In Bed with the Bodyguard (13 page)

Y
ou'll let me know.” Lance loomed over her desk.

Ari looked up from her office computer. “For the last time, yes. I will tell you if there's anything that needs to be said.” Jeez Louise. It had been two days since they'd had sex sans protection and Lance was still freaking out. Instead of testing out the dating waters, as they'd both hoped for, his calls to check in had turned into Pregnancy Watch. She was freaking out too, but for entirely different reasons. After they'd made love, and he'd held her tightly, it had been all she could do not to profess her love for him.

She'd been on the brink of blurting out her nascent feelings when he'd cursed and started whining about condoms. The postcoital glow disappeared as fast as the sun hiding behind a summer storm cloud. There was no getting the moment back. Thank goodness. That was all she needed: to have confessed love for a man who couldn't wait to leave and was horrified by the thought of fathering a child with her.

A baby, wow. She surreptitiously rubbed her lower abdomen as she'd seen Valerie do. It was ridiculous. She was on the pill to minimize her periods and surely she'd know if there was a baby growing inside her. It seemed too monumental a thing to simply happen without her knowledge.

Normally the thought of raising a child made her want to vomit, and not from morning sickness. She simply had no experience with normal, stable families. How in the world would she know what to do with a kid? She'd be the best aunt in the world to Valerie and Jason's kid, but she'd leave the parenting to them.

She spared a glance for Lance, her glowering, pacing bodyguard-slash-boyfriend. Him? He'd make a great dad. She could see him strolling the sidewalks of Georgetown with a kid perched on his shoulders. His protective instincts would make him slightly problematic during the rebellious teen years, but surely a cool mom like her could temper—wait, stop. What the heck was she doing? Fantasizing about marriage and babies with Lance Brown was a one-way ticket to La-La Land.

She crushed all the emotional hoohah out of her and refocused on the spreadsheet detailing the costs and projected sales for the upcoming show. She hated the math part of her job; of course it made sense she was easily distracted. Anything was better than her current task, but she'd made an internal promise that she couldn't go on today's date with Lance until she finished her work. However, given his current attitude, she might take the time to complete her quarterly taxes. For the next three years.

She refocused on the glaring white-and-gray boxes on the screen until her hired security guard, Tony, knocked on her office door. Lance stepped to open it and greeted two men and one woman. All wore dark suits and sunglasses. Ari recognized them immediately. Feds.

She rose off her chair and raised her eyebrows and nodded to them, but she wasn't going any further than that. Months ago, when the whole brouhaha over her father's crime began, she'd spent hours answering questions until she'd convinced the FBI that she was totally innocent and ignorant of anything to do with the Rose Investment Fund.

Why were they back now? She thought they were doing basic surveillance. Had they found anything? Did it have anything to do with her father's disappearance? She turned to Lance, wanting him to make some sort of gesture of comfort, but he'd been acting remote and silent since he'd arrived; obviously, his brain was overly focused on their pregnancy scare.

“Ms. Rose, do you have a minute to chat?”

“Just a minute?” She sighed, knowing there was no fighting the suits. They'd get what they needed, no matter how long it took. “Sit down.” She gestured to the chairs until she noticed Lance was leaving. “Where are you going?”

Lance frowned. “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah, I'd appreciate having someone on my team. The teams aren't evenly matched right now.”

Lance nodded and stepped farther into the room. He turned to the FBI agents. “Does she need her attorney?”

Thank goodness one of them was thinking rationally. Ari spoke up. “Yes, I do.”

“No, you probably don't, but you're welcome to get him on the phone,” one of the agents said.

“All right.” Her morning coffee was burning a hole in her stomach lining. She dreaded finding out why the FBI was here again, but at the same time, she wanted to get it over with.

Ari dragged an extra chair into the office, then walked around the desk to her own chair and called up her attorney on speed dial. Once he was on the line, she spoke to the suits. “Spill it. What's going on?”

“Arianna, let me do the talking,” her lawyer reminded her on the speaker phone. Months ago, the last time she'd spoken with her father, he'd offered up his personal counsel, but she turned him down and instead retained the services of Valerie's friend, Sean O'Toole. “Can everyone in the room please identify yourselves,” Sean said.

