Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 2

  “Oh, of course. Of course. We can talk in my study.”

  “Do you need me? If not, I’m going back to my book.” Marian heaved a small sigh. “Reading is about the only thing I can do these days, and even then it’s a challenge to turn the pages with this thing.” She shot an accusatory glare at her cast.

  Lyman squeezed her shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Zoë and I just have a few business details to iron out. Put your feet up and enjoy yourself, dear.” When Marian waddled toward the living room, grumbling, he turned to Zoë and gestured to a hallway off the foyer. “Right this way.”

  She followed Lyman into a sumptuous library with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. They were impressive, but that had doubtless been the original owner’s intent. She wondered if anyone ever read them. A variety of well-worn science and engineering texts filled a lower shelf. Those were probably Lyman’s.

  He closed the door and motioned for her to sit while he remained standing. “I suppose you want to know why you’re here, besides to cook, of course.”

  Besides that, yes.

  She tried to suppress the niggling worry as she removed a small notebook and pen from her bag and crossed her legs. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the situation. You said you wanted a bodyguard for your wife.”

  “Yes. I contacted your firm specifically because the website said all your agents are female and able to work undercover as members of the client’s staff. The references you gave me were all very pleased with your services.”

  Zoë smiled and nodded. “The agency has a sterling reputation.”

  He steepled his fingers and tapped his lower lip. “There’s one aspect of this job that may be a little different. First and foremost, Marian must not suspect the true reason you’re here.”

  She frowned. This was an unexpected wrinkle. “Our undercover personas are generally for the benefit of the public and any potential threats because people tend to ignore the help, especially when they’re women. As a rule, we don’t hide our identities from the clients themselves.”

  “That may be, but you’ll need to hide it here. I can’t imagine how Marian would fuss if she knew I’d hired a bodyguard for her. She’s already upset about not being able to do much for herself. A bodyguard who could also cook seemed like the perfect solution. I just want her to be safe.” He sank into a battered brown leather wing chair and ran both hands through the curly wisps atop his head. “She is everything to me.”

  Zoë nodded, pen poised, waiting for him to continue. When he hesitated, she leaned forward and gave him an encouraging smile. “I understand.” She didn’t, but hopefully, she would soon. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

  He clasped his hands in his lap. “The beginning. Yes. That would be three months ago.” He raised his gaze to meet hers. “It all started with Victor Watanabe.”

  She wrote the name in her book. “What started, exactly?”

  “The incidents—the calls, the accident, the break-in. That’s why the police were here. Someone broke into this room last night through that window.” He gestured toward one of the tall, leaded glass casement windows that overlooked the front lawn. The antique metal latch was bent and twisted.

  “What was stolen?”

  “That’s the oddest thing—nothing, as far as I could tell. And if the burglars went through the rest of the house, they left no trace.”

  She frowned. “Do you have a security system?”

  His pale face flushed, and he glanced away. “Yes, but sometimes I get distracted and forget to set it. Besides, there’s not much of real value left in the house. I’m afraid the family fortunes have dwindled since my grandfather’s day.”

  “You’d be surprised what thieves might find of interest, but regardless, you don’t want strangers in your home.”

  “I certainly don’t. I’ve tried to downplay the whole thing for Marian’s sake, but the idea of someone sneaking around in the middle of the night is intolerable.”

  “Why don’t I take over responsibility for setting the alarm at night? That way you won’t have to worry about it.”

  He dipped his head. “Thank you. That would be a great relief.”

  “So, let’s get back to the break-in. You believe the perpetrator was this Victor Watanabe?”

  Lyman rose to pace in front of the carved limestone fireplace. “I don’t know who else it could be. He claims to be a representative of a Japanese company, Ichiro Electronics, but industrial spy is more likely. He showed up here about three months ago with an offer to buy GRAMPA.”

  Her hand stilled, and she stared at him. “I don’t understand. A Japanese company wants to buy your grandfather?” An image of Frankie’s moldering corpse flashed through her mind.

