3 // Sanny
Side by side, we descended the grand staircase of the mansion Juliet called home. Our faces hidden beneath hoods, the fabric of our long skirts trailing behind us, we caught the attention of every employee passing through the bustling foyer below. More than one pair of eyes lingered on Juliet’s gown, which was visible underneath her unbuttoned cloak. The skirt was sky blue satin embellished with cream-colored lace. The collar was low and beaded with pearls, giving only the faintest tease of her modest bust, but leaving in plain sight the grinning skull painted against her pale flesh, an exact mirror of the one painted on my own, darker skin. The finishing touch was her most precious possession, an uncut, black onyx strung around her throat by a silver chain. The full ensemble transformed her from a shy girl hiding behind a veil of long, white-gold tresses into a fairy princess who could've brought the most powerful of princes to his knees.
Griffin let out a long, low whistle from the foyer below. He had his hands full of the back end of a new electronic security console he and another employee were carrying through the front door. "We've got a pair of wicked beauties on our hands, boyos."
"Talking to us, old man?" I leaned over the stair rail, giving him a better view of my pushed-up cleavage. It didn't faze him, but the guy carrying the other end of the console lost his grip, and the unwieldy object hit the floor with a satisfying thud. Looked like my busty corset was going to have exactly the effect I wanted on every guy who got a glimpse of it tonight.
"See any other ruthless flirts hanging about, bach?" Griffin replied, then turned his attention to the mortified employee, who sputtered an apology as he hastily examined the console for damage.
Juliet's only "uncle" (more like her mother's fourth cousin twice removed, who popped in twenty years ago for a "visit" and never left), Griffin was a proud-and-don't-you-go-forgetting-it Welshman with charcoal-black sideburns that forked into two jagged prongs like a lizard's tongue. There was a bit of grey in his wavy, swept-back hair that hinted at his rapid approach to middle age, but having spied on him and his co-workers buffing up sans shirts in the estate's gym, I happened to know his body was still built like a young Marine fresh out of boot camp. Which, I suspected, was the main reason Juliet's new bodyguard�"Kyle? Chris? Fred?�"started dating him last week.
As we crossed the grand foyer of the Abrams estate, more employees swept past us, busy unloading supplies for the latest overhaul of the estate's security system, which seemed to get a full upgrade about every six months. The foyer was a monstrous space, as extravagant and imposing as a cathedral, and big enough to fit a congregation in�"and just to drive all that decadence home, it had little touches like a seven-foot-tall classical sculpture of some mostly-naked guy about to behead his also-mostly-naked enemy. Hoisted way above their marble heads was a chandelier so heavy it took two men to lower it for cleaning.
"Where's Ken?" Griffin asked as we passed him.
"Bathroom," I said casually. I grabbed J's hand and moved more quickly toward the hall at the back of the foyer. Griffin was a pretty sharp guy; I didn't want him catching on and spoiling our fun. "If you see him come down, let him know we're in the garage selecting our hot ride for the night."
"Hold it, Sandra."
Crap. I turned to face the one person I most dreaded running into right now.
Juliet's father stood in the doorway of the study that served as the estate's central hub. Not much taller than his daughter, but built like a brick wall, Crazy Abrams was just the guy you'd expect to be running Blythe Security Enterprises, a gazillion-dollar corporate empire built out of macho bodyguards and over-priced alarm systems for the very, very, veryrich. One look at his hard-as-stone musculature and you'd totally turn over the annual seven figures his company charged to protect the richer-than-Gods from their apparently endless list of deranged stalkers. "The ‘hot ride’ you’re taking tonight is the sedan. There’s no need to overdo it for something as insignificant as this party."
"But the sedan is so boring. Couldn’t we take a limo, just this once?” My voice echoed across the spacious foyer, making me feel like everyone within a hundred miles could hear me having to beg.
"Forget it," Abrams replied. "You're lucky I'm letting Juliet go in the first place."
"It's just a party," I said, nervous he might be changing his mind. It wouldn't be the first time he yanked his daughter's social life right out from under her because he didn't get a good "vibe" about the circumstances.
"In an unsecured location," he said.
"It's Byram beach!" I exclaimed. "We feed ducks there all the time!"
Abrams frowned, like he thought maybe the ducks had an ulterior motive for floating in water. His gaze moved to his daughter. She pulled down her hood. Around him, she was expected to show her face. He wasn't shy about the scars he got from running a bodyguard service, so he failed to see why J might feel the need to hide hers. As their eyes met, she smiled at him tentatively, like she was hoping against all reality that he might smile back and tell her how pretty she looked.
His expression tightened as his gaze dropped to the mark painted on her chest. "That finger paint better wash off."
"It's only temporary," I said, trying not to show my irritation. Finger paint. What did he think we were, five year olds?
"Curfew is ten," he grunted. He gave a curt nod to Griffin. "We have a teleconference with London in five minutes."
Griffin ordered another employee to take his load, and then the two men disappeared into the study. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue�"or something more dramatic�"out at the back of the man who treated his daughter like a piece of dusty furniture in his home�"no, in his place of business masquerading as a home. Instead, I grabbed Juliet's hand and slipped into the hall, trying to convince myself that we were lucky the conversation didn't turn out worse, and ignoring the gnawing feeling that it would get a whole lot worse for Juliet later, if we didn't get back from the party before someone found the unconscious bodyguard locked in her closet.
