Shadowlight

He found a space on the next block over that allowed him an unobstructed view of the lot beside Jessa’s office where she kept her car, and parked there in order to pull up a map of the streets and businesses surrounding Cecile’s. The large restaurant occupied a corner lot and offered valet but no public parking. Another concern was how he would remove Jessa from the premises. He called Drew and had him pull the building blueprints to check how many ways he might enter and leave the restaurant.

“On the plans I see two access doors and two emergency exits,” Drew said. “You can go in through the front and walk straight through the kitchen out to the back. The alley has only one exit, though.”

“I need two ways to leave so that if one is blocked, I can use the other.” Matthias consulted the map. “I think I will take her from the front. I will need the car close.”

“The valet isn’t going to let you park anywhere in front of the place,” Drew said. “Your best bet to get her out that way is to do a snatch and run: Pull up, leave the engine running, yell to the valet something about your wife being sick, go in, grab her, drug her, carry her back out, toss her in the car, and go.”

He made it sound simple, when Matthias knew it would be anything but that.

“I haven’t taken my lunch hour yet,” Drew mentioned. “I could run over there, give you some backup.”

Matthias grunted. “If you are seen, they will know.”

“Yeah, that’s why I avoid the fieldwork,” he said, his tone wry. “But I don’t think you can pull this off by yourself. It’s too public. Too many things can go wrong.”

“Place a call to Lawson at one fifteen,” Matthias said finally. “That is when I will go in after her.”

“Will do. Keep your gloves on,” Drew said before he hung up.

Matthias watched the lot until he saw Jessa Bellamy emerge from the building and walk to her car. She wore another plain suit, this one a green so dark at first glance it looked black. Between her lapels a vee of emerald cloth and a flat length of golden chain gleamed. Another glint of gold at the back of her head came from the long, plain comb holding her jet-black hair in a smooth roll.

She looked serious and sedate and strikingly beautiful.

This time Matthias saw that she carried a briefcase instead of a purse, and when she slid on a pair of sunglasses he noted that she had once more donned her black gloves. She would not use her ability on her clients unless she had a reason to, he thought. That would prove helpful to him as well, for if she touched him with her bare hands, her ability might make her see that he had come to take her.

He reached for the pack he had left in the backseat, and set it in the space between the front seats. As Jessa Bellamy drove out of the lot, he rolled up his sleeves and strapped thin, flexible sheaths to his forearms before sliding his daggers into them and covering them again. Rowan had also packed a coin-size pressure dart that he could hold and hide in his hand, but after looking at it for a moment he placed it in his pocket. He would use it if he had to, but not unless things went wrong inside the restaurant.

His remote receiver showed Jessa’s car to be a safe distance ahead now, so he pulled out of the parking space and followed her. She took the most direct route to Cecile’s, which convinced him that she had no suspicions of what was planned for her. That would make things easier for him, but more difficult later, when the time came to tell her why she had been taken.

As he maneuvered through midday traffic, he put his hand in his pocket and held the pressure dart between his fingers, turning it over and over.

Not long now, my lovely one.

Jessa surrendered her keys to the young valet parking attendant, who handed her a numbered stub and an admiring look.

“Enjoy your meal, ma’am,” he said as he went around the back of her car.

She’d land the largest contract she’d ever been offered first, Jessa decided as she went into the restaurant. Then she’d enjoy the food.

She was met in a quiet foyer by a maître d’ in an elegant day suit, who greeted her as if she were the first lady before asking for her name. When she gave it, he smiled and told her that her party had already been seated. She checked her watch before she followed him into the main dining room, but she wasn’t late—in fact, she was five minutes early, as she’d planned to be.

Cecile’s owners had made quite a splash when they had moved their four-star restaurant from Paris to Atlanta, for they had insisted on bringing the antique furnishings, kitchen equipment, and even the draperies from the original location with them. After some wrangling with OSHA over building codes and licensing requirements, they adapted their expectations to the demands of doing business in the States, and then proceeded to dominate the downtown fine-dining scene.

Jessa had never been to Paris, but Cecile’s did the impossible by bringing the city to her. Deep, rich burgundy velvet had been gathered and draped to frame sheer panels of port wine organdy, embroidered with ivory and amber threads, covering the windows and gentling the afternoon glare of the sun. The carpeting, a series of old Turkish rugs, formed a graceful patchwork and disappeared under delicate floor-length ecru lace table linens. The cherry wood chairs, comfortably upholstered with champagne-and-pink tapestry cushions, gleamed with polish and years of loving handling.

