Where the hell was Simon?
“Come by the house this Wednesday night. We’re having a small dinner party. There might be a potential wife there for you.” George laughed at his jocularity and hit Henry on the shoulder again.
The parade of potential wives Uncle George thought of as suitable was pathetic. What would he think of Gabe? Henry smiled at the thought of her transformation overnight from heavily made-up Goth girl to fresh-faced beauty. She’d be a nice change from the constant barrage of eligible, politically correct bachelorettes flung in his face at dinner parties.
“I’ve already found my potential wife, Uncle.” The words slipped out without a moment’s hesitation.
The statement woke his uncle right up. He glanced around the room for Henry’s mystery date. “Is she here?”
“No. I’m hiding her in my house until the pink dye wears off. She’s the girl for me, however. I’ve decided if she doesn’t want me, I’ll die a lonely old bachelor.” A harsh laugh followed his inane statement. The woman was no more duchess material than the dim-witted socialites his uncle introduced him to at every event they attended. Although she would be a perfect dinner companion with her quick wit, intelligence, and subtle beauty. Pink hair and all.
He shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. Gabe had invaded his house and upended his plans, and yet he wanted to have dinner with her.
Dear God, she’s like a virus taking over my life.
Uncle George opened his mouth to add more twaddle to an already-dull conversation, but Henry cut him off.
“Give Aunt Mary my best. I see Stan Duckett by the bar, and I need to ask him if he can help with my little charity thing. Really nice speaking with you.” Henry shook his hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Simon showed up at his side a minute too late, but he carried two drinks, making all forgiven.
“Is Uncle George doing well?” He handed Henry the scotch.
“As head-splitting as ever. What took you so long?”
“Ran into a friend.” Simon took a sip of what looked like straight vodka. His subsequent silence told Henry everything.
As part of Simon’s job, which he rarely spoke about to Henry, he kept tabs on many players in the European jet set. Yet he didn’t have the credentials to gain access to the more exclusive parties. Henry did. Several years back, they devised a partnership where Henry provided Simon the use of his house and entrée to his upscale social circles. In exchange, Simon acted as a personal assistant to Henry. An even trade-off considering Simon’s cooking skills. Over the years, they’d built an amicable relationship.
They made a quick circuit around the party and split up while Simon went to work his magic with potential investors in a scheme Henry didn’t have the clearance to learn about. An hour later, they regrouped as they were being seated for dinner.
“I wonder how Gabe is doing?” Henry followed Simon to table twenty.
“I’m not sure, but I can’t wait for breakfast with her.” Simon smirked, and Henry’s gut sent him a silent alarm.
“Why?”
“Her knowledge about art could prove useful.”
Henry glared up at his brother and lowered his voice. “What does art have to do with arms trafficking?”
“Organized crime is a spiderweb. It reaches out in all directions trying to diversify, minimize risk, and maximize profit. Stolen art, like drugs, funds many of these transactions.” An embedded agent for the foreign intelligence service, Simon took every aspect of his job seriously. Outside of work, he took little seriously. “If, as you say, Gabe has an unbelievable ability to appraise art, she’s hardly the type to be employed by Christie’s, Sotheby’s, the British Museum, or the Tate. You tell me what her connection is to the art world.”
“You think she’s a thief?”
“I’m not sure what she is.”
“Just because a person dresses like a rebel and has an unusual knowledge base doesn’t mean she’s a criminal.”
“Says the anthropology professor. Despite your eternal faith in everyone, I think it would be worthwhile to speak with her.”
“She’s in a vulnerable situation right now. If she loses my trust, she could run back into a dangerous situation.” He recalled his outburst in front of the portrait. Not his best behavior, but he didn’t scare her.
Did he?
“Don’t tell me you like her? She doesn’t even look female. More like a prepubescent boy with rock-star hair.”
To avoid drawing attention to their conversation, Henry tempered the anger threatening to take over his voice. “Her hand went through a window, and she refused to take herself to the hospital, preferring to hide in my house instead. Did you notice the scarring on her neck? Probably not. According to the hospital, she also has a broken rib. Someone beat the hell out of her, and you want to add to her misery. Harassing a woman who needs help and using her for your own gain is low even for you.”
Simon narrowed his eyebrows and turned into someone Henry had never seen before. Someone dangerous. “You have no idea how low I’ll go for my job. Don’t ever confuse me for someone with integrity. Your father beat that out of me years ago.”
The reference to their father flushed ice through Henry’s system. Simon was right. He didn’t deserve Henry’s judgment. He’d lived through hell and was now trying to make it right.
“I trust you, but I’m also obligated to protect Gabe.” Even if that meant keeping Simon far away from her.
They split up to take their seats at the table.
The image of Gabe tired and afraid at the house left Henry unable to concentrate on the meal or dinner conversation. By the end of the soup course, guilt from leaving her alone pounded his head.