Precisely.
When he moved to adjust his lens, I grabbed the tie on my trench coat and gave it a tug. I might have been there for a photo-shoot, but I wasn’t allowing any picture taking. The only pictures Eves willingly allowed of us with the Target were the ones the Contact took on Sheet night. I didn’t want to be anything more than a memory when I disappeared. I sure as hell didn’t want the Target to have close ups of my face.
Once the belt was undone, I slipped out of the coat and threw it off to the side. I had time to turn around and get situated on the stool before Ian looked up from his incessant camera fiddling. When he did, as expected, his mouth dropped open before he caught himself. He went from shocked to expectant in one-point-two seconds. It was an impressive transformation.
“The last woman who showed up at my door wearing nothing but a trench coat wasn’t here to be photographed,” he said, running his eyes up and down me.
I choked back what I wanted to reply with and reminded myself I was supposed to be a teenager. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He wet his lips as I crossed my legs. “That means you’re the kind of girl who skips right to dessert.”
“And what makes you think I’m that kind of girl?”
He shoved his hands in his front pockets and approached. “Because I’m that kind of guy.”
At least he had one thing right.
“Okay. So what does this whole ‘dessert, that kind of girl, that kind of guy’ conversation have to do with me getting photographed?” I ignored his bedroom eyes and boyish smirk. The last time I’d been affected by that look, I’d been a lot younger. And more naive.
“It means we can skip the pretenses and get to why you’re really here.”
The skin between my eyebrows creased. “To get photographed, like you promised, is why I’m really here.”
“And you’re nak*d on a stool because?” His grin crept higher on one side.
“Because I Googled your work, and at least half of the pictures I found were full-on nudes.” I tilted my head. “Everyone knows there isn’t a single model who got where she did without baring it all at first.” I’d worked with enough Clients who’d been former models to know that was a true story.
“And screwing a few of her photographers on her cat-clawing climb to the top,” he added, stopping in front of me. When his hand affixed to the stool on either side of me, he leaned in.
I shoved his chest, channeling my inner teenage diva. “Eww!” I curled my nose and gave him another shove when he leaned back in. “Get off of me!”
After the second shove, he stepped back. “Please. It’s a little late to play the innocent card. You’ve probably been with as many guys as I’ve been with girls.”
Hopping off of the stool, I marched over to the trench coat on the floor and slid back into it. “Maybe. But I’ve never been with a guy who wanted to exchange photographs for sex,” I said, cinching the coat belt tight.
He gave a lazy shrug like it really wasn’t a big deal at all.
I skimmed my eyes down him. “Or been with a guy old enough to be my dad.”
Yep, that right there was the greatest insult I could have thrown at him. I might as well have punched him between the legs from the way the wind rushed out of him. He didn’t say another word, probably because, in his current state, words were impossible.
I made my way for the door. Thankfully, getting out was much easier than getting in. As I marched down the hall toward the elevator, a smile settled into place. A genuine one. The Target was in just the right place. Exactly where I needed him to be. A man like Ian Hendrik needed to be beat down before I could build him back up—like husband like wife—and from that expression, he’d never hit rock bottom before I beat him down there.
I wanted to be done with Ian Hendrik. I wanted to wrap that one up quickly. Not only because he was a slimeball of a special quality, but because the sooner I finished with him, the sooner I could move on to the Errand I really wanted to be working.
The sooner revenge could be served with a side of merciless reciprocation.
I ALWAYS HATED the Errands where I posed as a teenager. For obvious reasons, of course, but also because it meant the car I raced around town in wasn’t the European, luxury make I was accustomed to. Seattle’s ride was a sporty Acura coupe. It was a zippy little thing, but it left a lot to be desired.
I’d barely made it two blocks from Ian’s studio when my G phone chimed. The woman had a sixth sense when it came to when her Eves could be reached.
“G’day, Sheila G,” I greeted in my best Down Under accent.
A sigh followed. “Are you ever going to answer the phone normally when I call?”
“I don’t know. Are you ever going to call to discuss normal things?” I smirked as I punched the gas at the on-ramp.
“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, this is normal,” she replied.
The day I ever started feeling like what we said and did was “normal” was the day I handed in my resignation. No matter how little or much I had stashed in my accounts.
“To what do I owe the honor of a phone call only a couple days after an in-person visit?” If G was trying to micro-manage me after years of basically letting me run my own show, that wasn’t going to work. “I haven’t closed the Hendrik Errand if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“That’s not why I’m calling, but since you brought it up, how is Mr. Hendrik?”
My mood darkened just thinking about him. “Let me put it this way—he’s the kind of man who makes me wish I’d been born with wiring that swung for the other team.”