“Well, me, and my friend, Lance.” She turned to face the older agent on her right.

“Agent James Smithing,” he spoke into the phone.

“Beth Forrester,” the woman piped up. She looked exactly like the women Lance had mentioned were his usual type, coiffed brunette and painfully thin. She was eyeing Lance way too closely for Arianna's comfort. She was tempted to go sit on Lance's lap and claim ownership, but that would be a lie, and Lance didn't seem to want her that way today.

“Gordon Marquez.”

“Thank you,” Sean said. “Now, why is my client getting a visit today? She's already answered your questions.”

“We are here, along with Beth from the Department of Justice, to let Ms. Rose know the investigation is moving into prosecution and remind her three months is nearly up,” Mr. Smithing said.

Arianna's heartbeat quickened and her skin got cold and clammy, even though she wasn't one hundred percent sure what they meant. These last months had given her a crash course in the law, but every so often she was a floundering fish. “What three months? What are you talking about?”

“Arianna, let me talk.” Sean sounded annoyed and amused at the same time.

“Your three months to vacate the property before it reverts to government ownership,” said Agent Marquez.

Ari's mouth fell open and her lunch lurched uncomfortably in her stomach. Vacate? What the hell were they talking about? “Sean?” There was a note of hysteria in her voice.

“We now have rights to seize all assets belonging to Mr. Stanley Rose. Didn't your father's attorneys inform you?” Ms. Forrester asked.

Lawyer Beth looked way too happy about this. Arianna put her pen down before she could do something stupid, like launch it at the woman.

“During the course of the investigation, we found paperwork documenting the sale of Ms. Rose's gallery building, and as the building is in Stanley Rose's name, we need to ask Ms. Rose to vacate the property, taking only her personal belongings,” Agent Marquez said.

Arianna began to shake. “No, you can't do that.” Her voice quavered. “Sean, do something. Tell them they can't make me move.” He would fix this, he had to. She'd held it together for months; she couldn't fall apart now.

“Notification was sent to the law firm of Arnault and Skaten. Didn't they inform you?”

“Arianna, relax. The building was a gift from your father, right? They can't seize gifts,” Sean said.

“Unfortunately for Ms. Rose, it was not a gift. We found an IOU in Rose's files,” Agent Smithing said.

“Do you have it in writing that it was a loan?” Sean asked sharply.

“It's in writing. Why, what difference does that make?” Ari asked, bewildered. She didn't care how Sean solved this, but he needed to fix it, stat, because there was no way she was moving out of her beloved loft apartment. How would she hold her show in three weeks? This was a catastrophe. “Sean, why does the IOU matter?”

Her attorney answered wearily through the phone. “Because now the gallery wasn't a gift from your dad, but a deal between the two of you, and they have the right to take it.”

“No,” Ari nearly cried. “I didn't think it mattered that I told my dad I'd buy him out someday. It was just a scrap of paper. Nothing official.”

“Nevertheless,” Ms. Forrester said, “it's not a gift.”

She was such an idiot. Why in the world had she let Dad buy the building? Because he'd offered, and all that talk of escrow and mortgages had seemed complicated at the time. Well, complicated was nothing compared to this disaster.

She couldn't breathe and could barely see clearly for a few moments. She focused on blinking back tears. Not once during the previous weeks of questioning had she shown any emotion to the FBI, and she refused to start now. Lance reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. If he showed any sympathy, she would lose it.

“Sean, what are my options? Can't you reset the clock, since I was never informed?”

“I'm sorry. You have three days to pack up and move out.” The FBI agent looked sympathetic as he broke the bad news.

“Th…three
days
?” She'd need three years. Where would she go, and how was she going to hold her show? The show that meant everything to her, because it proved to herself that she wasn't a total screwup, that she could manage something well in her life. Apparently not.

“You should leave now.” Lance stood up and hustled the suits out of her office. No, not her office anymore,
their
office.

She needed five minutes. Five minutes to rage, scream, cry, and weep. Then she'd stand back on her stilettos and come up with a plan.

Omigod, stilettos… her clothes. Where was she going to keep all her clothes? No hotel closet was big enough. She had barely had enough space when she went on a weeklong vacation let alone moved in.