  Lyman dismissed her question with a wave. “No, no, no. They want to buy GRAMPA, my robot. His official name is the Great Robotic Automatic Meal Preparation Assistant or GRAMPA for short.”

  Zoë breathed a small sigh of relief that Frankie “No Nose” could continue his eternal nap in peace. “I take it you don’t want to sell GRAMPA.”

  Lyman bristled. “Absolutely not. He is the culmination of my life’s work. I’ve had a number of inventions in the past but never managed to time them right. This time is different. GRAMPA’s different. He’s unique. And with a few more adjustments, he’ll be ready for the marketplace. I’ve told Victor Watanabe I’ll never sell, but he refuses to take no for an answer. He keeps showing up every week or two with a new offer.”

  “And you believe he’s harassing you to try to persuade you to sell your invention.”

  His soft brown brows drew together in a perplexed frown. “There’s no other explanation for what’s been happening. About three months ago, someone started calling the house at odd hours and hanging up as soon as I answered.”

  Zoë could think of another plausible explanation for the calls but kept it to herself. While Marian didn’t seem the type, she would hardly be the first pretty young wife with an older husband to have a lover on the side.

  Lyman resumed his pacing. “Then a couple of weeks ago I had an accident, and the car was wrecked. That’s when Marian insisted on hiring Dominic to drive me.” He stopped and faced Zoë with a look of determination. “She thinks I wasn’t paying attention, but I swear a crazy motorcyclist tried to run me off the road.”

  A chill snaked up her spine. She doubted Lyman Prescott had ever been an observant driver—she could easily picture him lost in thought instead of concentrating on traffic—but his mention of the biker set warning bells clanging in her brain. “Are the police investigating the accident?”

  He waved a hand in the air, as if brushing aside an invisible insect. “They say they are, but they don’t hold out much hope of finding anything. The motorcyclist sped off, and I was too flustered to provide a detailed description.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth. There couldn’t be a connection between the bikers she’d encountered that morning and Lyman’s accident, could there? How could anyone outside of Phoenix, Ltd. have found out about her assignment and intercepted her on the road? And even if they could, why would they?

  She made a note to call Sergeant Lewis. She hadn’t gotten the license numbers, but she knew the makes and models of the bikes she’d seen. Maybe he could find a link.

  Lyman’s brows pinched. “I’m not concerned about my own safety, but you must protect Marian.”

  “So far, the incidents you’ve described appear to have been directed at you. Has anyone bothered Marian or made threats against her?”

  “Not yet, but what if someone tries to break into the house during the day? I’m usually in my workshop in the cellar, and I might not hear. Or they might try to kidnap her to force me to give them the plans to GRAMPA. She hasn’t been able to drive since she broke her arm, but now that you’re here, I know she’ll welcome the opportunity to get out.” He paused. “I assume you carry a firearm.”

  She nodde
d. “I have one in my purse, which I’ll take whenever we leave the house.”

  Lyman pressed his lips together and shook his head. “That’s not good enough. You might not be able to reach it in time.”

  Zoë considered her Glock 26 and her wardrobe. The small gun was ideal for normal bodyguard assignments, when she wore a jacket and wasn’t trying to conceal her identity from her client. It would be much more difficult to hide under casual indoor clothing. “Marian and I will be in close quarters every day. She’s sure to notice if I wear a holster.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Wear a big sweater, or strap it to your ankle like they do in the movies. I don’t care. You’ll have to find a way. Nothing can happen to her or the baby.”

  His anxiety was spiraling out of control. She had to reassure him she could handle this assignment if he let her do it her way.

  “Mr. Prescott, your wife will be safest if we limit her exposure to firearms as much as possible. No matter how careful one is, accidents can happen.”

