Maximum Exposure (18 page)

The only bright spot to the last few days had been going home to Jodi’s place instead of his own. He’d told her she had nothing to worry about from the threat, but that he’d still feel better taking the precaution and hanging around. Since Tomás had kept his distance the last two weeks, the lie had played well enough as the truth.

Besides, Roman was doing enough worrying for them both, starting with having fucked up his cover story and ending with spilling to Jodi about his past. And somewhere in the middle was Tomás’s very real threat to Jodi, hanging like Damocles’ sword over Roman’s head.

How the hell could he explain to her that Tomás had meant every word about packaging her up and delivering her in small, shrink-wrapped bricks?

Last Friday, after ordering her to lock up her apartment and hauling ass back to Splash & Flambé, he’d found Tomás leaning on the front of his van, waiting, his temper rising with his impatience.

Carmen had tried to get her boyfriend to let her or one of the floor clerks check his delivery against the manifest, but the ongoing feud between the two men gave Tomás a legitimate reason to refuse. Livia could have insisted, but Livia hadn’t been around.

It had been hard to play the part of Roland Green when he’d wanted more than anything to go Roman Greyle on the drug dealer’s ass. But he’d held his tongue, kept his hot head cool, and let Tomás remind him that he was in charge.

Yeah, in charge of bringing down a lot of folks smarter than he was who would see that Carmen never got the happily ever after he’d promised her. A pretty damn hilarious scenario, come to think of it, since it was Carmen who’d brought her man to the attention of the feds.

She had been stopped for speeding and had been so hysterically nervous that her tears had raised all sorts of red flags. The officers had run her plates, her driver’s license, her name, address, and Social, only to come up blank. Not so much as too many calories eaten or a missed weekday mass.

Her explanation for speeding? Tomás, her boyfriend, was waiting. He got mad when she wasn’t on time because he had so many deliveries to make. All of that and the script necklace she wore, which spelled out Bebé, had the patrol officers taking copious notes.

Even they knew the name Tomás Bebé, and the idea of the small-time dealer involved in deliveries—even if they turned out to be legitimate—was worth checking out. They’d handed off the information, and when the department in charge realized the far-reaching arms of what they’d been given, they’d brought in the DEA.

That was how Roman Greyle had ended up as Roland Green and at Splash & Flambé. He wasn’t involved in the tricky back end of the boutique’s previous manager being wooed away, or even in the tricky front end of Livia hiring him in the interim—a favor to a friend with political aspirations who wanted him taken care of discreetly and well.

He left all of that to the people who had fun tangling everyone else in red tape. His job was about bad guys, getting them off the street, and about the innocents, keeping them safe. Jodi was an innocent, and he was doing a piss-poor job of everything where she was concerned.

He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out the front window, watching the shoppers outside amble by. It was Friday, and Tomás would be here soon with deliveries Livia was expecting. Legitimate deliveries of supplies and stock, and a display rack to replace the one that didn’t fit a new designer’s vision for best showing his wares.

Fucking prima donna.

“Hey, Ro?”

He calmed himself, not at all sure he’d succeeded, then turned at Carmen’s approach. “I’m here.”

“Tomás is having trouble with his van,” she said, keeping a display of colored head forms wearing outrageous feathered headbands between them. “Livia asked if you could make a run to pick up the racks so we can get Freeman Stone’s ties ready for tomorrow.”

“Tomás isn’t coming?” And after last week’s promise that today he’d be giving Roland specifics on the next run of heroin he wanted him to store?

Roman didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right. Bebé wouldn’t blow his timetable because of car problems.

“He’ll be here later,” Carmen explained, straightening one of the heads, which seemed to be scowling at its neighbor. “But Livia doesn’t want to wait on the racks.”

“What’s wrong with his van?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“It might.” Roman pretended to consider Carmen’s placement of the foam heads. “He could be exaggerating the problem, claiming a mechanical malfunction so he doesn’t have to discount his bill.”

“Why do you have to make everything a conspiracy?” Carmen rolled her eyes. “He said it’s something about his two back tires and his license plates.”

Roman froze.
License plates?
Tomás wasn’t coming because he was messing with Roman’s head about Jodi. “License plates? He can’t make the run for the racks because of his license plates?”

“Don’t ask me, Roland. I told you everything I know. Now, can you make the run for Livia or not?”

“Certainly. Of course. I’ll go now.” He said that to get Carmen out of his way. He wasn’t going anywhere until he called the gallery to check on Jodi. No. He’d go there first, see for himself that she was safe.

“The paperwork’s on the kiosk,” Carmen said, backing away as if she couldn’t wait to get out of his sight. “I’m headed upstairs, so I’ll tell her you’ll be back in, what? A couple of hours?”

“Yes. That’s fine. I’ll just get back to my own job later,” he said as she turned away, muttering.