“Ari?” Lance stood in the doorway looking at her as if he expected the computer to come flying at his head. “You okay?”

“No. I am
not
okay. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Hotel?”

She slumped back into her chair. “I guess this solves the issue of my stalker vigilante now,” she said. “If he can't find me, he can't hurt me, right? We can go tell Tony he's fired.”

Lance sat in another chair and stretched out his legs on her desk. “I wouldn't say that. If he's determined, he'll find you.”

“Thanks.” Arianna glared at him. “You're a real ray of sunshine, you know.”

“So they tell me.” He smiled, but concern for her lingered in his eyes. “Come on, let's figure out where you're going to move and start calling moving companies.”

M
om, please listen.” Arianna tried to meet her mother's eyes in the reflection of the tri-fold mirror. Her mom stood admiring her butt in jeans that were designed for a teenager, although the rear in question was perfectly sculpted from hours of private Pilates classes and a plastic surgeon's expert knife.

Ari's mom had agreed to meet, but her busy schedule only allowed for a shopping and lunch date. She'd swallowed down some excellent sashimi and was now suffering through shopping at Saks. Shopping couldn't cheer her up today; not when she couldn't afford anything. It was completely humiliating when a salesgirl had waved and showed her a darling pair of shoes. She'd had to say no. Her! Their best customer.

At least Lance wasn't here to witness her humiliation. That would be the crowning touch on an already crappy day. He was at physical therapy but would be picking her up later, as it was Tony's day off. She'd deemed the risk of shopping with her mother a calculated one, and she'd promised Lance not to ever be alone.

“Ari, I already told you no. It's time for you to learn some responsibility,” her mother said.

She barely resisted rolling her eyes. “Like you, Mom?” She said it under breath, but her mom heard the muttered words and turned from the mirror, zipping up size twos with a sound like a battle cry. It was always like this when they got together, things ending with fighting words.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, Mom. I'm having a crappy week. Ignore what I said.”

“No, I'm curious. What did you mean by your rude statement?” Stella pirouetted, examining her reflection in the three-hundred-dollar jeans, and harped on Ari's lack of responsibility.

Ari hugged a pile of jeans closer to her chest. “I just meant that you've never had to work for your money, either.” She took a minuscule step back, dreading her mother's reaction. Just because Stella Woden had never worked a day in her life didn't give her daughter the right to disparage her. It had been a rude thing to say, but she couldn't seem to find the words for an apology.

“Oh, you think holding a marriage together is easy, do you? Well, no wonder you've never had a lasting relationship.”

Ari reminded herself again that Mom was the trustee of her inheritance and had the authority to release or hold funds. Snorting with hysterics at her twice-divorced mother's notion of familial bliss was not a smart move. She swallowed back the choice words on the tip of her tongue and refocused. “My love life isn't the point here, Mom.”

“Well, what is your point?” Stella stepped away from the mirror and sorted through the piles of jeans to be tried on.

“I need a slight influx of cash to hold the upcoming art show. Remember? I sent you an invitation.” She tried not to let her desperation bleed into her tone. There was nothing her mother hated more than desperation.

“Oh, I remember,” her mother said vaguely. “So modern. A little tacky, don't you think?”

“No. I like modern art.” Her hands tightened on the jeans in her grip, but she practiced her yoga breathing to keep herself calm.

“Well, what happened? Seems like poor planning to run out of money before the event. When the girls and I chair a benefit, that never happens to us.” Stella kept fingering the jeans, not even looking Ari in the eye. “You need to learn to live within your monthly stipend; otherwise, I worry you won't be able to handle assuming control of the fund when you're thirty.”

Like her mother was ever involved in the actual logistics of a big charity ball. She simply wrote the check, bought a dress, and got her name printed on the program. Some poor grunt did all the actual work.

Her mother needed to gain the slightest grip on reality and come down to earth with the rest of the mortals. Ari realized her days with Lance had affected her in unexpected ways. Although she'd always fought with her mother, she'd never seen her for a truly shallow, out-of-touch socialite before today.

“Dad happened. The FBI happened. That's what.” For the first time in the conversation, she allowed her anger flag to unfurl and wave violently in the tempestuous storm of her temper. How could her mother spend her day calmly shopping when her daughter's whole world was falling apart?

