I stopped in my tracks the second I laid both eyes and nose on her.
Dark brown hair, green eyes, perfectly full lips on a wide, expressive mouth. Jeans, button up top, low, modest heels. She couldn't have been much younger than me, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.
And, God, the way she filled the room with her fragrance. It was unlike any woman I'd ever smelled in my life. Light, sweet, and just like eternity. How had I never run into her before in all my years in the Rock?
I'm not sure how long I'd been standing there like that, but it seemed like an hour or more.
“Richard?” Gen asked, snapping me awake. “You alright, honey?”
I realized our new client was staring at me in confusion, so I shook my head a little and cleared my thoughts. “Sorry,” I said with a smile. “Just remembered I left my keys in the Jeep outside, that's all.” It was a little white lie, of course, but I didn't want to look like a complete starstruck moron.
“Mmhmm,” Gen said before turning back to our client. “Jessica Long, this is Richard Murdoch one of our security personnel.”
Jessica turned back to me, those green eyes glancing me up and down.
Right. I was at work. And this woman needed my help. I crossed the room, hand in front of me. “Richard,” I said. “Please.”
She took my hand, her cool softness dwarfed by my big rough paw. She didn't shrink back, though, just kept her eyes fixated on mine, a little smile on her lips. “Jessica,” she said, shaking my hand, “Jessica Long.”
I smiled back, my hand still holding hers.
“Do you want to show her to the conference room?” Gen asked, her voice one part concerned sounding, and another sarcastic.
I smiled wider and released her hand. “Right. This way, Ms. Long. It is Miss, isn't it?”
I caught Gen in my peripheral, rolling her eyes. I shot her a look, but she just ignored me and headed off to get Jessica her coffee.
“Yes, but you can call me Jessica. No need for formality.”
“Jessica it is, then.” Together, we headed back to the conference room. The whole way, I had to keep myself from glancing back behind me, to check and double-check to see if she was even real. “Please, sit wherever you'd like,” I said as I opened the door to the small meeting area and showed her in.
She went to the nearest chair and pulled it out, had a seat, her legs pressed tightly together in nervousness. And I could tell she was all nerves right, a whole bundle of them.
I took one a spot over from her, so as not to be too personal, but not too intimidating. I was well aware that I could be, under the right circumstances. “How'd you hear about us? If you don't mind my asking?”
“Not at all,” she replied as she put her purse down at her feet. “My friend Sheila Pearson, her father used your company a while back.”
“Pearson?” I asked, trying to recall where I'd heard the name. Then, it clicked for me. “Oh, right, Pearson Hardware. That was an interesting one.” One of the employees had been breaking into the store overnight and stealing from the safe in the back. They had sensors covering all the areas and there was never any log of someone entering the cash office after the last sign-out. Instead, they'd been going up into the tiles, and crossing over the walls that way. It took Peter and I sniffing our way through the place, and Frank posing as a cleaning crew member, for them to discover that it was one of the assistant managers. Frank's knowledge of Spanish and Portugese had really come in handy on that one. One of the crew who knew about the plan had no idea a white guy could be fluent in either language.
“Well, hopefully this one won't be that interesting,” Jessica replied. Gen came into the conference room, coffee in one hand, sugar and cream in a little caddy held in the other. Genevieve set the coffee and caddy down in front of Jessica and excused herself.
“Thank you, Gen,” I said.
“What seems to be the problem? You mentioned on the phone with Genevieve that you think you have a stalker? Someone making death threats, both at home and your work?” I checked the paper again. “At the Curious Turtle art gallery you manage?”
“Own,” she added. “I own it, partially, not just manage.” She folded her hands very carefully in front of her, her medium length red nails lightly chipped. She worked with her hands, I could tell, but she still cared about them. That much was certain from how soft and smooth they'd felt as we shook. “Not exactly death threats,” she explained. “More like warnings to get out of town, or else.”
“Or else?” I asked, shifting in my chair, getting more comfortable. I pulled out a small notebook from my pocket and dropped it on the table in front of me, took a pen from my pocket and prepared my note-taking. “They'll hurt you, they'll come after you or your business?”