He found the paperwork, cursing that he had to dig through crap Carmen had left on top, then head down, made his way through the store to the delivery entrance. No eye contact meant no being delayed by customers wanting to know when the next shipment of whatever would be in.

The drive to Downtown Blue gave him too much time to worry, too much time to think, but he kept to his original plan. He wanted to check on Jodi in person rather than give her a call, and yeah, that would meaning explaining the visit. But since he wasn’t leaving the gallery without her, that was okay.

He wasn’t putting up with the head games. Not anymore. He’d move Jodi to a safe house until Bebé found himself busted. The other man wasn’t stupid. He’d know Roland was involved in her checking out of town—another explanation he’d have to make, but one that was simple.

He was looking out for a friend.

Once Jodi was out of harm’s way, it would be time to look out for himself. For days now, he’d been wondering what it would be like to live something other than a lie. This operation had proved how close he was to burnout. He’d fucked up in ways he would never have thought to fuck up in the past.

He wouldn’t have let a woman get to him. He wouldn’t have gone out of his way to see that she did. He was going to have to deal with this thing he had for Jodi, or he’d never be any use as an agent again.

Being an agent was everything to him, and the promises he’d made to his dying brother were worth more to him than a fine piece of ass. This obsession had ruined enough of his life already. He couldn’t keep this up. He had to get back to where he’d been before Jodi Fontaine.

Rather than park in the visitors’ lot, he pulled around to the back of the gallery and into a space directly behind her Saab. Her new plates were on the car where they should be. He saw no obvious signs of foul play.

So far so good,
he thought and climbed from his truck. When he reached the private entrance, he rang her personal line from his cell. She answered, “Jodi Fontaine,” and he told her, “I’m at the rear door. Let me in.”

He didn’t wait for a response, simply clicked off his phone. Less than a minute later, he heard the lock disengage before the door swung open.

“What are you doing here?” she asked just as Dustin Parks stepped from his office into the back-office corridor. “Jodi? May I see you please? You, too, Green.”

Jodi turned, moving to block Parks’s access to the door, protective, wary. “Whatever issue you have with me, Roland has nothing to do with it.”

“I beg to differ,” Parks said, standing his ground. “He has everything to do with it. Especially since he’s working for Livia, and deceiving my very good friend.”

It was the fact that he was thinking of what they had as a relationship that decided him. Was he ready for a relationship? Did he want one? Did he want one with Olivia? Did he have any real choice in the matter? Did she?

He’d ended up making the drive to Miami with things being just as muddy as when she’d left Key Largo late Thursday night. These relationship things obviously weren’t settled in a day, or even in three or four.

And they obviously weren’t settled with the parties involved in two separate locations. That much he’d realized the minute he’d walked through the back door of Splash & Flambé.

Knowing she was in the building made the trip seem like coming home—which gave him a whole lot of mixed feelings, considering his own home was an hour south.

He’d settled in at the desk his small room provided and was looking at the thumbnails from the beach shoot when Olivia knocked on his door. “Are you busy?”

He shrugged. “Not so much.”

She came inside, crossed to the windows, peered out. “I just got off the phone with Dustin.”

“He liked the idea of using the gallery?”

“He did. And tomorrow night works best for his schedule, if we can be ready.”

“What’s to be ready? It’s you, me, and the camera. And it’s why I’m in Miami,” he said, realizing as the words left his mouth how harsh they sounded. He swiveled his chair to face her. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

She glanced over, gave him a weak smile, went back to studying the view outside. “Don’t apologize. I know you come here only for the extra work. And having seen your beach house, I can understand the urgency to get it done so you can enjoy it.”

He wished he was enjoying this moment more than he was, but it was his own fault for not coming back with her last week. He pushed out of his chair, made his way to where she was standing, and planted his hands on the window ledge, on either side of her hips, trapping her there.

He leaned his body against hers, nuzzled her ear. “The extra work used to be the only reason I came here. It’s not anymore.”

She straightened, crossed her arms over her chest, not inviting him to leave exactly, but not seeming to care if he stayed. He did, and she finally said, “That’s good to know, even if it did take you four days to make the trip.”

“I had things to do. I told you—”

“I know, I know. You told me.” She turned in his arms, took his face in her hands. “You told me. But I don’t care what you told me. I’m selfish, and I wanted you here.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Being selfish? Yes. Wanting you here?” She shook her head, moved closer, and kissed him, a light press of her lips to his, before letting him go. “No. That’s a good thing. I missed you.”

He reached up to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear, nudging her earring, which tinkled like a chime when he did. “I missed you, too. More than I thought I would.”

“Oh?” she asked, one brow arching. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Well, you should,” he said, leaning forward to smack his lips to hers, then returning to his computer and dropping into his chair. That was all she was getting until he figured things out for himself. “What have I missed? Anything good?”