G chuckled a few notes. “That applies to every Target we’ve ever worked, my dear.”
Words to live by . . .
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Our Ten is what’s up.”
My heart stopped, then thudded back to life—and not in the romantic, lovey-dovey way. Pretty much the opposite of that. “Henry?” I bit my tongue and slapped my thigh, but I couldn’t take back that one word.
G was silent for a few moments, making me slap my thigh again. If I kept making that kind of elementary mistake, I would lose the Errand before I’d even gotten my butt to the Greet.
“Since when have you started calling a Target by his first name before you’ve even met him?”
Since never was my immediate response. “Since we landed a Ten, and I’m in a bit of unchartered waters. I’m a wee bit excited.” I wondered if my answer sounded as fabricated as it felt. “So shoot me.”
“I just might if you make a mess of this one,” G replied, sounding every bit as patronizing as she could. “This is a big Errand, I get that. If you’re going to make some slips, just be sure they’re with me, not with Mr. Callahan. We can’t afford even one slip with the Target in an Errand this big.”
She wasn’t telling me anything I already didn’t know, so I stayed silent. My role in that Errand would be especially tricky because I wasn’t only deceiving the Target. I was also deceiving G.
G continued. “I just heard from the Client that Mr. Callahan’s business trip ended sooner than anticipated. His flight just landed.”
“Yes?”
“So guess which red-eye you’re taking late tonight?”
From one Errand straight into the next. If that kind of back-and-forth was to be expected, I’d need to be careful to keep my Errands straight. “The one from Seattle to San Francisco?”
“Your flight leaves in an hour,” she replied. “You’d better hustle.”
Instead of taking the exit I was planning on, I kept speeding down the freeway toward SEA-TAC. “Hustling.” I felt a fresh surge of adrenaline trickle into my veins. “What do you want me to do about the Hendrik Errand?” I wouldn’t have minded too much if she said to put it in the brain delete folder and forget about it, but that wasn’t our style. The Eves’ reputation hadn’t been built by bailing on Errands; it had been built by closing them out.
“Mr. Callahan is only stateside for a couple of days before flying out of the country on another business trip,” G replied. “Use these couple of days to study his routines, maybe even to stage the Greet if you think the timing’s right. You’re on the first plane back to Seattle once Mr. Ten gets on his.”
“Sounds like I’ll be racking up plenty of frequent flyer miles,” I joked, keeping in the sigh that wanted to be released. Back and forth, working multiple Errands simultaneously, exacting revenge on an ex-flame who happened to be a powerful, married billionaire . . . It was enough to make a girl want to curl up and hibernate.
“Fifty-eight minutes,” G said in a sing-song voice before the line went dead.
Normal conversation? Hell, I could have been appeased with a normal goodbye.
I’d cruised into SEA-TAC, parked the Acura, and was boarding flight 3910 to San Francisco fifty minutes later. I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back, my purse, and my briefcase. Clothes could be purchased; toiletries could be tracked down. But revenge . . . that couldn’t wait.
I slipped into an oddly peaceful sleep before the plane lifted from the runway.
The Callahan Greet
I WAS RUNNING on two hours of sleep, and I had never felt more energized. Revenge was an odd thing—it could motivate a person like nothing else. It was my opinion that people who lacked motivation in life had a deficit of revenge. That wasn’t my problem, though. When it came to revenge, I had an abundant surplus.
G hadn’t only rented a swanky condo on the beach for me; there was a flashy red vintage Mustang parked outside of the condo. It was a convertible and mint. Plus, it was fast. I didn’t need to look under the hood to make sure. Some things were obvious.
Since it was almost sunrise by the time I’d showered and changed, I didn’t have time to familiarize myself with my sweet new pad. If I wanted to catch Henry alone, I knew just where to find him. The notes Mrs. Callahan had provided were helpful, sure, but Henry was a creature of habit. His morning runs on the beach were one of those habits.
Five years ago, those runs spanned the San Diego coastline. I’d joined him on plenty. Fast forward a few years and a few hundred miles of coastline to the north, and Henry Callahan and I were about to have a deja vu moment.
G might have preferred me to take a couple of days to stand off in the distance and observe Henry, but that was like commanding a tiger to sit and stay as a lamb trotted by. Nope, sitting on the sidelines for any amount of time on that Errand wasn’t happening.
After I slid inside of the Mustang, I turned the key in the ignition. I couldn’t help the smile that formed when the engine roared to life. I also couldn’t help stroking the dashboard affectionately. I’d seen some sweet cars in my life, but that one knocked the rest out of the water. It was only temporary, of course, and only selected because Henry’s file noted he was a fan of classic cars. But for the second, I would forget all of that and just enjoy the random happy moment. Those were the only joys I experienced anymore.