“Hey, look,” Julie said, drawing Dianna out of her disturbing thoughts. She pointed her index finger, its nail chewed to an irregular edge, toward a pushcart on the paved plaza outside the Center.
One day, Dianna would have to introduce the girl she thought of as her surrogate niece to the pleasures of nail polish—clear or light pink, for a preteen. Maybe then she wouldn’t gnaw on her nails.
Julie didn’t have a mother to teach her such things.
“What’s that guy doing?” Julie grabbed Dianna’s elbow and pulled her toward the elaborately decorated cart. A sign on its surface proclaimed that it sold “Fare to keep you awake and alive.” Below was a list of food, drinks and prices: mochas, lattes and all imaginable coffee creations, sweet rolls, and cold gourmet sandwiches.
Dianna hadn’t thought she was hungry, but her stomach grumbled.
What was that guy doing?
A man in a white T-shirt with a red Cart à la Carte logo in the middle stood right beside the pushcart. His hands were in motion—a good thing, too, for he was juggling knives. And not wimpy butter knives, but steak knives with wicked-looking serrations. He wasn’t tossing them high, but they flew end-over-end as he flawlessly caught and tossed them in his obviously skilled, large hands. The motion of his arms emphasized the breadth of substantial biceps and tautened his shirt against his equally broad and muscular chest.
“Wow,” said Julie in an awed voice beside Dianna. I’ll second that, Dianna thought, though for different reasons than Julie. The guy was definitely sexy.
Not that she was into guys these days, let alone sex. It was okay to admire a good-looking man from afar, but that was definitely all.
This guy’s hair was sandy brown, cut short, almost military style. He was barely even looking at the dangerous utensils that twisted and soared under his control. His cobalt-blue eyes appeared to be fixed on Dianna.
And when she caught his glance, one corner of his wide, straight mouth curved slightly upward in acknowledgment.
She had seen him before.
Where?
He stopped juggling, catching the knives and setting them down on the cart. “Can I help you?” he said. “How about an albacore tuna sandwich for the young lady, and an espresso for her lovely companion?”
The guy’s tongue was as flawless as his juggling. As he’d stressed the word young, Dianna had been certain he would refer to her as the “older lady,” but instead he had complimented her.
She recalled suddenly where she had seen him before: in the reception area of the A-S Development offices, where Dianna managed the dispute resolution center named for her husband.
The Englander Center was an experiment that held great promise, and A-S Development, which had constructed it, also was responsible to ensure its use.
In this area abounding with courts and litigants, the idea was to encourage people to save time and money by paying mediators to help them resolve disputes amicably. Or, if they couldn’t, they could hire “rent-a-judges”—real, retired judges who held realistic trials in the Center’s own model courtrooms.
So far, the experiment was a success. The law offices within the Center were completely rented, and Dianna had no problem filling the conference and courtrooms nearly constantly.
So many people were undoubtedly a good market for food vendors. And that was where Dianna had seen the gorgeous hunk of a juggler before: that morning, in her office, peddling food.
“Would you like a sandwich here, Julie?” she asked the girl. “Or would you like to go to one of the other carts along the promenade?”
“Oh, but you have to stay here,” the man told them. “It’s in the cards.” Dianna couldn’t figure out where he could have fit a deck of cards in the side pocket of his snug jeans, but he whipped one out with a flourish. “Pick a card, lovely companion,” he said, stepping toward Dianna.
She felt her cheeks redden. “No, thanks,” she said. “Julie, let’s—”
“Please, Dianna,” the girl begged, excitement glimmering in her eyes.
“Well…” Dianna turned back toward the man and shrugged. “All right.”
She put out her hand, mentally comparing it with Julie’s much smaller one. Her nails were rounded, and she used a rose-tinted polish.
The man fanned out the cards. “Go ahead,” he said as she hesitated. “Pick one.”
Dianna closed her thumb and forefinger on one from the middle of the deck. She pulled it out.
“Now look at it,” the man said.
She did, then blinked, unable to believe her eyes. It was a three of clubs. But it wasn’t the suit or the number that startled her.
Printed along the card’s side was, “Beware.”
LT. TRAVIS BRONSON, of the special Undercover Response Unit, “L Platoon,” of the Metro Division, Los Angeles Police Department, did not let himself smile at the reaction of the beautiful, slender, but unapproachable woman he knew was Dianna Englander, widow of U.S. Representative Bradley Englander.
He had intended to startle her. It was the best way to get her attention.
“Now, please place the card back into the deck,” he told her. Her slim, elegant hand trembled as she obeyed. But she lifted her pale blue eyes to his and glared.
Brave lady, he thought.
“Watch,” he said. Using simple sleight-of-hand, he formed the cards back into a solid deck, shuffled them, then easily extracted the one Ms. Englander had selected: the three of clubs.
He knew why she had reacted so strangely. It had a warning on the edge. But so did all the cards in the deck he had proffered.
“Is that the one you chose?” he asked.
She nodded. “Of course, but you—”
“Now, how about that tuna sandwich, my friend?” He knelt to the level of the child he knew to be Julie, daughter of Jeremy Alberts, a developer of the building near where they stood.
“Sure,” said the girl, wonder written all over her enormous-eyed gaze. He was careful to make sure she hadn’t seen what was on the card.
“I’ll teach you how to do that someday, if you’d like,” he said.
“Really?” Her tone told him that she considered what he had offered a gift of the highest magnitude.
To him, card tricks, juggling and other feats with his hands were routine.
Ms. Englander appeared less impressed.
“Manny, would you get our young customer her sandwich?” he asked the thin Hispanic man who actually owned the pushcart. Manny Fernandez nodded and motioned to the child.
That gave Travis his opportunity. He reached into his pocket, but she gave him no time to show his badge. Instead, she muttered, “I don’t know what he paid you, but leave me alone. And if you’re smart, you’ll stay away from him, too.” She turned her back and followed the child. “Let’s go, Julie,” she said after she paid Manny, then turned back toward the building.
He wasn’t going to argue with her…here. But this wasn’t the end of it, especially because Travis could guess what “he” she referred to. “See you soon,” he said as she and the child passed.
She spared him barely a look. “Don’t count on it,” she said through gritted teeth.
Oh, but you can count on it, Ms. Englander, he thought.
He watched the woman and child disappear through the doors.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Dianna forced herself to