He hadn't set out to be the head of anything. For that matter, he hadn't set out to work in the world of black ops. A combination of birth, circumstance, and natural talent had gradually led him to where he was now, and he had to admit the job was a good fit.
He'd been born in Israel to American parents. His mother was a nonpracticing Jew; his father a laid-back Mississippi Delta boy who didn't give a hoot one way or the other. The fact that his mother didn't practice the religion she'd been born into was a sore spot with Cael. "If you aren't willing to follow the customs that pertain to you," he'd once groused to her, "why the hell couldn't you have left my foreskin out of it?"
"Stop complaining," she'd retorted. "You didn't need it."
"But I might have wanted it, and now I'll never know, will I?"
Just as a matter of principle, he didn't like the fact that one of his body parts had been removed without his permission.
He'd lived in Israel until he was ten, and had grown up speaking three languages: Hebrew, English, and Southern. Later on he'd added Spanish and German, with a smattering of Japanese that he was gradually expanding. Moving to the United States had been a big culture shock to him, but one he liked. He may have spent his first ten years in Israel, but he'd always been aware that he was an American. This was where he belonged.
Even so, he retained a deep fondness for Israel, and because he'd been born there he had dual citizenship. When he was eighteen he'd decided he wanted adventure, and he'd served a stint in the Israeli army, where he'd exhibited certain talents that brought him to the attention of Mossad. He'd done some jobs for them, before maturity and a desire to live brought him back to America, where he'd belatedly gotten a college degree in business administration.
There was no getting away from fate, he mused. His degree had come in handy, with the string of car washes, Laundromats, and other cash-rich businesses he owned. He'd built a fortune for himself - smallish, but still a fortune. The truth, however, was that those cash-rich businesses provided a convenient way for him to launder the money he earned from his real livelihood, which was mostly finding out things that other people wanted to keep hidden. The people who paid him didn't exactly provide 1099s at the end of the year, and he had to have some way to account for his money to the IRS. He did have some of it salted away in Switzerland, but the whole point of money, to him, was to put it to work. To do that, he had to have it in the United States. Thus the low-rent businesses, which had turned out to be a gold mine. No matter what, people washed their cars and clothes.
While he'd nursed his coffee, dawn had gradually arrived. He could see the mountains now, the deep green forest around him, see the birds that sang. His stomach reminded him that he'd been up for hours, and it was time for breakfast. After breakfast, he'd start calling his people, and get a plan put in place.
CRYSTAL CHANDELIERS GLITTERED OVERHEAD; in fact the entire ballroom seemed to glitter, from the chandeliers to the crystal glasses on the tables, to the jewelry decorating hair and ears, throats and hands, to the sequins and crystals on gowns and shoes and evening bags. Everything glittered.
Jenner stifled a sigh. She was so damn tired of glitter, so bored with these endless charity functions even when they were for a good cause. Why couldn't she just write a check and be done with it?
Even if she'd enjoyed the social aspect of these things, wine tasting, followed by an expensive dinner, which was then followed by an auction for overvalued objects she didn't want or need wasn't Jenner's idea of fun, and yet here she was. Again.
It was Sydney's fault, of course. Sydney Hazlett was Jenner's only real friend among the south Florida elite, and Syd often begged Jenner to attend these things to give her support and backup; in an odd reversal of circumstance, nature - whatever - the young woman who had been born to a life of luxury, coddled and catered to all her life, suffered from an almost paralyzing lack of confidence, while Jenner, who had come from nothing, could stare down anyone and shrug off any slight, which meant the one doing the slighting was, at best, unimportant to her.
That was how Jenner had survived these seven years after leaving Chicago. She had to admit that, by and large, people here had been polite, even gracious, but they hadn't welcomed her into their inner circles. She had many acquaintances, but only one friend, and that was Syd.
According to Syd, her attendance was mandatory, which meant Jenner's was, too. So as much as she wished she could just write a check to the children's hospital and call it done, she had to endure these tedious events - and she'd still end up writing a check.
She didn't even like wine, which she supposed was an indication of her very red blood and her low-brow, blue-collar upbringing. Give her a beer and she was much happier. She barely managed to keep from shuddering at each sip, and thank God she could spit the nasty stuff out. At least with dinner she'd be able to get her favorite drink, a teeter-totter, which was a delicious blend of half champagne and half sparkling green apple juice. She couldn't stand champagne on its own, but mixed with apple juice it was great. All the servers and bartenders at these events knew what she drank, without having to ask.
Where was Syd, anyway? They'd be sitting down to dinner any minute, and after being coerced into attending this thing, she'd like to have someone she could talk to. Jenner was feeling decidedly grumpy that she'd endured this to give Syd company, and her friend wasn't even here. She should have expected it; Syd was often late - partly, Jenner suspected, because she dreaded these functions even more than Jenner did, but her tardiness was usually about fifteen to thirty minutes. This time, she'd missed the entire wine-tasting, which had lasted for over an hour.