I forced myself to smile at her again. “Okay. Thanks again for lunch.”
Gin squeezed my shoulder, nodded at Mosley and Isabelle, then headed for the double doors, pushed through them, and left the bank.
A teller hurried up and drew Mosley off to the side, whispering to him about some problem and leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with Isabelle. All the other tellers, bankers, and guards stared at the two of us, wondering if Isabelle would start screaming at me. Other people had done so, both here at the bank and at their loved ones’ funerals. I wanted her to scream and yell at me. I deserved it. I deserved all her anger, disgust, and hate, and then some.
“I need to go,” she finally muttered, still not looking at me. “I have things to do before the . . . funeral.” Her breath hitched on the last word, and I could tell that she was fighting back a sob.
Guilt stabbed through my gut again, as sharp and painful as one of Gin’s silverstone knives.
“Finn,” Mosley called out. “I need to take care of this. Please escort Mrs. Vargas outside.”
Another nonrequest.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Isabelle opened her mouth like she was going to say no way, that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out, and that she didn’t want me within a hundred miles of her. But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she just sighed, nodded, and moved toward the doors, too heartsick to argue about this one small thing when so many other larger, more important, far more painful things were before her.
We walked across the lobby in silence. The other employees still watched us with rapt attention, hoping that Isabelle would yell out all the horrible things they were secretly thinking about me. When that didn’t happen, they slowly lost interest and returned to their own clients and work.
I opened one of the double doors for her, and we stepped outside. The sun was shining, but the December air was still cold, and the wind had a particularly harsh, bitter bite to it. Isabelle wasn’t wearing a coat, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. I started to shrug out of my suit jacket to offer it to her, but she realized what I was doing and sidestepped away, still not wanting to have anything to do with me.
I swallowed my guilt, reached into my jacket pocket, and drew out one of my business cards. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”
Her lips curled, and she stared at the card like it was a rattlesnake. “I don’t want your help.”
“I know, but if you ever need anything—”
“What I need is my husband back.” Her voice was soft and sad, without a hint of blame in it, which was worse than if she had started yelling at me.
She was right. Nothing I could do would ever bring her husband back. I slowly dropped my hand and the card down to my side, as more of those knives of guilt sliced through my stomach, cutting every which way.
A large, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Isabelle tensed, looking even more miserable than before, but she made no move to approach the idling vehicle.
“Is that your ride?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
She hesitated another moment, then slowly trudged down the bank steps and over to the vehicle.
The rear door opened, and a man got out of the car. He was a giant, roughly seven feet tall, with a strong, muscular body and an impressive styled mane of ink-black hair. His dark gray suit was even more expensive than mine, and large gold rings studded with diamonds flashed on each and every one of his fingers.
Of course, the gold-nugget-size rings absolutely ruined the rest of his sleek, fashion-plate look. Wearing gaudy man jewelry with such a classic, tailored suit was a faux pas of epic proportions. Still, I frowned and studied the giant closely. Something about all those gold rings seemed familiar, like I’d heard of someone with that unfortunate style choice, but I couldn’t remember who.
Isabelle went over to the giant, who crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at her. He murmured something that I couldn’t hear, and she bit her lip and shook her head. His eyes narrowed, and his lips puckered, indicating that he didn’t like her response. He stared at her for a few more seconds before jerking his thumb over his shoulder, telling her to get into the car.
Isabelle slowly shuffled past the man and climbed into the back of the SUV, disappearing from sight. The giant realized that I was watching them, and he stared at me, his pale blue gaze flicking over me from head to toe.
“Nice suit,” he called out. “Is that a Fiona Fine original?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s not as nice as yours.”
“You’re right. It’s not nearly as nice as mine.” He reached up and infinitesimally adjusted his dark gray silk tie, even though it was already perfectly in place. “Next time, do yourself a favor. Be a real man, and don’t cheap out on your threads.”
Cheap out? My suit had set me back more than three grand. It hadn’t cost five large like his, but it also hadn’t come out of a trash bin. Anger spurted through me at his casual dismissal, but before I could open my mouth to snipe back at him, the giant waggled his fingers at me in a mocking good-bye, making his gold rings glimmer. Then he turned around, slid into the back of the SUV, and closed the door.
The vehicle moved away from the curb and eased into the flow of downtown traffic, leaving me fuming on the sidewalk. Not just at the giant but also at myself. I couldn’t do anything right these days, not even think of a witty comeback to put a pompous jackass in his place.
And the giant’s sneering attitude wasn’t the only thing that bothered me. I might not be a bona fide assassin like Gin, but Dad had trained me right along with her, and I’d lived in Ashland long enough to recognize trouble when I saw it. And that guy was trouble with a capital T.
I pulled my phone out of my pants pocket, angled it at the back of the SUV, and snapped a photo of the license plate. I’d find out exactly who that giant was and, more important, what he was doing with Isabelle.
