The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,83

her employer was.

“Check her book,” Trey said.

“I did.”

“Not that book.”

“There’s nothing in that book either.”

“Show me.”

Arion opened a drawer and pulled out a leather portfolio, which she then spread open on the counter. There was a note inside addressed to Trey. She looked startled to see it, but Trey seemed to have been expecting it all along.

“What does it say?” I said.

He slipped it in his jacket. “It’s says that she’s sorry and that she’ll explain later, after tonight.” He addressed Arion. “Would you please double-check my delivery order? Everything should be scheduled to arrive no later than four.”

Arion looked relieved to have something to do. “Of course, Mr. Seaver.”

She tapped some information into the computer. The boutique portion of the store was empty, and the soft sounds of the spa seemed very far away.

“That thing at Lake Oconee is tonight,” I said. “I’d completely forgotten.”

“Cocktails at six, dinner at seven-thirty.”

“You think Gabriella will be there?”

“She’s Charley’s stylist. She’s at every event the Beaumonts attend.” He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Would you like to come?”

I blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t invited.”

“You don’t need an invitation, not if you’re with me.”

“I don’t have a dress.”

He ran his eyes over my body, lingering at the hips, then looked around the gallery. He went to the red dress that had caught his eye on our first visit, ran his hand along the seam. “Have this delivered too, please,” he said. Then he looked at my feet. “Size eight?”

“Wide.”

He nodded at Arion. “Shoes too. I’ll leave the choice to you.”

“Certainly.” She was looking at me differently now too. “Will this be on the Phoenix account as well?”

“No, my personal account.”

His expression was composed, the same old Trey Seaver I was fast becoming accustomed to. But his eyes held something flickery and sharp, right at the center. I shook my head.

“Marisa will ream you out if you bring me.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s going to fire me for losing my weapon and allowing a third party to access Phoenix property.”

I linked my arm with his and patted his bicep. “I can’t help you with your computer problem.”

“I know.”

“But as for the missing weapon…well, being partners with a gun shop owner has its benefits.”

Chapter 43

Dexter didn’t have a P7M8 in stock, but his reference list proved invaluable, especially when I mentioned that money was no object to this particular client. The piece was delivered in less than an hour, and Trey’s Amex Platinum was down $1500. He insisted on breaking down and inspecting it—a decision I totally agreed with—so while he cleaned it, I fetched some ammo.

“On the house,” I said.

He fed the eight rounds into the magazine and inserted it. “I have to try this before we go.”

“Of course. I’d like to try mine out too.”

He noticed the purse then, this snappy black leather bag.

“I’m testing it for the shop,” I said, showing it to him. “Zipper opening, holster insert. Lockable. Plus a separate place for lipstick should I ever decide to start wearing it.”

“You have your carry permit?”

I held up the piece of paper. “Came in the mail this morning.”

I could see the gears whirring in his head. But he knew the law as well as I did, and he knew I was within my rights to bring a weapon. The Beaumont reception was a private gathering on private property, teeming with conservative Second Amendment zealots. Unless someone asked me to leave, I had every legal right to be there.

“What do you have in there?”

“A revolver, Smith and Wesson Model 40. Compact, light, hammer cover to prevent it from snagging on a fancy dress.”

I saw that twitch at the corner of his mouth. I smiled. “You didn’t think I’d arm you to the teeth and then carry around just a nail file for myself, did you?”

We went by the range on the way out. Trey as usual exterminated the target. I did pretty well myself. Georgia’s castle doctrine required no retreat before reasonably resorting to deadly force. And considering all that had gone on, a purse full of deadly force swinging on my hip felt really good.

Traffic out to Lake Oconee was unusually heavy, and I guessed from the way the helicopters hovered in a knot above the interstate that there was an accident up ahead, or some other perversity that I couldn’t possibly predict. I played with the air vents and watched the city inch by, surrounded by the sounds of a thousand other motors of a