Hunting April (2 page)

Glennon washed up, then pulled on a fresh shirt. He took a better look at his patient. Petite, very attractive, maybe early- to mid-twenties. He wondered what, or who, frightened her so badly she would have dashed into the street to escape, if the parked Jeep hadn't intervened.
Hmm, a shame to cover such perfect breasts. Oh, well.
He grabbed a light comforter from the blanket chest at the foot of his bed and covered her up to her neck.

With breakfast a washout, Glennon finally brewed his own coffee and toasted a stale corn muffin for lunch. Waiting for the coffee, he cancelled his appointments for the day. He'd just finished when his cell phone chimed.
Front desk
flashed on the caller ID.

"Boss, it's Ivan. The little gal from the coffee shop, y'know, the cute blonde with the bodacious ta-tas, brought over a brown canvas bag. Said it belonged to your woman. Your woman? Have you been holdin' out on us?"

"I wondered how long it would take before you realized I came in through the garage and rode up the elevator."

"No way, boss! You're supposed to be out."

"And you're supposed to be my first line of defense. I guess I'm royally screwed."

"Oh, man, you musta snuck in when I went to the head. Fuck it, boss, I'm sorry."

"We
will
discuss this further. Send someone up with the bag."

"
Yessir
, boss. It won't happen again."

"I know it won't. By you, or by your possible replacement." Garrett disconnected.

* * * * *

Thursday evening

April opened her eyes. She struggled to sit, then looked down.
Wow. Bare-breasted, but newly bandaged
. The room came into focus. Soft gray walls provided a quiet backdrop to black lacquered furniture, set off by a luxurious ruby red bedspread with black and gray pinstripes. The bedspread remained pristine under the black bath towels on which she'd been sleeping. A really expensive hotel suite? How the hell did she get here?

A light knock sounded against the half-opened door. She grabbed the edge of the silver and gray comforter, yanked it up to her neck. "Yes?"

Him again. The man from the coffee shop. The man whose scent evoked images of cool spring days, earthy woodlands. The man with the damned brochure.

"Hey, glad you're awake. Feeling any better?"

"A bit shaky, actually. Uh, where am I?"

"GMG Security and Surveillance. It's the art deco building across from the coffee shop, if that helps. This is my apartment."

"Oh."

"Your stuff is in the living room."

"My stuff?
Omigod
, my stuff!" She patted the bed, as if her belongings might be hiding under the bedcovers. "My duffle bag. I left it at the bakery."

"No worry, I have that, too."

"And my clothes?" She pulled the comforter tighter.

"Ah, yes. The jacket? Questionable, but possibly salvageable. The shirt? Sorry, the shirt is history. Needed to cut it off to reach the wound. The blood glued it to your skin."

"Oh." She wanted to hide her head under the comforter to get away from his scrutiny. He'd seen her half-naked. And had his hands on her, obviously.

He reached into a dresser drawer, then pulled out a black polo shirt with the bold GMG logo embroidered in red, tossed it to her. "Here, put this on."

She grabbed the shirt with one hand and held it tightly, not giving up her grip on the comforter.
Even his shirt smells good
. "Are you one of Angelo's men? Is he on his way? Ya gotta tell me. At least give me that much. Or even a head start.

"Lady, I'm nobody's
man
, and I don't know who Angelo might be. We're in Jersey—lots of Angelos." He folded muscular arms across his equally muscular chest.

"Glennon Garrett. My business, my building, my apartment. Who is Angelo, and why would you think I work for him? In the shape you're in, you're not going anywhere."

She held the balled-up shirt tighter. "I think someone was following me."

"Why the hell would I follow you? Why would anyone follow you?"

"Never mind, it's not important." She closed her eyes and leaned back on the pillow, exhausted from the adrenaline surges, the spikes and plummets. She glanced at him again. "Are you?"

"Am I what?

"Working for Angelo."

He heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Do you like pizza?"

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"Pizza. P-i-z-z-a. Pizza. I missed breakfast, lunch sucked, so an early dinner works for me. Care to share a pizza? It's the only junk food fit for mankind."

"Oh. Sure. Okay."
Would one of the goons offer me pizza? Or is this a trick to keep me
occupied until Angelo arrives?
"I could manage to eat something."

"And what would you like on your pizza?"

"No fungus. No fishy things."