  “But what—”

  “Before joining Phoenix, Ltd., I served in the Army Military Police for eight years. I received extensive training in hand-to-hand combat, including methods of subduing adversaries without a weapon. Short of an armed invasion, I’m confident I can eliminate any threat that presents itself inside this house. When we’re away from the estate, as I said, I’ll be armed. Nothing will happen to Marian or the baby, I promise you.” She rose and tucked the notebook into her bag.

  After a second, the tightness around his eyes and mouth eased, and he reached for her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know I made the right decision hiring you.”

  Warmth kindled in her chest at the gratitude in his eyes. Lyman Prescott was her first solo client, and she was determined not to let him down. He might be eccentric, but he clearly adored his wife. “Thank you. There are a few things I need to attend to as soon as possible.” She pictured the tangled woods she’d seen on the way in and wondered about the condition of the wall surrounding the property. “I’ll need to inspect the house and grounds, as well as your security system.”

  He pursed his lips. “If you can wait until this afternoon, Marian usually takes a nap around one o’clock. She might get suspicious if she sees the new chef poking around the shrubbery.”

  Zoë nodded. “I think I can wait a few hours.”

  “Excellent. Then if you’ll come with me, I can show you to your room so you can get settled before lunch.”

  Lunch.

  She swallowed hard. They would undoubtedly expect her to begin her new duties immediately. What appetite she had deserted her as she pictured her last attempt at gourmet cooking—a soggy concoction of overcooked pasta and undercooked shrimp. Maybe she could sell her new clients on the delights of peanut butter and jelly.

  As they stepped into the hallway, Lyman added, “Oh, and by the way, I probably should have mentioned that one of the reasons I gave Marian for hiring you was to help test GRAMPA. I hope you don’t mind a little electronic help in the kitchen.”

  She stifled a snort.

  Sure. Why not? The robot was probably a better cook than she was.

  Chapter Two

  Nick Rosetti waited in the foyer, black chauffeur’s cap in hand, until Lyman Prescott returned with the new cook. He hadn’t seen a cab pull up, so she’d probably driven her own car. Good. If that were the case, Lyman wouldn’t expect him to drive her around, and he could continue to focus on his primary objective.

  Lyman stopped in front of Zoë’s compact rolling suitcase and puckered his brow. “Is this your only luggage?”

  She laughed—a warm, light sound. “I’m afraid not. I left the larger bags in my car. I’ll get them.”

  When she turned toward the door, he halted her. “Dominic can carry them for you.”

  “That’s not ne—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Nick stepped toward her with his hand outthrust. “Just give me your keys.”

  Her curved lips thinned to a tight line. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Lyman touched her arm lightly. “Please, Ms. Hargrove…”

  The tension in her shoulders eased, and she smiled at him. “It’s Zoë, remember?”

  “Yes, Zoë. Please let Dominic carry your luggage.” Lyman hesitated, and an unreadable look flashed between them. “I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself before you even start work.”

  She released a breath and nodded. “I wouldn’t want that either.” She turned to Nick and lifted her chin. “I’ll go with you. I have the key right here.” She shouldered her purse and marched toward the door.

  Nick crossed the foyer in three long strides and caught up with her as she reached the door. His hand closed around the brass knob before she could reach it. When he opened the door, she brushed past him, both hands clutching the straps of her shoulder bag as if she expected him to try to snatch it and run.

  Maybe he was being too touchy. He’d been on edge ever since Lyman announced he’d hired a personal chef. Nick had only been at Strathmoor a week and was still in reconnaissance mode. Given Marian’s condition, hiring a chef made sense, but the addition of a newcomer to the household was a complication he didn’t need.

  But now that she was here, he had to admit the new chef was a stunner—tall and lithe, with the long, lean muscles of a dancer beneath her form-fitting gray suit. And those legs. She had to know what spiky heels did to her legs, not to mention a man’s libido. Normally, he went for long-haired blondes, but Zoë Hargrove’s chin-length dark hair formed the perfect frame for a pair of big, heavily-lashed, green eyes.

