Рейчел Кейн – Devil's Bargain (страница 11)

“What was that about?” Jazz asked. Lucia looked at her, unsmiling. There was a glitter in her dark eyes.

“Think about it,” she said. “You’re blond and pink. I’m not.”

“Racial profiling’s—”

“Illegal, yes, but you’d be amazed how many random searches I turn up on,” Lucia replied. Her voice sounded tight. “I’m lucky I’ve got federal credentials. As much as I travel, this could get to be a real problem.”

The flight was full. The vast majority of travelers were sour-faced businesspeople with more bags under their eyes than in the overhead compartments. She and Lucia had wing seats, midcabin, next to an emergency exit. Jazz didn’t think it was luck. Lucia seemed to think about these kinds of things.

They chatted about light stuff during the inevitable delay and the bumpy takeoff…family, to start. Lucia had none to speak of beyond an aunt in Spain who didn’t approve of her. They moved on to favorite movies and bad dates. Jazz didn’t have a lot to offer on the dating story front, although she was hell on wheels with the movies. She was content to listen to Lucia spinning stories, after a while.

“Chefs are the worst,” Lucia was saying, as the plane leveled out its climb for the relatively short arc to New York City. “Never marry a chef.”

This was a novel sort of idea. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t marry a guy who can actually cook?”

“That’s their day job. Sure, they can cook. And while they’re trying to impress you and charm you into bed, it’s crème anglaise and shrimp soufflé, but after that, it’s all too much work for them. You’ll never get anything right, and you can’t go out to dinner with them, either. Everything’s a review. The soup’s too thin, the meat’s too tough, the dessert’s not served hot enough.” She shook her head and flipped pages in the Cosmo she’d retrieved from the magazine rack. “And God forbid you shouldn’t ever care for something they create. There’s less drama on HBO.”

“Did you marry him?” Jazz asked.

“Hmm?” Lucia lifted her eyes from contemplation of the Fall Fashion Lineup. “Michel? Oh, no. He would have been a disaster as a husband. He never met a hostess he didn’t greet, if you know what I mean.” Those dark eyes appraised her for a cop’s hard second. “How about you?”

“Hey, I can promise you I never greeted Michel. Hell, I don’t even know any man French enough to be named Michel.”

“I mean—”

“I’m clear on your meaning,” Jazz said. “You’re trying to find out if I’m gay.”

Lucia blinked. “No…I was actually wondering if you and Ben McCarthy…?”

Sore subject. Jazz swallowed and fixed her gaze on the beverage cart slowly trundling its way down the narrow aisle toward them. She felt like a drink, early morning or not. Maybe she could get away with something disguised as healthy, like a mimosa. “None of your business,” she said. It sounded hard and cold.

Lucia stared at her for a long second, then went back to her magazine.

Sex, and Ben McCarthy. Jazz sighed, leaned her head against the backrest and closed her eyes.

Maybe, with the help of the mimosa, she could sleep the rest of the way to the city, without dreams.

JFK felt crowded, breathless and a little grubby. Lucia led Jazz past baggage claim and toward the outside, where New York was having a fabulously—probably unexpectedly—golden day.

She slowed in her stride before they reached the doors.

“What?” Jazz asked. She was already alert, but Lucia’s change in body language elevated it a sharp notch to outright paranoia.

Lucia jerked her chin sharply. “Look.”

A uniformed chauffeur, cap under his arm, was holding up an erasable board on which were written in block letters the names MS. GARZA/MS. CALLENDER. He was a tall guy, long in the torso and wide in the shoulders, probably pumped under the well-tailored coat. A burr haircut, light blond heading toward gray. Eyes to match. Ex-Marine, Jazz would have said, straight out of Central Casting.

“My ID,” he said, and produced a picture ID card with watermarking and some kind of fancy holography on it, with the bold logo of Gabriel, Pike & Laskins, LLP under the lamination. “Can’t be too careful these days. May I see yours, please?” He held out his hand. Lucia wordlessly produced her ID. Jazz fumbled hers out a second later, watched him scrutinize the postage-stamp picture and then turn those laser-beam eyes on her. She revised her estimate of his rank upward to drill sergeant. “Nice flight?”

“Fabulous,” Lucia said. “I didn’t arrange for ground transportation.”

