Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
The gates swing inward as my SUV approaches. A butler in a crisp white shirt waits at the circular drive, expression set to professionally unflappable.
I kill the engine and step out.
“Mr. Maddox?” the butler inquires.
“Call me Sawyer.” I flash my best trust-me-I’m-fun smile. “And you are?”
“Edgar, sir. Miss Kingsley is… delayed. She insisted on picking up canvases from her warehouse personally.” Edgar’s ‘professionally unflappable’ slips for half a heartbeat and worry flickers behind his eyes. “The driver accompanies her, but I would be grateful for your assessment when she returns.”
“I’ll take the grand tour.” I extend a hand. “Lead the way.”
Inside, the mansion is all old-money opulence like coffered ceilings, Persian runners, a chandelier that looks heavy enough to crush the national debt. Yet bright splashes of modern art puncture the traditional decor: neon brushstrokes across antique wainscoting, a bronze sculpture shaped like a melting violin atop a Queen Anne console. Camille’s rebellion made manifest.
Edgar points out the obvious weak spots—French windows that date to 1906, two side entrances wired to an alarm system older than me. I nod, and log every detail. Mentally, blueprints bloom like 3-D renders: motion sensors here, pressure pads there, ballistic window film throughout. Forty-eight hours and this place will be Fort Knox wearing a Monet scarf.
We’re inspecting the rear terrace when the silence shatters—an engine roars, followed by the crunch of tires over gravel. Edgar exhales a gusty breath. “Miss Kingsley.”
Showtime.
I follow him through French doors to the driveway. A vintage red Porsche 356 glides to a stop, chassis coughing like a chain-smoker who’s seen better decades. The driver, a lanky kid in a flat cap, leaps out and opens the passenger door.
Camille Kingsley emerges in a swirl of color and chaos. She’s barefoot, denim cutoff shorts with turquoise paint-splatters, white tank smeared sunset-pink across her ribs. A loose braid of mahogany hair hangs over one shoulder like the final flourish on an oil-on-canvas masterpiece. Her arms cradle a stack of framed canvases taller than she is; a rogue brush protrudes from behind her ear like a wayward quill.
“What happened to I just need two?” the driver groans as he struggles with half the load.
“Creative epiphany happened, Ari.” She beams, shifting her burden, and the top frame wobbles, threatening to topple. “Blue period is so last season.”
Edgar rushes forward to assist, but Camille steps back, colliding with my chest. A paintbrush spears my collarbone, and lemon aroma fills my lungs. Her shoulder blades are warm through the tank, and I become acutely aware of every weapon currently strapped under my jacket.
“Whoa.” Her voice is musical yet husky, like amber whiskey over crushed ice. She pivots, arms still full of canvases, and hits me with those hazel eyes. Up close they’re a kaleidoscope—flecks of green, gold, copper—all swirling mischief. “You’re not Edgar.”
“And you’re… heavier than you look.” I grip the top canvas, steadying the stack before gravity wins. “Mind if I take a few of these?”
“Please do.” She relinquishes half, wiping her forehead with a blot of cerulean that smudges across her brow. “Thanks, uh—?”
“Sawyer Maddox. BRAVO Security.” I nod toward the porch, canvases balanced effortlessly. “Your father hired me.”
Panic? Fear? Annoyance? I watch her expression like a bomb timer. Instead, she grins—megawatt, unfiltered, dangerously charming. “Dad’s being dramatic again. Good luck keeping up, Mr. Maddox.”
“It’s Sawyer,” I correct.
“Fine, Sawyer.” She enunciates each syllable like a dare. “But just so you know, I hate the bodyguard vibe. I don’t need a shadow. I especially don’t need one who wears as much black as a funeral procession.”
I glance at my tactical pants and long-sleeve shirt. “Black matches everything.”
“So do neutrals.” She marches for the door, and I keep pace. Her bare heel brushes my shin once, twice, sending sparks up my thigh. “Let’s establish ground rules: no hovering while I paint, no vetoing my schedule, and absolutely no standing outside my bedroom like a gargoyle.”
“How about compromise rules? I keep you alive, and you let me do my job.”
She opens her mouth—retort locked and loaded—but Edgar interrupts. “Miss Kingsley, perhaps some lemonade first? You’ve been out all morning.”
“And a change of clothes,” I add, nodding at the smear of chartreuse across her shoulder. “Paint makes poor body armor.”
“Paint is freedom.” She winks, handing canvases to Edgar. “But lemonade’s a yes. Come on, Sawyer Black-Matches-Everything. Let’s debrief.”
The library smells like old books and Meyer lemons. Camille flops onto a window seat, crossing paint-stained ankles, while I remain standing—habit born from years spent anticipating mortar rounds. She watches me, eyes narrowing, head tilted like she’s figuring out the shading on my silhouette.
“So,” she begins, “what’s your tactical opinion of my death threat situation?”
“Initial assessment: credible but solvable.” I hand her the tablet Dean loaded with the compiled evidence. “Whoever’s behind it wants you rattled. The next step is escalation—something public, something that forces your father’s hand.”