  All in all, a very nice package. Just not the package of a chef.

  Real chefs stood on their feet all day. They wore sensible shoes. They didn’t wear wine-colored stilettos and have legs like a Vegas showgirl.

  He wanted to believe she was exactly who Lyman said she was—a personal chef and nothing more—but his investigator’s nose wouldn’t let him. The woman was a mystery, and mysteries made him itch. Even beautiful ones.

  Their footsteps crunched on the pebble sidewalk as they crossed in front of the house and headed down the driveway toward the garage without a word. When Zoë stopped beside a red Mini Cooper, Nick held out his hand again, and she rummaged in her purse.

  She produced a key and pressed the remote button to unlock the doors. “I can carry my own luggage.”

  “I’m sure you can, but Mr. Prescott asked me to do it, and I like to keep my employer happy.”

  He opened the back hatch and sized up her bags, one red and one black. Then he reached in, grabbed a handle in each hand, and tugged. The red one slid out easily, but the black one jerked back against his shoulder like it was bolted to the floor of the car. He applied more muscle, and the case grudgingly thumped and bumped its way out of the car and onto the driveway.

  He scowled at the suitcase, then at its owner. “What have you got in here, a collection of dumbbells?”

  Her lips curved as if she were enjoying a private secret. “Mostly shoes—a book or two, but mostly shoes.”

  “Nobody needs that many pairs of shoes. What do you wear, steel-toed work boots?”

  “If it’s too heavy for you, I’d be happy to carry it myself.”

  Heat rose up his neck. “I can carry the damned suitcase.” To prove it, he jerked the bag up with a single heave. “It’s only awkward because you drive this clown car. I don’t know why a full-grown adult would buy a kiddie car like this.”

  Her smile widened, but her eyes narrowed. “I love my car. It’s cute and fun, and I don’t have any trouble getting in and out—probably because I’m still young and flexible.”

  Now she was making cracks about his age? He still had a few good years left before forty. Life might have beaten him up a little, but she couldn’t be more than six or seven years younger than he was. He bit back the words forming in his brain before they spilled from his mouth, hefted the bags, and headed back toward the house. The only sound was
the crunching of her heels on the gravel behind him.

  When he reached the foyer, Lyman and Marian were waiting. Nick set the bags down, and Zoë cruised past him.

  Marian gave her a friendly smile. “If you follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

  “My dear, you should let me do that,” Lyman protested. “You shouldn’t be climbing all the way to the third floor.”

  She rose to her tiptoes and planted a quick peck on her husband’s cheek. “Nonsense. I need the exercise. Since I can’t see my feet, I won’t promise to watch my step, but I do promise not to tip over.”

  “We’ll be careful.” Zoë glanced back over her shoulder. “And I’m sure the luggage won’t be a problem for Dominic.”

  Nick gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Not at all.”

  He picked up the bags again and watched Zoë’s shapely backside as she and Marian climbed the grand main staircase, headed to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. He didn’t mind carrying her luggage—not too much, anyway—but it would have suited his purposes better if they’d put her next to him in the suite of rooms over the garage. However, since he had no say in the matter, he would have to adjust. If he wanted to maintain his cover, accommodation was the name of the game.

  Lyman walked up behind him. “Nice looking girl, isn’t she?”

  Nick nodded. “I only hope her cooking’s as good.”

  Lyman’s fingers began tapping the banister in staccato rhythm like a telegraph operator in an old movie. “I’m sure it will be. The agency assured me Ms. Hargrove is quite competent in the kitchen.”

  Nick shot him a sharp look. The man was as jittery as a junkie in need of a fix. What was it about the new chef that suddenly made him so nervous? One more question to add to the growing list.

  He followed the women to the warren of rooms on the third floor that had been the old servants’ quarters and set Zoë’s bags in the small room with yellow flowered wallpaper that Marian had selected for her. “Will there be anything else?”