd completed a section he was especially proud of.

This was for her dad, she thought determinedly. And with Griff at her side, she could do anything. Even walk half-naked out into a room full of strangers. She lifted her head, drew her shoulders back and strode forward. Jess worked that runway as if she owned it. She smiled and preened, she blew kisses at Griff, purposely sent him a few slaying sidelong glances, and by the time she took her final bow, the entire room was on its feet—some of them on their chairs—and the applause was so loud it drowned out the music.

Griff leaned over. “I think you might have missed your calling,” he whispered.

“You, too, Spot.”

“Spot?”

She sent him a wicked look. “You're my dog, aren't you?”

His eyes flashed. “Damn straight. And I'm looking forward to humping the hell out of you later.”

Jess grinned, a thrill whipping through her. “Not as much as I'm looking forward to clipping a leash to your neck.”

12

H
IS
EARS
STILL
ringing from Jess's “leash” comment and the applause, Griff scanned the audience, ever mindful of the threat, and snugged a finger against her back. He'd noticed Flanagan and McCann in the audience and fully expected Payne to be waiting for them when they came off the runway. “Come on,” he said. “We need to move.”

Her nod was imperceptible, but he caught it and, smiling at the room at large, she turned and began retracing her steps. They both heaved a big sigh of relief when they took the last step—Griff because that was one hurdle crossed, Jess presumably because she'd gotten her modeling debut over with.

The whole backstage area erupted into wild applause the instant they saw Jess. Andre clapped wildly, Clarice beamed at her and both Mr. Pershing and Mr. Nolan wore admiring grins.

“You were magnificent,” Mr. Pershing told her. “Well done, my dear. Well done.”

“You must come to the after party,” Mr. Nolan insisted. “Even if it's only for a few minutes.”

Her hesitant gaze swung to Griff's and she arched a brow.

He nodded, unable to deny her the well-deserved moment of glory. “Just for a few minutes,” he said. “I'll go up and get everything ready to go.”

Though the original plan had involved the bra going on the model for the evening cocktail party, Griff had nixed that element and had decided that the sooner the repairs were made to the piece and it was delivered back into the hands of the Montwheeler representative, the better.

Because Mr. Rossi wasn't going to leave his store, the repairs had to be made on-site. But the actual handoff would be done in Atlanta, at the Ranger Security offices. He wasn't exactly certain whether Payne, Flanagan and McCann were going to follow them, but he assumed they would, if for no other reason than to see this case through to the end.

It took Griff several minutes to steer Jess back to her dressing room to change, but when the bra was once again stored safely in its case and handcuffed to Griff's wrist, she turned and pressed a long, thorough kiss on his lips.

“Thank you,” she murmured when at last she drew back.

Griff grinned and shook his head. “Tell me what I did and I'll do it again.”

“I couldn't have done that without you,” she said. “When you look at me, you make me feel beautiful. You make me believe it.”

“First of all, yes, you most definitely could have done it without me because you're the bravest woman I know. And that's saying something,” he added, “because I know a lot of brave people.” He slid a finger down her cheek. “Second, Jess, you
are
beautiful.” He shook his head, genuinely mystified. “I don't know why you think you aren't.”

“It's not that I think I'm not,” she said. “But knowing it and feeling it are two completely different things.
You
make me feel it. Just you.”

“Griff?” Payne's voice called through the curtain before he could respond.

“Coming,” he said.

“We'll finish this discussion later,” he told her. “Remember, only stay a few minutes. We need to get on the road.” He paused. “Would you like one of the guys to come with you? I can—”

She shook her head. “It's you he's going to be after,” she said. “Not me. Take them with you. I'll be fine.”

He knew that she was right, yet he hesitated.

“Griff, go,” she encouraged, giving him a little push. “I'm not what he wants.”

No, but she was what
he
wanted, he thought, momentarily paralyzed as the notion flitted easily through his head. His mouth parched and panic punched him hard in the chest.

“Griff?” she asked, her smooth brow clouding with concern. “Are you all right? You look funny.”

He shook himself. “I'm fine. I'll, uh...I'll see you upstairs.”

Determined to think about anything but the little earth-shattering realization he'd just come to, Griff hurried out and found Payne, McCann and Flanagan waiting for him.