Stella stood up straight and pursed her lips. “Shh. Don't talk about that here.”

Ari looked around the large dressing room. “Why not? Are the feds following you, too? Do you know something? Did you know what Dad was doing?” she gasped.

“Don't be ridiculous. Your father never spoke about business matters with me. We rarely spoke about anything. That's why we divorced.” She waved the topic of her first marriage aside with a well-manicured hand. “Why is the FBI following you around? Do
you
know something?”

Ari groaned. “Mom, didn't you hear me at lunch. I
told
you, my gallery mortgage is in Dad's name and the government is seizing it. I guess they'll sell it or something to try to get some money for the victims. Either way, it means that I have no place to live and no place to have the art show. I need an advance on my monthly stipend to pay professional movers to move the artwork.”

“You can't stay with me. My condo is in the disastrous demo stage. It's like living in a Third World country.” Her mother released a dramatic sigh.

Ari leaned back against the beige plaster dressing room wall. Her mother had reaped the benefits of a second divorce with no prenup. She had no emotional, legal, or financial ties to Stanley Rose, her first husband, anymore. She kept busy by serving on the boards of charitable balls and redecorating her condo every few years, and didn't have much sympathy for the real trials of a struggling business owner. “Mother, I honestly don't care about your decorator, and I'm not asking to move in with you. For the last time, I'm asking for you to sign a simple paper releasing some of
my
trust fund a bit early.”

When her mother barely spared her a glance, Ari dropped the pile of maybe-jeans she'd been holding down onto the floor. “You know what? Forget it. I'll figure this out on my own. Feel free to ignore my gallery invitation. I wouldn't want to offend your sensibilities by forcing modern art on you.” She stomped out of the dressing room and headed toward the escalator.

It was two o'clock. Maybe Lance would already be outside with the car, although he'd indicated two thirty was more likely.

“Arianna, wait.” Her mother's voice trailed behind her, but she'd been in between jean changes and would have to find her own clothes in the large pile before giving chase.

She ignored her mother's pursuing call and brushed past racks of designer clothes toward escape. One flight up through the heavy perfume of the makeup section, and she burst through the glass doors out into the drizzly spring day. No Mini Cooper and no Lance. Damn it. She shuffled through her purse for her cell phone and pulled it out to call Lance.

It barely rang before Lance picked up. “Pulling into the parking lot,” he said.

“Oh, thank God.”

His laugh came through the speaker. “So this is a rescue call. Darn. I thought you missed me and were calling to hear my voice.”

She smiled. It was good to hear his voice, not that she would let him know how much. “Get over yourself, Brown, and get your butt here. I'm at the southern entrance.”

“See you in a second.”

“Arianna Rose.” Her mother's voice was a harpy shriek behind her. Ari made a slow show of putting her cell phone back into her purse and turned to confront her mother, who had somehow managed to dress and purchase several pairs of jeans in the two minutes since she'd left the dressing room, from the look of the bulging shopping bag.

“Mom.”

The two women faced off in silence, each unwilling to make the first move or say something that would truly sever their tempestuous relationship.

Ari felt, rather than saw, her Mini Cooper slide up next to the sidewalk. A slam of the door told her Lance had exited and was walking toward her. Before she could greet Lance, her mother thrust her shopping bag and car keys into Lance's grasp. “Please put the bags in my car when you go fetch it.”

“Mom, he's not the valet,” Ari protested, but Lance grinned and winked at her as he accepted the heavy silver key ring.

“Which car, ma'am?” Then he turned and trotted off into the lot toward her mother's gleaming Mercedes.

She turned, openmouthed, at her clueless parent. “Mom, I said he's
not
a valet. That's my b…friend. Lance. He's a Secret Service agent.” She had no idea why she threw in that last bit of detail; it wasn't like that career path even registered on her mother's list of acceptable jobs.

Stella shrugged and sniffed her narrow sculpted nose. “First the FBI is following you. Now the Secret Service. Honestly, Arianna, what next? The CIA?”

Ari ignored her mother's dig. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me? Did you change your mind about the money?”