He laughed. "A girl after my own heart. No mushrooms or anchovies. Will extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, and meatball work for you?"

She nodded.

"Great. A fellow carnivore. I'll call in the order, then grab a quick shower in the guest room while you get dressed. Bathroom is to your right. Don't let the bandage get wet. Meet me in the kitchen when you're ready." He pulled the door closed behind him.

April immediately pulled on the polo, identical to the shirt Mr. Garrett wore. On him, the shirt stretched snugly over his broad chest, flat abs, and thick biceps. On her small frame, it hung like a nightdress.

Behind the locked bathroom door, she lifted the fabric and checked the bandage.

"Nice job. Better than I did."

She washed up, cautiously worked around cuts and abrasions. The eyes looking back from the mirror were mismatched.

"There goes my brilliant disguise. Next, time, dummy, buy two pairs of contacts."

She removed the surviving contact lens, then tossed it. She leaned closer to the mirror to check her roots. It had been her first attempt at using hair color. "Gonna need a touch-up sooner than I thought. So much for truth in advertising. This isn't going to last six weeks."

Finger combing her shoulder-length hair into a simple pageboy, she made herself as presentable as possible.

Her running shoes sat neatly next to the bed.
Oh, goody. If I need to bolt out the
door, at least I'll be wearing shoes
.

"Perfect timing. Pizza just arrived." Glennon, his hair still damp, dressed in a sleeveless muscle shirt and snug running shorts, motioned April to one of the two chairs set under a round chrome and glass table. "I ordered two garden salads with the house's balsamic dressing. The restaurant has the best Greek olives stuffed with goat cheese. Diet ginger ale okay?"

She quickly scoped out his powerful thighs, then what she could see of the apartment's open floor plan. They seemed to be alone. She nodded.

"This is awfully considerate. You don't even know me."
Or, do you?
With that
body, you're one I'd certainly remember!

"I'm getting to that." He held out his hand. "Glennon Garrett, GMG Security and Surveillance.

Oh, crap. Security and surveillance
. "Oh. Uh . . . Ap—Alice Green. Copywriter." Her throat tightened at revealing even that much. "I'm . . . self-employed."
Really clever, motor
mouth. Why don't you just blurt out everything?

"Welcome, dear Alice, to my Wonderland." He served up the pizza and handed her a plate. "Nasty-looking gash. How'd you manage it?"

His question caught her by surprise, and her heart skipped a couple of beats. She hadn't thought of a cover story for the wound. After all, who would be seeing it? "I . . .

uh . . . well . . . I went out jogging and tripped and fell on a . . . hmm . . . broken glass bottle. I'm really clumsy."

"Uh huh. I'm guessing you didn't have anyone look at the wound. It's infected."

Another
frisson
of panic. "Didn't . . . uh, no insurance yet."

"Alice Green, if you're not allergic to anything, I keep a supply of antibiotics. For emergencies. Are you okay with cephalexin?"

"I think so."

"Let's give it a whirl." He returned from the bathroom with a pharmacy bottle, handed it over so she could read the warnings on the label. "Take two to jump-start the meds, then take two more before bed."

April shifted in her seat, uneasy. "You're more than kind. I've already put you out—"
Is he being incredibly helpful, a true Good Samaritan, or is he trying to slow me down to
buy more time?

The expression on his face hardened into serious."All right, Ms. Green, let's get our signals straight. Either you take the antibiotic, or I dial 9-1-1 and you become the EMT's problem. The gash is nasty and it's infected. I cleaned it up, but you really need proper medical attention. It's either me, or the nearest hospital ER, then
you
can worry about how they fill out the incident report. Choose your poison."

She coughed behind her hand, her throat suddenly desert dry. Neither choice appealed.
But he really doesn't seem like the goon type. He sounds on the up and up. And why
would he threaten to call 9-1-1 if he was waiting for Angelo?
She looked around. Considered
.

I'm in a classy penthouse apartment, my wounds tended to, enjoying a hot meal with a very
attractive man. If he isn't on Angelo's payroll, this is definitely an improvement over anything I
could conjure.
If
he does belong to Angelo, it's probably too late to run.

"Alice, I never thought to ask. Do you live nearby? Is there anyone I should call for you? Family? Friends? Do you have your own physician?"