“You should have taken the tux off before clipping that to your wrist,” McCann said. “Good job, by the way. You play the role of ‘slathering hound' quite well,” he added, a faint smile on his lips.

Irritated, Griff glanced at the top of McCann's head and stared until the other man frowned. “What?” he asked.

“It must be invisible,” Griff remarked as they boarded the service elevator.

McCann scowled. “What's invisible?”

“Your dick hat,” he said. “I know it's there because you're running your mouth, but I can't see it.”

Payne grinned and Flanagan chuckled. “Dick hat,” Flanagan repeated, rocking back on his heels. “I'm
so
stealing that.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Payne told them. “If Keller's still going to make a move, then it's going to be in the next few minutes.”

Griff glanced at him. “What makes you so sure?”

He shot him a mild look. “Because that's how I'd do it.”

“Me, too,” McCann said after a small pause. “It's made its debut, the buzz has started. What better way to increase the value?”

“He's not interested in increasing the value,” Payne said. “He's giving it back, remember?”

“He
says
he'll give it back,” Flanagan pointed out. He winced skeptically. “But I have to tell you, I have a hard time putting my trust into the word of a thief.”

“Just because he's a thief, that doesn't mean he's a liar,” Payne told him. “If he says he'll give it back, then he'll give it back.”

“You honestly believe that?” McCann asked him.

Payne nodded once. “I do.”

“How about we just don't let him take it to start with?” Griff interjected. “I like that plan.”

Flanagan slipped him a high five. “I do, too.”

They finished the ride up to the sixteenth floor in silence, then exited, their guns drawn, careful to keep a close watch for anything out of the ordinary. Griff had slipped Payne the room key card earlier and it was he who inserted it into the lock. The suite was quiet when they entered, almost eerily so, but a thorough search revealed that they were alone and all was as it should be.

Griff released a tense breath. “I'm going to change,” he told them. “Somebody give me an arm.”

Payne offered his. Once the case was securely locked onto Payne's wrist, Griff excused himself to go into the bedroom and quickly swapped the tux for a pair of jeans and a sweater. He'd just started packing up when suddenly the television came on in the bathroom.

He frowned, pulled his Glock from the back of his pants and peered into the room.

Nothing.

“Welcome to Owl TV,” a voice said from the screen. “Trust me. You'll give a hoot.”

Owl TV?
A prickling of unease slid up his spine and camped at the base of his neck. Anticipation spiked, quickening his pulse. “Payne,” Griff called quietly.

“Yes, yes, do call Payne,” the voice continued. “I'm looking forward to seeing him. He's an old friend, you know.”

What the hell?
How was the damn television
talking
to him? Griff edged farther into the room to better see the television set. An image of a great horned owl perched on a thick tree branch filled the screen.

“Come on in,” the owl said, its beak moving as though it was actually speaking. “Don't be shy. It's important that all of you hear this.”

Payne, Flanagan and McCann all warily filed in and he watched as each of their faces registered the same grim shock he was feeling himself.

“Payne,” the bird said warmly. “It's been a long time.”

Payne's face was an unreadable mask, his gaze cool. “Where are you, Keller?”

“That's classified information, soldier,” he said. “But don't worry, we'll get a chance to catch up soon. For the moment, you simply need to listen. I'm going to take that lovely bra off your wrist, keep it for forty-eight hours, then I'll return it personally to you at a location I'll share with you at a later time. You'll need to come alone, of course. You were never a snitch and I doubt that you are now, but better safe than sorry, I always say.”

Griff had heard enough. “Listen, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but—”

The owl tsked and shook his head. “It's rude to interrupt, Mr. Wicklow.” The great head turned back toward Payne. “Now, as I was saying, as a show of good faith, I'm leaving something in exchange for what I'm taking, of equal value, of course. And I have arranged an online auction for my piece, which is far from a Rossi, I'll admit, but quite nice all the same. The auction will automatically commence in two hours. Payne, the auction company will only release the funds to you and you're to give the money to the charity or charities of your choice. I, personally, prefer to make donations to agencies that help battered and abused children, but that's just me.” He paused. “I'm looking forward to catching up.”