The Marine settled the cap back on his head, adjusted it to his exacting specifications and nodded. “No, ma’am. The firm arranged for it.” He reached out and took their bags with the proprietary air of a man who never expected to be refused. Jazz let him do it, though her impulse was to stiff-arm him and snarl Back off in her most intimidating voice. She restrained it mainly because she knew picking a fight with this man wasn’t just stupid, it was damn near suicidal, and besides, he hadn’t done anything.

Yet.

She looked over at Lucia, who had a rueful half smile on her face. “I made an appointment,” she said, “with Borden. Apparently, he’s a thoughtful guy.”

“Apparently,” Jazz agreed. They fell in behind the Marine, who marched them through the doors and to a black Town Car idling at the curb with a cop standing guard. The Marine nodded to him as he stowed the bags in the copious trunk, and the cop nodded back, and then they were on the way.

The Marine drove along a scenic route, but Jazz couldn’t follow it; she’d never been to New York City before, and the scale of it overwhelmed her. Pictures didn’t do it justice, really. Buildings loomed impossibly tall, not just one or two, but dozens, all jammed together. The patch of sky overhead looked pale and on the verge of disappearing altogether.

Lucia had out some kind of computerized personal organizer and was making notes, ignoring the scenery. Jazz doubted it was her first trip to the city. She could probably give the Marine helpful tips on shortcuts.

Three traffic jams and one near-crash later, they pulled in at the curb, and the Marine unpacked their gear onto the sidewalk. He touched the brim of his cap and refused Lucia’s offer of a tip. “The firm pays me very well,” he said, and handed them each a bag. “Forty-fifth floor. Mr. Borden is expecting you.”

Jazz craned her head back as the car whispered away from the curb, back into traffic. The building soared in stacked tiers, each one smaller than the last, like some very angular wedding cake. The polished brass number over the revolving doors read 6716, but she had no idea what street they were on.

Lucia was already on the move, shouldering through the rotating glass. Jazz followed.

Beyond, the lobby was small and chilly, with some leather armchairs and throw rugs near one corner and a reception desk all in marble at the other, near a massive elevator bank. Three people were behind the desk. The woman gave them a warm smile. The two security men gave them blank, appraising stares.

“Here to see James Borden at Gabriel, Pike & Laskins,” Lucia said. “We have an appointment.”

They had to produce ID again, but it was fairly painless, and one of the security guys detailed himself to escort them up. Floor forty-five required a key card. He used his and stood in silence, hands at his sides, watching as the floor count moved in red dots on the readout. Around the thirtieth floor Jazz had to pop her ears. That was the only excitement.

The elevator doors opened onto what surely must have been a lawyerly version of Shangri-la. They stepped out onto a massive marble deck facing a huge bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.

“May I help you?”

The voice was, somewhat to Jazz’s surprise, a honeyed Southern drawl. Once her eyes got past the shock of the view outside, she focused on the reception desk located over to the side, next to a black wall of stone with a near-silent curtain of water wavering over it. Another perfectly made-up woman, this one deserving the cover of Elle at the very least. Brunette, brown eyes, a smile that looked collagen enhanced even if it wasn’t.

If Lucia was intimidated by the competition for the I’m-the-Most-Beautiful-Girl-in-the-Room award, she didn’t show it; she gave Reception Goddess a warm smile and produced ID for the third time in an hour. Jazz followed suit. “James Borden’s expecting us,” Jazz added, before Lucia could blurt it out. It felt good to take charge, even in this petty little area.

“Ah,” the woman said, and touched buttons on some hidden console behind the marble counter. “He’s on his way. Please have a seat.”

Jazz eyed the chairs, which looked modern, uncomfortable to sit in and impossible to get out of, and decided to disobey. She paced restlessly, examining bromeliads and exotic flowers. This was the kind of place that had fresh arrangements delivered every day, just for the effect. Lucia settled on a hard-looking couch, looking poised and deadly.

“Jazz?”

She turned at the familiar sound of James Borden’s voice, and paused, blinking. If it hadn’t been for the voice, and the warmth he put into the sound of her name, she wouldn’t have even known him. He was wearing a flawlessly tailored double-breasted blue suit, something with just enough of a sheen to the fabric to make it look rich instead of cheap. A turquoise-blue tie with subtle dark gold flecks. A crisp, blindly white shirt. A single gold stud in his ear, which these days she supposed qualified as corporately daring.