Again, her gut lurched in a panic. "Uh, not really. I'm, hmm, new in town and, well, sorta between places. I'll find a motel."
Not that I'd want anyone I know to become
involved in this nonsense
.

"A room in some flea-bag dive is not an option. So, take the meds, chow down some pizza to keep up your strength. I can offer a guest room, or a very comfortable sofa. Again, your choice."

He leaned back in the chair, crossed his long legs, then fielded a perfect, gooey-cheesy slice of pizza, properly folded long-ways.

"Damn, hot!" He wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned. "Good pizza with real mozzarella is best when it's hot enough to scorch the roof of your mouth. So, you'd better get to it."

April relaxed, and worked on her pizza between bites of salad. "Okay, you're right. The pizza is really good, it's hot, and I'm hungrier than I realized. Mr. Garrett, I don't know how to thank you."

"Glennon. Not to worry."

Suddenly feeling more shy than worried, she responded with a hesitant smile.

He squinted. "Two eyes the same color are a definite improvement."

Heat rose to her cheeks. With a mouthful of pizza, she shrugged and didn't attempt a response.

Her host didn't push.

After devouring her salad with the stuffed olives, plus two slices of pizza, Alice Green's eyes began to droop. She shook herself awake, then rose to stack the dishes.

Glennon stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. She flinched, moved away from him. He didn't comment on her reaction, didn't try to move any closer. "I'll clean up. I know where everything belongs. Why don't you toddle back to my room and have a snooze? I need to finish some work. I'll be one floor below, in the com center. No one will bother you up here."

About to decline the offer, but exhausted and sated with food, she gave in.

"Thanks."

* * * * *

Using clean salad tongs, Glennon picked up Alice's water glass and fork, then placed them in a plastic container. He carried the samples to his com center-
cum
-lab on the third floor.

He knew she lied. She wasn't good at it, but he hadn't wanted to spook her by pushing for answers over dinner. She already appeared to be dancing on the fine edge of panic. The greasy pizza made pulling prints off the water glass a snap; then he swabbed the fork for DNA.

He'd checked out her shoulder bag after he finished the bandaging, pre-pizza. A large designer bag of good quality leather, once red, dyed black, with stylized gold initials. AH, not AG for Alice Green. No ID, no cell phone, no personal papers, no receipts. What woman traveled without at least a cell phone, if not an iPod, Blackberry, or some such device? He found a hairbrush, a traveling kit with toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. About eight hundred dollars in used twenty-dollar bills tucked neatly into a red leather wallet that probably came with the shoulder bag.

Glennon hadn't made it back to his chair before one of the computers chimed.

"Well, look who we have here, Ms. April Alicia Hall of East Twenty-fifth Street in Manhattan." A file photo showed a vibrant-looking young woman, twenty-five years old, with distinctive blonde-and-reddish-streaked medium auburn hair hanging below her collarbone. Green eyes with stripes of hazel.
Those are definitely her Angelina Jolie
cheekbones, no matter her name
. His fingers flew over touch screens.
Well, now, how's this
for a coincidence? She really is a copywriter—for Angelo Martone Marketing, on Madison
Avenue.

He scrolled through screen after screen
.
"And why are you keeping company with such a major snake in the grass, Ms. Hall?"

He ran a simple Google search on her name; a news article immediately popped up. "Our reporter . . . blah-blah-blah . . . lavish party at his Saddle River estate . . . blah-blah-blah . . . to announce the engagement of Madison Avenue marketing entrepreneur Angelo Augusto Martone to April Alicia Hall, formerly of Chino, California . . . the engaged couple plans to . . . ."

Ignoring more society column drivel, Glennon settled back in his chair.
Well,
now, isn't this a right sticky wicket? I'm on my way to spec out a job for Martone, and his
fiancée falls into my arms. Literally. His frightened and somewhat damaged fiancée. Maybe she
is
being followed. Damn
.

During the vetting process he did on all prospective clients, Glennon had unearthed unsavory details about Martone the man, not Martone the public-relations image, more than he'd known about through the course of his work. Unless Ms. April-Alice Hall-Green was a closet psychopath, the match seemed unlikely. Martone's uncle, Antonio "Tony M" Martone, popped up frequently as a person of interest to East Coast law enforcement. The old man was already on Glennon's radar.
Methinks there's some
nasty business going on.