The screen went black, the bathroom door suddenly swung closed and the room instantly filled with a smoky sweet gas.

“Son of a bitch,” Flanagan muttered, a sentiment that was echoed in one form or another by the rest of them.

They all bolted into action, stumbled toward the door, but none of them even so much as reached the handle. One minute Griff was covering his mouth with his sleeve, the next...the world went black.

When he awoke, it was to the frantic shaking of Jess's arms on his shoulders, the sight of her pale, tear-stained terrified face and a violent headache.

“Griff?” A tear splashed on his cheek. “Griff? Oh, please, Griff,” she sobbed, sliding a hand over his face. “Please don't be— I couldn't bear it—” He felt her lips against his skin, her wet lashes brush against him, and he struggled to open his eyes, to let her know that he was okay. He groaned, blinked, and he felt her stiffen.

“Griff?”

“Shh,” he told her, his voice weak. “Don't cry.”

Her hands moved lovingly over his face. “Oh, Griff. Oh, thank God,” she said, her voice broken and thick with still-unshed tears. “You're all right. I thought you were—” She hugged him tightly and he could feel her shaking with fear, her slender shoulders trembling. “But you're not— You're all r-right.”

It took a few seconds for his fuzzy brain to catch up, but when it did, his gaze darted around the bathroom, saw Payne, Flanagan and McCann all on the floor as well, but beginning to stir.

“Knockout gas,” McCann said a few minutes later, bathing his face with a wet cloth Jess had gotten for him. “That's some wicked shit.”

After confirming that the bra was, in fact, gone and had been replaced with another, this one a snowy owl design, which was primarily set with diamonds, pearls and varying shades of topaz, they'd all moved to the living room. There was something rather pathetic about lingering in the bathroom, McCann had pointed out, and the air was cleaner.

Looking distinctly green around the gills again—he'd already emptied his stomach twice—Flanagan glared at Payne. “Fair warning. Old friend or not, I'm going to track that bastard down to the ends of the earth if necessary and beat the bloody hell out of him.”

Griff snorted. “I'll join you.”

Not because he'd bested all four of them or out of any sense of impugned honor, but for Jess, who'd been terrified that she'd walked in on a quadruple homicide and was at the very moment wiping a tear from her cheek, saddened over the loss of her father's work.

He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss against her head, not caring who saw him. “He's returning it to Payne, Jess. In two days.”

“I know,” she said. “I just dread telling my father. He worked so hard on it. Remember what he said about the piece securing the Rossi legacy.” She offered him a watery smile. “I don't think this is what he had in mind.”

“Maybe not,” Payne told her. “But if his angle was exposure for your company, then having the piece stolen by the infamous Owl will certainly get him that. More than if it had never been lifted to start with.” He grimaced. “The press is going to have a field day and the only company involved that is going to come out of this looking like incompetent fools is Ranger Security. Because we let him take it. We failed.”

Every startled gaze in the room swung to Payne.

“We were
gassed,
Payne,” McCann said tightly. “I'm not willing to call that a failure. I call that foul play.”

“Call it whatever you want, but we lost the cargo. We are no longer in possession of the item we were hired to protect.”

“No, but we're in possession of something of equal value and we're insured,” Jamie added. “Furthermore, there's the confidentiality agreement. No one knows Ranger Security was tapped to provide protection. Neither Clandestine nor Montwheeler is going to divulge that information. They'd be in breach of contract and we'd sue the hell out of them.”

“You don't think it's going to get leaked?”

McCann lifted his chin. “I think that if it does, we have the resources to track down the source—who could only be associated with one company or the other—and file suit. I think that when we meet with both parties, we need to make that little tidbit painfully clear.”

Payne nodded. “I agree.” He glanced at Jess and lifted a brow. “Would you mind telling us exactly what you saw as you came back upstairs, in the elevator, the hall, and when you came into the suite?”

“Of course,” she said. “I, uh...I went to the service elevator, but after several minutes, when the call button didn't respond, I walked to the lobby and got on the Barry White elevator. I—”

“The Barry White elevator?” Flanagan asked incredulously.

Jess blushed and shot Griff a look. “It's the elevator that always comes for us,” she said. “The very last one on the right and the music is...”