Unbreakable bond, p.1

Unbreakable Bond, page 1


Unbreakable Bond

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Unbreakable Bond

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  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Gemma Halliday



  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  * * *

  To my daughter for the countless brainstorm sessions, even when you rolled your eyes and paid no attention. I’m lucky to have you as a best friend.

  To my son for your constant encouragement and endless supply of ideas, even when I plugged my ears and screamed, “No more.” Your enthusiasm is infectious. I love you more.

  To my guy for all the unconditional love and support you silently bestow.

  And to Mom for picking up that first book and introducing me to my imagination.

  This is for all of you.


  For my Mom, who would have dressed like Big Bird, too.


  * * * * *


  * * * * *



  "Pick one."

  Two eight-by-ten glossy photos dropped onto my desk.

  I looked up. "Excuse me?"

  Paul Levine, my weedy looking attorney, sighed, then sank into the imitation leather chair opposite my desk. "You’ve been running in the red for the last three months. You’ve got a balloon payment on the business loan coming up, and this month you pulled in fifty percent less revenue than last. Unless you want to drown in your own debt, you need to fire someone." He gestured again to the two photos. "Pick one."

  I glanced down at the two pictures. A leggy brunette and an all-American-girl blonde. I shoved them back across the desk.

  "No way."

  Levine did another deep, theatrical sigh. "I had a feeling you’d say that."

  "Look, business is just a little slow."

  "It’s a tortoise, Jamie."

  "It’s been the off season."

  "There’s an ‘on’ season for infidelity?" he asked, doing air quotes with his fingers.

  "We’ll take out some ads."

  "Which cost money. Something, my dear, that you don’t have."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "I’ll think of something."

  Levine leaned forward, the overhead lights shining unattractively off his bald spot. "Let’s face it, people just aren’t getting divorced these days. With the economy the way it is, women would rather turn a blind eye to their husbands’ indiscretions than try to exist on half his income. It’s cheaper to stay together and pretend to be happy."

  "No one can pretend for that long."

  "Pick. One," Levine enunciated.

  I looked down at the two photos, which incidentally consisted of 50% percent of the Bond Agency. The problem wasn’t that I’d over hired. The problem was I knew jack shit about running a business.

  Men. That’s what I knew.

  When I was seven years old Chad Fischer’s Mom packed him a Snickers bar in his lunch. And not those fun size suckers. This was a king-sized log of nougat, caramel, and sugar induced highs that would last well past the end of afternoon cartoons. I wanted it. Every kid in second grade wanted it. But I tossed my blonde hair over one shoulder, batted my baby blues at Chad, and promised that he could stand underneath me while my little pink skirt and I did flips on the monkey bars at recess. I got the Snickers. That was my first lesson in how easy men were.

  Fast forward a few years, and my fifteen-year-old self was hanging out at the Northridge mall slurping a Jamba Juice when I'd been spotted by Maurcess DeLine, owner of the world renowned DeLine Models. Suddenly I wasn’t just working the boys at my school; I was working every guy that bought a magazine with my body on the cover. And getting paid handsomely to do it. I'd been DeLine's top model for over a decade when Maurcess had started to drop hints that my fresh innocence act wasn't cutting it anymore. I was twenty-six. A dinosaur in runway years.

  That's when I moved back to L.A. and decided to take over the family business.

  Domestic espionage.

  Really, there was very little difference between making love to a camera and making a married man forget his vows. In fact, this was sometimes even easier. Men with adultery already on their minds were simple targets. It was like taking Snickers from a second grader all over again.

  Unfortunately, getting their wives to pay was a whole other matter.

  I glanced at the two photos staring up at me. Truth was, I needed both of these women.

  "Cutting back on personnel only means I can handle fewer cases. I don’t see how that’s going to help me expand the business," I argued.

  "We’re not talking expansion here, Jamie. We’re talking staying afloat. We’re talking not filing for bankruptcy."

  "I’ve got a big client tonight. Judge Thomas Waterston. Superior court. If things go well, I guarantee his wife will have her entire bridge club in here by the end of the week."

  "Well, you'd better hope that’s true," Levine said, rising. "Because your balloon payment is due on the 1st. You’ve got two weeks, then…" He tapped the photos. "One of them’s got to go."

  * * *


  "What?" She swiveled in her desk chair, turning her wide eyes my way.

  "You're on the Peters case. Care to give us an update?" I tapped open the schedule app on my phone and leaned an elbow across the conference table.