Gin squeezed my shoulder, nodded at Mosley and Isabelle, then headed for the double doors, pushed through them, and left the bank.
A teller hurried up and drew Mosley off to the side, whispering to him about some problem and leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with Isabelle. All the other tellers, bankers, and guards stared at the two of us, wondering if Isabelle would start screaming at me. Other people had done so, both here at the bank and at their loved ones’ funerals. I wanted her to scream and yell at me. I deserved it. I deserved all her anger, disgust, and hate, and then some.
“I need to go,” she finally muttered, still not looking at me. “I have things to do before the . . . funeral.” Her breath hitched on the last word, and I could tell that she was fighting back a sob.
Guilt stabbed through my gut again, as sharp and painful as one of Gin’s silverstone knives.
“Finn,” Mosley called out. “I need to take care of this. Please escort Mrs. Vargas outside.”
Another nonrequest.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Isabelle opened her mouth like she was going to say no way, that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out, and that she didn’t want me within a hundred miles of her. But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she just sighed, nodded, and moved toward the doors, too heartsick to argue about this one small thing when so many other larger, more important, far more painful things were before her.
We walked across the lobby in silence. The other employees still watched us with rapt attention, hoping that Isabelle would yell out all the horrible things they were secretly thinking about me. When that didn’t happen, they slowly lost interest and returned to their own clients and work.
I opened one of the double doors for her, and we stepped outside. The sun was shining, but the December air was still cold, and the wind had a particularly harsh, bitter bite to it. Isabelle wasn’t wearing a coat, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. I started to shrug out of my suit jacket to offer it to her, but she realized what I was doing and sidestepped away, still not wanting to have anything to do with me.
I swallowed my guilt, reached into my jacket pocket, and drew out one of my business cards. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”
Her lips curled, and she stared at the card like it was a rattlesnake. “I don’t want your help.”
“I know, but if you ever need anything—”
“What I need is my husband back.” Her voice was soft and sad, without a hint of blame in it, which was worse than if she had started yelling at me.
She was right. Nothing I could do would ever bring her husband back. I slowly dropped my hand and the card down to my side, as more of those knives of guilt sliced through my stomach, cutting every which way.
A large, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Isabelle tensed, looking even more miserable than before, but she made no move to approach the idling vehicle.
“Is that your ride?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
She hesitated another moment, then slowly trudged down the bank steps and over to the vehicle.
The rear door opened, and a man got out of the car. He was a giant, roughly seven feet tall, with a strong, muscular body and an impressive styled mane of ink-black hair. His dark gray suit was even more expensive than mine, and large gold rings studded with diamonds flashed on each and every one of his fingers.
Of course, the gold-nugget-size rings absolutely ruined the rest of his sleek, fashion-plate look. Wearing gaudy man jewelry with such a classic, tailored suit was a faux pas of epic proportions. Still, I frowned and studied the giant closely. Something about all those gold rings seemed familiar, like I’d heard of someone with that unfortunate style choice, but I couldn’t remember who.
Isabelle went over to the giant, who crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at her. He murmured something that I couldn’t hear, and she bit her lip and shook her head. His eyes narrowed, and his lips puckered, indicating that he didn’t like her response. He stared at her for a few more seconds before jerking his thumb over his shoulder, telling her to get into the car.
Isabelle slowly shuffled past the man and climbed into the back of the SUV, disappearing from sight. The giant realized that I was watching them, and he stared at me, his pale blue gaze flicking over me from head to toe.
“Nice suit,” he called out. “Is that a Fiona Fine original?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s not as nice as yours.”
“You’re right. It’s not nearly as nice as mine.” He reached up and infinitesimally adjusted his dark gray silk tie, even though it was already perfectly in place. “Next time, do yourself a favor. Be a real man, and don’t cheap out on your threads.”
Cheap out? My suit had set me back more than three grand. It hadn’t cost five large like his, but it also hadn’t come out of a trash bin. Anger spurted through me at his casual dismissal, but before I could open my mouth to snipe back at him, the giant waggled his fingers at me in a mocking good-bye, making his gold rings glimmer. Then he turned around, slid into the back of the SUV, and closed the door.
The vehicle moved away from the curb and eased into the flow of downtown traffic, leaving me fuming on the sidewalk. Not just at the giant but also at myself. I couldn’t do anything right these days, not even think of a witty comeback to put a pompous jackass in his place.
And the giant’s sneering attitude wasn’t the only thing that bothered me. I might not be a bona fide assassin like Gin, but Dad had trained me right along with her, and I’d lived in Ashland long enough to recognize trouble when I saw it. And that guy was trouble with a capital T.
I pulled my phone out of my pants pocket, angled it at the back of the SUV, and snapped a photo of the license plate. I’d find out exactly who that giant was and, more important, what he was doing with Isabelle.
