“Thanks, Magna,” Remy drawled with a lazy smile. “Who needs Siri when we have you?”
The simulated voice responded with warm laughter as Remy rumbled through to the parking garage. Swerving his motorcycle into his reserved spot, he silenced the ignition, removed his helmet and climbed off the bike.
As he strode to the elevator, the camouflage-clad security guard pressed the call button for him and offered a deferential “Good morning, sir. Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Erwin,” Remy said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “It’s good to be home.”
Though I wouldn’t have minded another week in paradise with Zandra, just the two of us.
Remy smiled to himself as he entered the elevator.
Once the doors closed behind him, his thoughts shifted to the busy day that awaited him as head of Brand Security Solutions, a multimillion-dollar global corporation that provided executive protection and investigative services to government, military and corporate sector enterprises. His itinerary for today included a series of meetings and consultations that would hopefully result in new contracts.
When he reached the top floor, his assistant was waiting for him. She had her Bluetooth headset in place and held a steaming cup of black coffee, which she handed to him as soon as he stepped off the elevator.
In her late twenties, Mona Fay Yancy had dark hair that she always scraped back into a severe ponytail, square shoulders and wide childbearing hips, though she swore she’d yet to meet a man who could sweet-talk her into “birthing his melon-head babies.” She was a sassy Southern girl whose tough, no-nonsense demeanor would have made Remy’s tobacco-chewing, ball-busting BUD/S instructors gush with pride. She kept Remy on track, ran a tight ship and suffered no fools.
“Good morning, boss. Nice to have you back.” She gave him one of her rare smiles, which faded the moment her eyes landed on his combat boots. “Good Lord, what are you wearing?”
Remy grinned, sipping his coffee. “I took the Turbine today.”
“Whatever for?” Mona demanded, falling into step beside him as he started from the lobby with long, ground-eating strides. “You’re supposed to be meeting with the top executives of a major pharmaceutical company. You can’t show up wearing an Armani suit with combat boots.”
“I’m not showing up anywhere,” Remy corrected. “They’re coming to me. So why the hell should they give a rat’s ass what I’m wearing? They’re interested in the services I provide, not my fashion sense.”
“Or lack thereof,” Mona muttered under her breath.
“I heard that.”
“Good morning, Mr. Brand. We missed you.”
Remy smiled and winked at the attractive young receptionist manning the phone from behind a futuristic-looking glass desk.
While the exterior of the old warehouse resembled every other warehouse on the block, the interior featured an ultramodern design with exposed steel beams, sleek leather furnishings and glacial white walls that formed a dramatic contrast to gleaming black granite floors.
Given his military background, Remy would have gone for something stark and functional, but when he brought Zandra to the empty warehouse and gave her the grand tour, she’d seen so much potential that she’d urged him to commission one of her interior designer friends to renovate the space. Even if Remy hadn’t been pleased with the results—which he was—it would have been worth it just to see the girlish delight on Zandra’s face as she’d rushed from room to room oohing and aahing over everything.
As Remy and Mona headed toward his office, they came upon a pair of tattooed, rough-looking ex-marines, one sporting a blond Mohawk while the other wore long dreadlocks. Their beefy hands were wrapped around coffee cups and powdered beignets that they’d just pilfered from the kitchen.
They nodded to Remy. “Wassup, Chief.”
“Gentlemen. How’s it going?”