  She cleared her throat and shuffled the notes in her lap. Caleigh Presley hailed from the south, claiming she was some distant cousin of Elvis’s. Blonde, blue-eyed and bubbly, she’d cornered the market on perky. I’d met Caleigh while doing a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot in Cancun. She’d smuggled a bag of fat free Cheetos onto the set, and we’d bonded instantly. Three years later Caleigh foolishly agreed to go out on a date with Nigel Owens, the top fashion photographer in London. I say foolishly because everyone but Caleigh knew about his particular fetish for bondage and tickling. When Caleigh refused to be molested by his feather duster, Nigel had refused to work with her, calling her "difficult". News that quickly spread to other photographers, her agent, and every high profile account in the fashion world. They’d dropped her like a skydiver without a parachute. Luckily for her, that had been just about the time I’d taken over the Bond Agency, and I’d hired her on the spot.

  Not, mind you, that I’d hired her out of any sort of pity. Despite her innocent-little-thing looks, Caleigh spoke five different languages an
d had the computer know-how to hack into the pentagon. Dumb blonde she was not.

  "Right. Peters." Caleigh cleared her throat again. "Well, so far I've followed him to the Venice Boardwalk, Element, and out to dinner twice at Formaggio's."


  She shook her head. "Nothin'. I'm beginning to wonder if his wife isn't paranoid. So far the guy's a straight arrow. Both the dinners were business meetings, and he didn't so much as glance at a bikini on the boardwalk."

  I picked up my coffee cup and swished the dregs around in the bottom, trying to remember if Mrs. Peters had seemed the paranoid type when she'd come in last week. Or, more importantly, the type who would balk at the amount of billable hours we'd spent with nothing to show for it. "What about the club? Element?"

  Again, Caleigh shook her head. "Sorry, boss. He ducked in for a drink with a buddy, danced a little, then ducked back out. No funny business."

  "Fine. If we don't have anything by Monday, we'll call it off. But take Sam with you this weekend," I said, gesturing to the woman sitting next to her, "and tag-team him. Every man has a breaking point."

  Caleigh nodded and made a note on the yellow pad in her lap.

  I turned to Sam. "Where are we with the Nortons?"

  Samantha Cross had come to me from Brooklyn last year. Long legs, perfect mocha latte skin, and thick dark curls, Sam had been a finalist on the first season of the reality show America’s New Hot Model and quickly become the darling of the cover girl world. Until five years later when her boyfriend, Julio, had knocked her up. As if taking a nine month hiatus from modeling hadn’t been enough to kill her fledgling career, it turned out Sam wasn’t one of those lucky ladies whose bodies miraculously snap back after pregnancy. While she was still a knockout among normal people, the two ounces of fat hanging around her lightly stretch-marked belly put a decisive end to her bikini days. So, Sam had packed up the munchkin (Julio was long gone at that point) and headed out to California to make a career change. One I was happy to facilitate. Sam had legs long enough to make husbands forget their vows and, thanks to her military-brat upbringing, knew more about guns than the NRA. And her aim was flawless. Sam could shoot the balls off a fruit fly at fifty yards.

  "Mrs. Norton's lawyer," Sam said, "has requested all of our notes."

  "Which we will gladly copy for him. Mrs. Norton has gone through three husbands with the agency. What Mrs. Norton wants, we give."

  "Of course." Sam nodded. "I think Mr. Norton's lawyers are close to a settlement." Her brown eyes lit up, and she leaned in close. "They offered a 60/40 split plus the house in Aspen."

  "Good for her." She deserved it. Especially after her husband had offered to pay Sam fifty dollars for a blow job in the back of his Jag. Sam had been so insulted that he'd offered less than a hundred, she'd actually hauled off and punched him. I made a note in my organizer to edit that part out before handing the footage over to Mrs. Norton's lawyers.

  "Okay, so get the Norton files to her lawyer, then work Mr. Peters with Caleigh."

  Sam nodded. "Will do."

  "So… new cases this week?" I asked, turning to the woman on my left.

  Maya Alexander handled all of the admin for the agency, including scheduling appointments with prospective clients. And if her face looked a little familiar, it was because she was March’s Playmate of the month. Lucky for me, not many men recognized her with her clothes on.

  "Uh-huh. Two possible new cases. Mrs. Shankmann, who claims her husband, and I quote, ‘shtupped the freakin’ au pair,’ and a Rachel Blake who wants us to test her fiancée before the wedding."

  Caleigh raised her hand and bounced in her seat. "Oh, me, me. I love doing bachelor parties."

  "Done." I noted it down. "I’ll take Mr. Shankmann if we get the account. Right. On to tonight. Judge Waterston."

  All three girls leaned forward in their seats.

  "We all know how high profile, i.e. high dollar, this account is."

  Three heads nodded.

  "So, this needs to go off flawlessly. Mrs. Waterston is a big name. She has big friends, who all have big cash on the line should they decide they need our services to bust their pre-nups."

  "We’re hitting him at the party?" Sam asked, checking her notes.

  "Black tie benefit at the Beverley Hilton. So, I want everyone to look sharp, okay?"

  Again with the nods.