***
The lights flickered on automatically as we entered the garage. Their soft hues were calibrated to show off the sleek fleet of vehicles stored inside at a perfect sheen. We made our way past countless work vehicles used by Blythe employees to escort important clients all over New England: sleek limos with puncture-proof tires; bullet-proof SUVs that Crazy Abrams fondly referred to as "bulldozers"; even a combat-ready, military-grade Hummer that Abrams technically didn't own, since it was technically illegal for a private citizen to own one (not that he let technicalities like the law get in his way).
"Shouldn’t we take the sedan?" J asked as I passed right by it without even a sideways glance. “If my father comes into the garage and notices it’s still here, he’ll know something’s going on.”
"No way," I replied. "Knowing your dad, he’ll be in meetings ‘til long after we get home. And, anyway, I’ve got a much better ride in mind."
At the very end, we found the ride I was looking for, set apart from the others: Crazy Abrams's latest and most expensive acquisition, a concept car that shined like polished silver. It had curves so sexy I wanted to drape myself over the hood like a preening swimsuit model and whisper sweet nothings to its mirrored windshield.
"We can't," Juliet whispered. "Dad will ground me for life if we take the concept."
"Which would be different from your normal life how, exactly?" I pulled a small, silver power fob out of the hidden pocket sewn into the black folds of my skirt. There was no car brand printed on the fob; instead, the Blythe corporate symbol was stamped on the surface. The fob was standard issue for all employees and could sync up with any car in the fleet�"but only if you had the activation code for that specific car. I’d borrowed the fob from Ken’s pocket. As for the code that would start the concept...well, it was good thing I already knew it. As I typed it in, Juliet peeked around my shoulder.
“Only my dad and Griffin have the code for this car,” she said. “How did you get it?”
“He who shall rename nameless,” I replied. Thank god for friends who knew how to hack into even the tightest corporate files without leaving a trace.
As I hit the last number, the concept purred to life before us. The sound made my skin tingle. Even the impossible-to-impress Kaydrien Singh would be oh-so-impressed when we arrived at the Halloween party in a car that didn't exist yet.
When I slid into the driver's seat, the dash warmed to a soft glow. "Hello, precious," I cooed, half joking and half lusting over the thick leather wheel.
"Scan engaged," the car replied in a clipped female voice.
Juliet glanced at me nervously from the passenger seat. "Scan?"
Before I had time to react, the car reported, "Unauthorized passengers. Lock-down engaged."
The door locks clicked. The car engine shut off. I told myself not to panic. And then the garage alarm started shrieking like a two-year-old throwing a temper-tantrum.
I searched frantically for a switch that would reverse the locks, but there weren't any. No buttons or switches anywhere�"not even brakes or a stick shift. It occurred to me too late that a high-tech car like this one might be entirely voice-operated.
Juliet slid lower in the seat next to me as she stared out the front window. "Sanny..."
I looked up. We were surrounded on all sides by black-suited Blythes, their semi-automatic weapons aimed straight at the vehicle. With a sudden rush of fear, I realized they couldn't see that the car thief was their boss's daughter because the concept was covered from front to back in mirrored windows.
"Crap," I murmured.
Griffin stepped up to the driver's side, unlocking the door with a fob of his own. With a quick jerk, he yanked it open and pointed the barrel of a gun right at my head.
I gave him a coy smile. "Hi."
"Mother of God." Griffin immediately motioned at everyone to put away their guns. "Back to your posts. I've got this." As the others left, he pressed his finger to the small earphone he was wearing. "Dial Abrams, code two." Then he turned to me and said in a low voice, "I'm missing an important meeting thanks to that alarm. Mr. Abrams is going to hang you by your fingernails for this."
"Before you bring Crazy Abrams into this..."
He touched the ear piece again as he gave me a wary look. "Pause Abrams."
"...aren't you going to ask us where the bodyguard is?"
"Sandra," he said through gritted teeth, "what did you to�""
"To your boyfriend? He's in the closet."
Griffin didn't look like he found that very funny.
"And if you don't want your boss to know why he's in the closet, which could get him fired, because it is kind of humiliating how he got there..."
"Sandra, I swear to God�""
"I'm just saying," I cooed. "Poor J is really tired of having to learn a new bodyguard's name every other week. Maybe we could keep this one from getting into trouble, just this once. What do you say?"
"You're going to be in as much trouble as him," he said, "and you can say goodbye to whatever plans you had for tonight."
I soured at the thought, and, frankly, because I felt like I was losing this argument.
Then, to my surprise, Griffin made a counter-offer to my blackmail attempt. "Swear you'll take Ken with you."
"I'm not sure he's in any condition to go with us," I hedged.
"Assuming he is," Griffin replied tersely, "if you swear never to sneak out of this house again without him, I'll let this incident slide."
"So you want me to promise long-term job security for your new sweetheart?"
"What I want," he replied as he leaned a well-muscled arm against the rim of the door frame above me, "is to assure you don't go mooching about unprotected with the heiress of a billion dollar corporation. If you don't do as I say, Sandra, I swear I'll get you banned from this house."
He was serious. I didn't like Serious Griffin. He was Crazy Abrams's right-hand man and had a hell of a lot more pull than I did around here.
"I suppose we could squeeze him into the back seat," I conceded, ignoring the fact that there was no back seat.
"You're not taking the concept." He smiled. He knew he'd won. "It's not even street-legal."
I relaxed into the luxurious leather. "Oh, come on, don't be such a tight-a*s."
"Give up, Sandra." He held out his palm. "You can't even get past the security system."
I handed over the fob, defeated.
Griffin finished dialing up his boss on the earphone. "All clear. Ken triggered the alarm system accidentally." He glanced at me. "The boy's still got a few things to learn about how to handle his job."
***
To be continued...
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