In A Fix - Mary Calmes Page 0,4
most senior executives, and a driver at home who also functions as his caretaker, or whatever the PC term is now, as well as a maid and personal chef. But no, he doesn’t have a designated bodyguard,” Jared told me and then sighed. “He needs one. I told his father that he should hire someone full-time to guard his son, and he’s looking into having a person in place by the time he returns from this trip. I also suggested he hire a bodyguard for his other son, Nolan, but he said that only Brigham, the one you’re watching, is high profile enough in financial circles to merit the expense.”
“I’m sure the spare feels really loved.”
“Spare?”
“There’s the heir and the—”
“Oh yes. That’s clever.”
From the derogatory tone, he hadn’t actually thought so. “May I ask, sir, is Mr. Stanton certain that he doesn’t want a larger security presence for his son than just—”
“I’m sure he would, but it’s not Mr. Stanton’s call. Brigham specifically asked for someone who wouldn’t stand out in his posse.”
I swallowed down my knee-jerk response.
The silence ticked by, second by second.
“Well?”
“Posse?” I repeated dryly.
“Is that not right?”
“Was that the word the man actually used?”
“No,” he admitted in his usual rumbling growl. “But I thought that was what young people called their group of friends these days.”
Oh dear God.
It was one of Jared’s quirks, and I’d thought at first that he was being sly, that he was self-deprecating on purpose, fishing for praise, but it turned out I was wrong. In all seriousness, the man thought he was old.
Him. Old.
It was ridiculous.
In what realm of the imagination was a strong, powerful man of fifty-eight considered a fossil? He might even be sixty, I’d only heard Nash say he thought Jared was fifty-eight, but really, that wasn’t the point. His slate gray eyes glinted like ice, and his rugged looks emphasized the fact he was built like a brick wall, yet moved with the grace of a fighter. Altogether, it made him breathtaking. Even better, though, was his heart. He was the best person I’d ever met, utterly selfless and kind. He was also, interestingly enough, the quietest. I had never heard Jared Colter raise his voice. Ever. I had to wonder if they taught that to all CIA operatives, and if they knew how sexy it was.
Of course, I had no idea if the man was straight, bi, gay—and there was no way in hell I was ever going to ask.
“Esca?”
“Boss,” I said, touching the weird snow globe on his desk. It was the oddest thing. It looked like Cinderella’s castle in the winter. It was so out of place.
“Four days in Vegas, Esca.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get it done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything you need is in the file.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I want a status update on Thursday,” he ordered and then hung up.
It was lucky I didn’t crave communication or anything.
And now, on the tarmac, waiting, I was certain that this was going to be the longest four days of my life. If the damn plane ever left the airport.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a freak blizzard.
Two
Brigham Stanton had booked the Chairman Suite at the Bellagio, which sat atop the Spa Tower and had two bedrooms, one for him and his girlfriend and one for me and his friend, the guy who’d just made partner, Chase Baldwin. The rest of his crew, as he called them, were staying in the three-thousand-square-foot Entourage Suites on the same floor. His brother, Nolan Stanton, was staying in the Presidential Suite one floor below.
When I reached the front desk, after I was given the VIP access card and an entire folder of information, I was informed that there was another person going up to the suite with me.
Waiting for the concierge, shouldering my garment bag on my left and my duffel and laptop bag on the right, a bellman appeared and asked if I would like to set my things on the cart already overflowing with luggage.
“Thank you, no,” I assured him as a stunning redhead stepped around the cart. Her chunky chartreuse wool topcoat came to mid-thigh and had a wide lapel that highlighted the delicacy of her features, making her appear fragile in a porcelain-doll sort of way. She was wearing torn jeans and black heels high enough that I had to wonder how she walked in them without falling and breaking body parts. “Good morning,” I greeted her.
She turned to me and didn’t speak, but deigned to raise her Jackie O sunglasses,