  "I’m personally running game on this one. Sam, you’re camera one. Caleigh, I want you on two. Danny will direct from the van." I paused. "Girls, we need this guy. We can’t fuck it up."

  I didn’t add because without him, one of them was looking at unemployment.



  The Beverly Hilton is located on Wilshire in the part of Los Angeles where Mercedes outnumber homeless people fifty to one. An iconic piece of Hollywood history, the hotel has played host to countless stars, dignitaries, and legends, and holds over one hundred red carpet events each year.

  And tonight’s affair did not disappoint.

  The plush banquet room was decorated in tactful hues of red and gold, accentuated by floral arrangements at every column. A jazz group played in the corner, creating mellow mood music for the hundred-some guests in suits and subdued cocktail dresses, nibbling at their fat-free hors d'oeuvres.

  Caleigh stood to the right of the band, wearing a strapless emerald green number. In the center of her bodice sat a jade colored brooch, pointed straight at me. Sam was directly across the room from her, wearing a tight red mini-dress with a silver brooch of her own attached to her right shoulder strap. She held a glass of chardonnay in one hand and swayed slightly to the rhythm of the upright bass.

  I leaned against the bar, ignoring the jab of my Glock strapped to my thigh, and lifted a single olive martini to my lips to disguise their movement. "Tell Sam I'll be intercepting the target to her right, near the front entrance," I murmured into my décolletage.

  "You got it," a voice sounded in my earpiece.

  I waited two beats, then Sam changed her position ever so slightly, shifting to face the entrance.

  "She's got a clear shot," piped my earpiece.

  "Thanks, Danny."

  "Anytime, boss," he replied. Then, "Shit. Incoming at two o’clock, Jamie."

  I turned to my left…

  But was too late to avoid the guy in the Brooks Brothers suit with "hook-up" written all over his tanned face.

  "Hi there," he said, suddenly well inside my personal space.

  I took an instinctive step back, giving him a quick once over.

  His hair was cropped close in a conservative style, blond, gelled into place. Green eyes, creased just a little at the corners. Broad shoulders that spoke of either high school football or a dedicated personal trainer. Not bad looking, but polished to a high sheen. In fact, if my name were Barbie, I’d say he was the perfect catch.

  I gave him a semi-polite "kiss off" smile.

  "Nice party, huh?" he persisted.


  "I just moved here recently. I tell you, they don’t have parties like this where I’m from."

  I nodded. Sipped my drink. Prayed he’d go away.

  "You from around here?" he asked.

  Again, I gave the noncommittal nod.

  "Well, I gotta say, the weather out here is fantastic. Sunny and seventy year round. Paradise."

  Jesus, was this guy seriously trying to pick me up with talk about the weather? I’d seen better game from a ten year old.

  Danny piped up in my ear. "Detach the suit, Jamie. Our mark just walked in."

  I whipped my head around to the entrance. A balding, sixty-ish man stood in the doorway. Dark suit, navy tie, sharp eyes. Almost immediately a young guy with "future politician" stamped all over his pinstriped jacket was on the judge like pumps on a prostitute, jiggling his hand up and down.

  "Excuse me," I said, setting my martini on the bar and turning to go.

  "Aiden Prince." Brooks Brothers stuck a hand out to
bar my way.

  I paused. Then quickly shook it.

  "And you?"

  "What?" I glanced over his shoulder. The judge had detached the eager beaver. He was alone. Perfect.

  "Your name?"

  "Oh. Uh, Jamie. Jamie Smith." At least tonight.

  He smiled, showing off a row of perfectly bleached teeth. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jamie Smith. Can I buy you a drink?"

  I pointed to the martini, still virtually untouched. "Got one, thanks. Now if you'll excuse me-"

  "Here." He shoved a cocktail napkin at me, a phone number hastily scrawled on it beneath the name, "Aiden."

  "My number. You know, just in case you feel like playing tour guide for the new guy some evening." He grinned.

  I’ll admit, the "new kid in town" thing was kinda cute.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have time for cute. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the judge moving toward a group of men smoking cigars on the balcony. It was now or never.

  "Thanks," I mumbled and shoved the napkin into my cleavage.

  Danny piped up in my ear again as I threaded my way through the growing crowd. "I thought that guy would never give up."

  "You and me both," I mumbled.

  "There he is," Danny directed. "Near the French doors."

  "I’m on it. Sam's in position?" I asked.

  "She's right behind you."

  I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see the brunette keeping pace three feet behind.

  "Then it’s show time."

  * * *

  I stared at the "new voicemail" alert on my cell, trying to ignore it.

  Last night had gone off without a hitch. So well, in fact, that after reviewing the footage with Danny, he’d taken off for an early morning shoot in Malibu, and the girls and I had gone out for mojitos to celebrate. Until two a.m. The resulting headache this morning was a cruel reminder that I was no longer twenty-one. And the last thing that mixed well with a killer hangover was an early morning chat with him.

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