Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations (2 page)

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him finish dressing. “You’re not going to call are you? I know a brushoff when I hear one,” she accused.

“Now don’t be goin’ and gettin’ upset,” he gently admonished, with another wink. “I’m a strictly one-night guy, and honestly…if I were to stick around, you’d be miserable.”

She grinned as she sat back down on the bed, circling her breasts with her hands. Her gaze moved from the top of his longish sandy hair, down his huge shoulders and muscular abs, and continued down the happy trail to his trim hips now hidden beneath well-worn jeans. “Well, I have a feeling big-boy, you’ll be back.” Her seductive pout paired with her fantastic body would have most men writing her number down in their contact list.
But not me!
He just smiled and winked once more as he left her apartment.

Once inside his truck, he leaned his head back against the seat, scrubbing his hand over his face. Filled with an emotion he could not identify, he drove to his large home outside of Charlestown. Pulling into his driveway, he sat for a moment appreciating the view. His hand automatically reached up to finger his medallion, the memories of his grandfather pouring over him.
Gone, but not forgotten, granddad. Your advice…never forgotten.

He headed through the house, up the stairs, and into the large master bathroom, stripping as the water in the shower became hot. Stepping underneath the spray, letting the water pound his tense muscles, he washed away the cloying perfume scent left over from last night.

Normally on a Sunday, he would hang with friends watching football, but today he felt uncharacteristically like staying home. Mowing the grass first before tackling a few indoor projects, he stayed busy, not willing his mind to focus on the growing sense of dissatisfaction with the recent hookups.

*

Across town, Faith
Romani sat on her worn sofa, the early morning light between the buildings across the street tried to find its way into her small apartment. The tiny, tabletop Christmas tree with four antique, glass ornaments sat on the end table she had moved in front of the window. The only sign of the season in her apartment, but it gave her comfort nonetheless.

Sleep had been elusive so she finally gave up and fixed a cup of tea, settling in to let her mind wander. An art pad in her lap, she chewed on the end of her pencil. Closing her eyes, she allowed the feelings to flow through her mind, slowly taking on shapes and designs.

With the pencil clutched loosely in her hand, she began to sketch freeform, allowing the image to flow from deep inside of her. At first, the lines on the page meant nothing. Simple lines, curves, shadows. Half an hour later she held the pad at arm’s length, staring at the image that came to life on the paper. A boy’s face peered out at her. A slight smile curved his lips. His dark eyes seemed to be searching. For what…she had no idea.

As usual with these drawings, she set the pad aside so the images no longer stared at her, daring her to do something about them. Sucking in a deep breath, she slowly let the air out. It was times like this she missed her grandmother so much. Her
Babushka
would have understood…told her how to interpret her drawings.

Faith’s father abandoned her and her mother soon after she was born. The stories her mother had told her depended on her mood. Sometimes it was because he moved back to his Russian homeland. Or he died a tragic death. Or he left to search for lost treasure. By the time Faith was ten years old, she knew the truth. Her grandmother finally told her that he was a man unused to being tied down, and the idea of a wife and child were foreign to him.

“Ah, dearie. Some men are like the wind. They blow into your life, never meaning to stay, but rush on by. Your mother fell in love with one of those.”

Faith’s mother, who never recovered from the emotional loss of abandonment, died of cancer when Faith was only twelve and her grandmother became her guardian. As much as she loved her mother, it was her grandmother that influenced her the most.
And understood me the most.

“You have a gift,
Printsesa
,” she would say, using her favorite nickname of princess. “Use it wisely, but guard it carefully. Others will not understand.”

Closing her eyes, allowing the words of her grandmother to wash over her, she could almost smell the borsch, the soup that was so often bubbling on the stove when she returned home from school. Blinking quickly, the loneliness of her existence rushed over her, but she refused to cry.

“Shed tears for the living, who exist in darkness. Not for the dead who have moved on to heaven,” her grandmother would say.

Moving to her bedroom, she changed into running clothes and headed out of the apartment, willing the pounding pavement to chase away the shadows in her mind. The art pad still lay on the coffee table, the image of the boy looking up from the page.

*

Bart drove to
Cam’s house to pick up his friend. They often rode to work together now that they lived in homes that were not far apart. He walked up the front porch knowing the wreath-covered door would probably swing open before he had a chance to knock.

“Good morning,” sang the sweet-faced woman who welcomed him. Stepping inside, his gaze landed on the large Christmas tree in the living room, gold and silver decorations filling almost every space.

Cam’s fiancé, a petite, dark-haired beauty, dressed in nursing scrubs, offered him a hug. She then stood back, eyeing him speculatively. “We missed you when we left the bar the other night. I’m assuming you went home with big-boobs? Oh, wait…that would make Saturday night just like every other Saturday night at Chuck’s Bar.”

