and Pioneer Square wasn’t far. She packed her camera into the Triumph’s saddlebag and met the workers at the studio. When the painting was loaded into the delivery van, she followed them over the Ballard Bridge and along the waterfront into the downtown area.
The loft was located in one of the oldest and most historic parts of the city, near the sports stadiums and overlooking Elliott Bay. Since many of the buildings were in the National Historic Register, none were very tall. This was an artsy part of town with trendy stores, art galleries and a funky coffee shop every few feet or so.
Her heart beat with anticipation. She’d always wondered what the lofts looked like from the inside and imagined how exciting it would be to live in the heart of everything. Forgetting how out of sorts she had been feeling, she practically skipped into the building foyer.
The doorman, though polite, evaluated her with the efficiency and no-bullshit air of a seasoned security professional as he checked a logbook, punched something on his keyboard and made a phone call. Although she wasn’t positive, she thought she passed through at least two different metal detectors and the guy put her bag through an X-ray machine. It felt like the airport.
As she waited for more direction from him, she scanned her surroundings. All the high-tech security gadgetry couldn’t hide the rich old-world beauty of the building itself, with its gleaming inlaid marble floors, ornately carved moldings and corbels and intricate wrought-iron details.
Things went from a little odd to downright bizarre when she stepped through a narrow opening into a cylindrical-shaped mini-room and the door slammed shut behind her.
“One moment, miss.” The guard’s voice piped through a speaker.
Good thing she wasn’t claustrophobic. Little lights bordering the edges flashed orange before a short burst of dry mist surrounded her and she coughed. When they blinked green, a door in front opened and the man motioned her forward, handing her the satchel.
What would he have done if she had strapped on her handgun today? Hauled her ass to a holding area for interrogation? Her knife—
She dug into her bag, her fingers sifting through the loose contents at the bottom. Where was her Kershaw folding knife?
As if reading her mind, the doorman—no—guard held it up for her to see.
“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll get it back when you leave.”
I don’t care if Martin pays me for overtime. He is so going to owe me for this.
As she rode the slow, clunky elevator to the top floor, she wondered what kind of important paranoid people lived here. Pulling out her paperwork, she examined Martin’s chicken scratch. For a talented artist, he had the handwriting of a doctor.
Would she be able to see any of the San Juan Islands from up here? With a ding, the elevator doors opened into an expansive hallway. She glanced around but saw no windows and walked toward the only door. Guess she’d have to wait to see the view until she got inside. The building might not be quite tall enough, but she’d surely be able to see West Seattle and maybe even Vashon Island. She wondered if the Olympic Mountains on the peninsula were visible. Sunsets had to be—
“Goddamn it.” Although the voice was somewhat muffled, obviously coming from deep inside the loft, it still boomed through the cracked door. “Does everyone in San Diego have to follow every damn procedure like they were friggin’ boy scouts?”
A prickly heat started in her toes and rushed upwards with the force of a broken fire hydrant, burning her cheeks and setting every hair on edge.
Martin. I’m going to positively kill him this time.
“It’s open,” the voice called. “I’ll be right there.”
Like electricity in the air before a lightning storm, the atmosphere felt charged as she pushed the door wider with her foot. She stood frozen as heavy footsteps echoed on the planks of the wood floor.
“Have Gibson call me back, then.” A cell phone clicked shut.
Clad only in a pair of low-riding jeans clearly pulled on in haste as the top of his fly hung open, Dom was towel-drying his hair when he emerged from the hallway into the foyer. “Martin, thanks so much for coming on short notice. I—” He hesitated midstep when their eyes met, and Mackenzie could smell the cedarlike scent of a man’s soap.
Wrinkling her nose, she tried not to notice his bare, well-developed upper body, the hanks of dark wet hair hanging in clumps around his face, and the