Her mother faced her and took a breath. “I didn't want to tell you in Saks, you never know who's in the next dressing room. I…” Stella paused and looked more vulnerable than Ari had ever seen her post-Botox. “Your trust fund is mostly gone.”

“What?” She must've heard her mother wrong. It'd sounded like she'd said her trust fund was gone. But that couldn't be possible. Could it?

“I kept the fund with your father's investment firm. He may have been a terrible husband, but he was excellent at making money.”

“But…but…” Ari wanted to throw up.

“I didn't know. No one did.” Stella patted her arm. “I'm sorry, Arianna. You still have some bonds and real estate, but anything more liquid is gone.”

Ari stumbled over to the concrete bench, not even feeling the hot sun burning on her bottom as she collapsed onto it. “I can't believe it. I'm a victim, too.” Hysterical laughter bubbled up, mixing with the threat of sobs. What was she going to do? “How have you been paying my monthly stipend if the money's gone?”

Her mother sat next to her. “I wrote you checks out of my own money. I didn't want to tell you, but I'm not going to be able to continue. This renovation is costing more than anticipated. I can give you a little to pay for movers.”

She sighed at her mother's version of parental protection. In this instance it had hurt far more than helped. “What am I going to do?” Her head sank into the comforting cradle of her hands and she closed her eyes. At that moment, Lance drove up in the Mercedes. “Mom, do me a favor, will you? Don't try to protect me with ignorance. I would've made different choices if I had known about my trust fund.” She honestly tried to keep the censure out of her voice, but some crept through.

“I did what I thought best, Arianna.” Her face suddenly brightened. “I know. Why don't you attend the Literacy Gala tonight in my place?”

“A party, Mom? How will that help?”

“Plenty of wealth will be in that room tonight. People you know. Perhaps you could ask someone for a loan.” She leaned over to kiss Ari's cheek, then headed for her car.

Ari pondered this idea while her mother opted for her usual dramatic exit, entering her car with a slammed door, gunning the engine, hopping a curb, and narrowly missing another parked car on her way to the lot exit.

Ari and Lance stood on the sidewalk staring after the departed Mercedes for long minutes. Finally she turned to him. “Did she at least tip you?”

He laughed. “Nope. The rich ones always stiff you. They don't understand how tips supplement the lousy hourly rate.”

She snorted. “Yeah, she doesn't know diddly about that. Also, I told her you were a friend, not the valet. I guess she figured she didn't need to tip.” She smiled a watery smile at him.

“What did she say? I'm going to guess from the look on your face that it didn't go well.”

“You could say that. Do I look like I spent a week in Kabul with no body armor? 'Cause that's how I feel.” She numbly slid in to the passenger seat of the car and leaned back into the headrest with her eyes shut tight.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse. Well, maybe not worse. I am alive, with only emotional scars.”

“I figured. You didn't even make a peep that I got in the driver's seat.”

She smiled a tiny bit and shrugged. “I'm getting used to it, and though I'd never go on record with this, maybe, just maybe, you're a slightly better driver.” She raised her hand in the air to cut off any boasts he was about to make. “Shut it. Don't fish for compliments or rub my nose in it.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Lance said dryly and started up the engine. “What did your mother say? Will she release the funds?”

Ari opened her eyes to stare out the window at the passing shops on Wisconsin Avenue. “My mom will not release my trust fund, because there's nothing left to release.”

“What?” Lance turned to face her, managing to keep steady in his lane of traffic. “What happened to the money? Did your mother spend it? I didn't think that was allowed.”

Ari fiddled with the window, lowering and raising it repeatedly, watching dust motes flit through the crack into the car. “She didn't spend it, but she had it invested with my dad's company.”

“Shit.”

“You said it.” She went back to playing with the window. “What am I going to do? That money was my safety net. Now I have no money and soon no place to live.”

Lance slowed, then stopped at a red light. His hand covered her knee. “What about the art gallery? Is it financially sound?”

“It varies by month. Most months I was able to sell enough art to write a check to my dad to cover the mortgage, but my living expenses were covered by the trust fund.”

“I'm sorry, Ari. I am.”

She nodded. “That's why this show is important to me. If I sell enough to become a major player in the art scene, it will help the gallery go into the black.”