She waited a minute, then followed him, boosting herself up to sit next to his laptop, crossing her legs, swinging one. “Nothing until today. Oh, when we were talking about shooting at the gallery? Dustin told me he knows for a fact that Roland is straight. Or, I guess he could be bi, but Dustin didn’t think so.”

“Hmm,” was Finn’s only response. He’d learned the same thing quite by accident, but hadn’t seen any need to cause the other man grief since Olivia hadn’t seemed to care which way Roland swung. “You mentioned before having doubts.”

“And I mentioned that his sexual orientation wasn’t an issue. He’s done a good job the last year, which, now that I think about it, isn’t surprising, since he wanted it badly enough to have friends in high places request the favor.”

Odd.
Splash & Flambé was a clothing boutique, not the state capital. “Friends in high places?”

She nodded. “The same day my previous manager told me he was leaving, I got a call from a local political activist, suggesting I take on Roland if a position ever opened up.”

Finn’s PI antennae twinged. “Awfully convenient.”

“For me, it was, yes. But now that you mention it…” Her foot stopped swinging. “And in light of Dustin’s gossip…” Her foot started up again. “I can’t think of any reason Roland would want me to think he was gay, unless he thought it would give him an edge.”

“An edge?”

“Over other applicants. Which is silly, considering there are plenty of straight men with his fashion sense.” She took a moment to study Finn’s logo T-shirt and ratty jeans. “You’re just not one of them.”

“I don’t need his fashion sense. I have mine. And I’m not looking for a job. I have one.”

She glanced briefly at his screen. “How did the beach shoot turn out?”

“Are you sure you want to see?” he asked, reaching up to rotate the screen should she want him to show her the photos. “You weren’t so keen on the pictures from the warehouse.”

She stared at the floor, hesitated several seconds. “About that set of shots.”

Finn rolled his chair away from the desk, swiveled it so that he faced her. “What about it?”

“You and Dustin choose the best ones. I won’t object.”

Hmm. Change of heart?
“You said it hurt to look at them.”

“It did. And it still might. But who am I to stand in the way of art?” she asked, with a tremulous laugh.

She knew the answer. He reminded her, anyway. “You’re the woman in the photographs.”

She slid from her perch on the desk, made her way back to the windows, hugging herself as she peered out. “I saw a movie one time, or a TV show. I don’t remember. A woman was visiting a photographic exhibit and saw a picture of herself taken during the aftermath of the towers coming down on nine eleven. She was furious. Livid. She actually stole it from where it was hanging, frame and all.”

He saw where this was headed and wanted to go to her, to hold her, but he stayed where he was and let her speak.

“Later, she met with the photographer. I don’t remember all of what happened between them, but he convinced her that her sorrow, no matter how private, was also the nation’s sorrow. And that by letting her emotions be seen, she was helping others heal.”

“Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me,” he said to lighten the mood.

She turned her head, glared, stuck out her tongue. “That’s because I’m doing a piss-poor job of remembering the details. I just know that in the end, she realized she had to face what had happened. She couldn’t hide any longer.”

This time when she paused, he got up. Hands in his pockets, he went to stand beside her, but he didn’t touch her this time. He didn’t want his concern to ring false. “This isn’t a movie or TV show, Olivia. This is your life. Your face. Your emotions.”

“I know. That’s what Dustin wants.”

“And what Dustin wants, Dustin gets?”

She shrugged. “I don’t need to see the finished product. I’m not the audience.”

Finn wondered about the crowd Dustin was hoping to draw. Then he wondered about Dustin. “Does he know about your past? What you told me on the beach?”

“Who, Dustin?” She shook her head. “No. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.”

Not anyone?
Finn frowned. “Counselors? A priest? Your parents?”

“At the time, sure, but my parents wanted to bury it since the man involved had been a family friend.”

“What the fuck does it matter who the man was? You were fourteen. And their daughter.”

“It was best for all of us, they said. They thought if I talked about it or was constantly reminded of it, I’d never be able to let it go. And since they were both in high-profile positions—”

He reached for her then, grabbing her arm and turning her toward him. “Are you kidding me? They were concerned about
their
positions?”

All she did was smile, the emotion behind it sad, resigned, that of a little girl still traumatized and lost. “Parents. I have a feeling most wish they could go back and do a lot of things differently.”

He didn’t want to talk about her parents anymore. The way she’d dealt with this—or hadn’t dealt with it—couldn’t be healthy. “What about you? You’re an adult now, Olivia, and you still haven’t told anyone but me? Is that smart?”

He was still holding her arm, and he felt her stiffen, but he didn’t look away, keeping his gaze locked on hers even when she reached over and, one by one, pried free his fingers. Then she stepped out of his reach and gave him his answer.

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” she said and left him alone in the room. Again.