The air brought a complex bouquet to her nose: the light florals from the vases of fresh flowers, fragrant beeswax from the tapers of the same in the old brass wall sconces, and the effervescent fruitiness of the champagne sparkling in dozens of flutes.

Couples and small groups occupied every table, talking and smiling over crackled porcelain plates as they politely devoured their meals. Jessa spotted red-brown game hens braised with wine and shallots, brilliant red lobster garnished with fanciful shapes in shimmering aspic, and delicate pastel soufflés that seemed to float on the fork. Not a wineglass stood empty—the owners were French, after all—and no patron had to summon his or her waiter, for they were attended as carefully as blue-blooded royalty. Some of them, she suspected as she noticed some famous faces, probably were the American equivalent.

Walking through this shrine to haute cuisine, Jessa thought of the tasteless microwave dinner she’d picked at last night and felt almost ashamed. She might not be as rich, powerful, or influential as the people who dined regularly at Cecile’s, but she had been raised to appreciate well-prepared food. While living alone made cooking seem like an utter waste of time, she could certainly dust off her sauté pan and rice steamer once in a while and toss together something fresh.

The maître d’ approached one of the tables set in a discreet corner, where a good-looking man sat reading a single-page menu card. She’d seen his Italian suit before, on a hip young movie star posing at the last big Hollywood red carpet event, but despite the overtly trendy cut, the dark brown jacket and camel trousers emphasized his even tan and professionally streaked hair. As he stood, the fit of his jacket changed enough to hint at a well-developed physique. She also noticed how short he had cut his nails; Angela did the same thing to avoid her lifelong habit of biting them.

Determined, up with the latest fashions, and something of a body peacock summed up her initial impression of Bradford Lawson.

He showed her the perfectly even teeth of a boyhood spent in braces. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bellamy.”

“Hello, Mr. Lawson.” Jessa returned his smile, relieved that he didn’t also offer the traditional business handshake. She’d removed the gloves she always wore whenever she was out in public before arriving—September was cool, but not enough to justify wearing leather gloves throughout a meal.

Avoiding his touch was a business necessity. In the past she had considered using her ability on potential clients as well as the people they hired her to investigate, but she felt she had to draw the line somewhere. If she looked into the dark side of every soul, she knew someday she’d end up thinking about visiting the roof of the Bank of America building herself.

As she sat down, she saw he’d nearly finished a cocktail, and wondered if her watch battery had run down. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all. My previous meeting was canceled at the last minute, so I got here a little earlier than I expected.” He motioned to a waiter, who trotted over to offer her a menu card. After he placed his order for one of the steak entrées, he turned to her. “What are you drinking?”

Jessa needed a clear head. “Water, please.”

“They have an excellent cellar here, and as it happens, one of my favorite chardonnays,” Lawson mentioned. “I think you’ll enjoy it.” He told the waiter to bring a bottle.

Jessa wasn’t accustomed to being overruled, even as smoothly as Lawson had done it, but she’d met enough corporate alpha males to recognize a deliberate show of gender dominance. Lawson might want women to admire his body, but he liked ordering them around better.

“Just a small glass for me,” she told the waiter, surprised to see his strained expression. Her gaze shifted to the rings of underarm sweat darkening his otherwise crisp white shirt. “I’ll also have the shrimp St. Jacques with the endive salad and the lemon-caper vinaigrette.”

“Very good, ma’am.” The waiter hurried off.

“I hope he’s not contagious,” Lawson observed, watching the man disappear through the swinging doors to the kitchen before turning back to Jessa. “I’m sorry. The service here is usually flawless.”

She smiled. “Everyone has a bad day at work now and then.”

“Not at GenHance. Jonah Genaro, our CEO, is very particular about whom we hire. He wants only the top people in their fields.” He sat back. “Now let’s talk about how Phoenix, Inc., can see to it that he actually gets them.”

Matthias watched the dashboard clock as he drove through the streets around the French restaurant. At one fourteen, he took his pack, stowed it under his seat, and then turned the corner and moved into the right lane. He accelerated enough so that when he pulled in past the frowning valet and stopped, the car’s tires squealed. He left the engine running as he shoved open the driver’s-side door and got out, locking the door with his spare key’s remote.