“Now, now, Miriam,” he laughed, seeing her dark eyes flashing at him. “You know I just like to have a little fun.” Her gaze bore a hole in him as he threw up his hands in self-defense. Hearing his friend stirring in the kitchen, he called out, “Bro! A little help to fend off your tigress would be appreciated!”

A large, Hispanic man ambled toward the pair, pulling his fiancé back into his side. “She busting your chops over bailing on us the other night?”

“I didn’t bail,” Bart protested. “I just found myself diverted by a pair of—”

“Boobs!” Miriam interjected loudly with a huff.

“I was going to say blue eyes,” Bart corrected. Giving his friend’s fiancé a sweet pout, he said, “Come on, Miriam. You know I’m just a bit of a hound dog when it comes to the ladies.”

Rolling her eyes, she answered, “Your little-boy expressions don’t work on me, mister. One day, you’re going to fall for someone and I want to be around when it happens.” Turning to walk back toward the kitchen, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “And guess what? I hope you have to work like hell to get her interested!” With a wink at the two men, she left the room.

Bart looked over at Cam, a sheepish expression on his face. “She knows how to go for the jugular, doesn’t she?” he joked.

Cam threw his head back with a laugh. The former undercover police detective looked at his friend and explained, “She just wants you to find what we’ve got, man.”

Bart smiled at his friend, happy for what Cam had found. As the two walked toward the kitchen to grab the breakfast Miriam was dishing out, he could not help but wonder,
Is that kind of relationship in the cards for me?

*

Driving through the
security gates of Jack’s compound an hour later, Bart parked outside the large log-cabin home. The Blue Ridge Mountains loomed in the background, the cedar, pine, and maple trees surrounding the house. Jack Bryant operated Saints Protection & Investigations, recruiting from former military and government agencies to form a unique security service. Coming from backgrounds including the CIA, FBI, DEA, SEALs, ATF, the alphabet soup took on the cases others did not want or needed assistance with. Some covert. The Saints would never officially be recognized as the ones who solved the crimes. That did not matter to them; not having to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit that each of them left behind, made the work interesting…and profitable.

“Where’s Bethany’s car?” Cam asked, glancing at the large SUVs and trucks around.

“Jack’s got her parking in the garage now that she lives here.” Laughing, Bart added, “He said it was because he was tired of scraping the frost off her windshield, but we know it’s because he can’t stand the idea of her not being completely protected.”

The two men walked between the other vehicles parked in front and jogged up the wide front steps. Looking around, Bart appreciated the greenery draped over the porch banister, decorated with red bows. The front door held an enormous wreath. Upon entering, the scent of chocolate assaulted their senses. Quickly moving to the kitchen bar, where the other men stood, they looked over as Bethany pulled chocolate chip muffins from the oven.

“Damn, girl,” Marc said appreciatively. “Those smell so good.” The former CIA pilot was more at home in his small cabin than Jack’s grandiose one, but he loved the treats Bethany baked. His culinary skills ran toward the survivalist cuisine and he never missed a chance for anything home-cooked.

Other
hell yeahs
soon followed from the rest of the men. Bart glanced around, seeing the Saints now gathered. Luke, Chad, and Blaise sat at on stools at the kitchen counter. The large, formidable group of men were reduced to a drooling mass around Bethany’s cooking. The slim, natural beauty with her long, honey blonde hair pulled back into a braid hanging down her back, made homemade goodies for them once a week. Bart wondered if she had bewitched Jack by luring him with her baking skills. Looking at the man who was appreciatively staring at his wife and not the treats, Bart knew—Jack was in love with the woman.

His eyes moved to the large living room, the two-story stone fireplace on one wall and windows overlooking the mountains in the background on the other side. The Christmas tree Jack and Bethany decorated was taller than what Bart’s grandparent’s used to have and he thought theirs had been the biggest.

“Damn, Jack, that tree is humongous,” he laughed.

Jack, his taciturn expression morphed into a smile as he rubbed his dark beard, glancing at Bethany before turning to look at the tree that was now the center of attention. “After we decorated her Mountville cabins next door, we decided to start some traditions ourselves.” With a wink toward her, he said, “We need to get our meeting started. You all can enjoy the muffins when they cool.” He kissed Bethany before leading the men downstairs to their main work area.

Once settled around the large conference table, Jack began the meeting. The Saints had numbered eight, but now a new face joined the team. “You all know Jude from the work he completed in Virginia Beach with us last month. He’s officially become a Saint employee and I’m assigning him to Monty and Marc for a while.”

Everyone smiled at the former SEAL who had become engaged to Bart’s cousin; they had recently moved to the Charlestown area so he could work for Jack. No longer sporting the SEAL haircut, his sandy curls gave him a youthful appearance, but his honed body spoke of one who worked out relentlessly.

“Luke will also offer him investigative skills during his initial employment. Jude, they can teach you methods that were learned from the FBI and CIA.”