“Would you like to hand the wallet over now or after we’ve finished drinking our coffee?”
Malachi watched as the woman seated opposite him instantly stilled before her gaze slowly rose from where she had just opened and been about to add a second bag of sugar to the latte she’d asked for and he’d purchased for her seconds ago.
He’d obviously kept a restraining hand about the top of her arm to keep her in place beside him as he gave his order. Malachi had no doubt, despite his earlier warning, that this woman would run if the opportunity presented itself.
He’d made his usual visual assessment of the coffeeshop when they entered. There were seven other people in the room besides the two male baristas. Two couples sitting separately at the back of the long room. A lone man seated near the window. Then two women sitting opposite each other and chatting quietly together in the cluster of comfortable sofas across the room from where Malachi and his companion now sat together in their own comfortable chairs.
A chair that had creaked its protest when Malachi lowered his two hundred and twenty pound and four inches over six feet tall body into it. In contrast, the young woman’s chair had given no reaction at all when she sat down.
All seven of the other patrons had glanced at Malachi and the woman at his side when they entered the warmth of the room and walked up to the counter to be served. Glances that quickly turned away again after Malachi gave them a steely-eyed stare.
He wasn’t yet sure where the conversation with this woman was going, and he didn’t want too many witnesses eager to confirm having seen the two of them together this evening.
God, Mal, psychopath much?
No, he wasn’t a psychopath, or a sociopath. Although some of the people he’d dealt with over the years would no doubt disagree with that diagnosis.
No, he wasn’t either of those things, but he was definitely on some sort of spectrum. One that made him intensely focused on whatever held his attention at any given time.
Right now, that was the woman he only knew as being a little thief.
A thief whose slender fingers still held the bag of sugar motionless above the frothy coffee concoction. “What wallet?” she inquired lightly.
“Gerard Taylor’s wallet.” Malachi took a sip of his own black, unsweetened brew. “If you’ve forgotten where you put it, it’s tucked into the waistband at the back of your purple jeans.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, and Malachi had no doubt her tone of innocence was forced when she finally answered him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Malachi sighed. He’d known she was going to say that, but he was still disappointed that she’d acted so predictably. So far in their brief acquaintance, this garishly dressed young woman had been interesting. More so than anyone Malachi had met for a very long time. If ever. He really didn’t want her to turn out to be the same boring and predictable cliché of every other person on the planet.
He'd always known, and accepted, that he saw the world and the people who inhabited it differently. Nor did he have the same filter others chose to adopt in order to sugarcoat getting them through the day, whether it was to make the world seem a less cruel or more exciting place. To Malachi, situations and people just were the way, and who, they were.
Apart from the members of his family, and the three women who had married into the family recently, whom Malachi loved unconditionally, very few people, if any, ever managed to so much as register on his radar.
The audacity of the young woman sitting opposite him, in having liberated Gerard Taylor’s wallet in a such a public and crowded setting where anyone might have seen her do it, had definitely succeeded in piquing Malachi’s interest.
He really hoped she wasn’t going to disillusion him of that interest too swiftly, as so many others had.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he reminded.
“No, I haven’t.”
Malachi gave an appreciative smile as she made no attempt to rectify the omission. “I already know several other things about you, though.”
Her expression became wary. “Oh yes?”
He nodded. “Visually, I can see you’re probably in the age range of twenty-three to twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-four,” she confirmed.
“You’re a natural redhead.”
She frowned. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Well, without the benefit of having seen your pubic hair—”
“What the hell!” she spluttered before giving a grimace as she realized her raised voice had attracted the attention of the other coffee drinkers. She glared as she leaned forward across the table that divided them. “No one makes such personal remarks to a perfect stranger!”
“I doubt you’re anymore perfect than I am. Or any other human being, for that matter,” he dismissed uninterestedly. “But if you meant we weren’t even aware of the other’s existence until thirteen minutes ago, then the obvious answer is that I always make personal remarks on short or long acquaintance.”
“Are you always so blunt and exact too?”
He shrugged. “My brothers call it bloody-minded honesty. I prefer to call it being decisive. Whatever you want to call it, I know from the color of your freckles and that peaches-and-cream complexion only a natural redhead is capable of having, that you come by that vibrant red shade of hair naturally.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “What else do you know?”
Malachi tilted his head as he studied the young woman’s appearance. “I believe you wore so many bright and different colors this evening because you knew their garishness would distract people from looking too closely at your face. Thus making it less likely anyone would be able to give an accurate description of your individual features when asked. For instance, she was young. No, she was middle-aged. I think she had green eyes. No, they were brown. Or maybe blue. See what I mean?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, that small dimple appeared in her left cheek again, as evidence she found his remark satisfying—and truthful—before she quickly controlled her features to finish sweetening her coffee.
Malachi had already noted that her movements were dominant to the left side of her body. She’d used her left hand to tip the bag of sugar into her coffee and was now holding the wooden stick in her left hand to stir the frothy brew. There were more freckles on her left cheek than the right. The dimple appeared in her left cheek, not her right when she smiled. Earlier, when they walked to the coffeeshop she’d set out using her left foot rather than her right.
Dismissing the fact that sinister was the Latin word for left-handedness, what else did Malachi know about left-handed people?
They made up only ten per cent of the population.
Lefties usually had a higher IQ than righties.
They were also creative, imaginative, tended to daydream, and possessed a strong intuition.
Which probably accounted for why so many serial killers were left-handed.
And left-handed young women went to the theater and stole wallets.
No, not all wallets, Malachi reminded himself. Just one specific one.
* * *
“Why did you deliberately target and steal Gerard Taylor’s wallet tonight?”
Lara was ready for the abruptness of Malachi’s question this time, having realized it was his usual way of conducting a conversation.
She was ready for the abruptness, but not the content. Nor was it a question she intended answering. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Malachi eyed her knowingly. “It’s really warm in here. Perhaps you should take your coat off for a while?”
It was warm, but they both knew if she took off her coat, then Gerard Taylor’s wallet would be more easily accessible where it was, as Malachi had already stated, tucked into the waistband at the back of her jeans.
Once again, Lara decided attack was the better option. “You said you’re his bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“Why does he need a bodyguard?” Her top lip curled back. “Is he someone famous? I didn’t recognize him if he is.”
Dark eyes narrowed. “Respect for a client’s confidentiality doesn’t allow me to answer that.”
“Would you, if you could?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I happen to think that a person’s private life should remain exactly that: private.”
“So, you agree to protect clients without knowing whether they deserve your protection or not?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It sounded like you did to me.”
“Then you were mistaken.”
She glared her irritation with this man’s ability to remain calm no matter how she attempted to provoke him. “It definitely sounded to me as if the money a client pays to protect a client is more important to your company than maintaining its integrity by ensuring that client isn’t the perpetrator rather than the victim.”
Malachi’s mouth quirked. “I should probably warn you now that it takes a lot, and I mean a lot, to make me angry.”
Lara already knew that. Most men would have already lost their patience, both with her avoidance of giving him direct answers and with her efforts to insult him. Insults Malachi refused to react to. “And I really don’t want to see it when you do?” she guessed wryly.
“You really don’t.”
Lara sighed her frustration. “What if, after you’ve taken on a client, you realize that he or she…isn’t a nice person?”
Malachi sobered. “Are you talking specifically about Gerard Taylor?”
“Do you like him?”
“The nature of a security company doesn’t allow us to make the distinction between liking or disliking a client.”
Lara gave a disbelieving snort. “I’m calling bullshit!”
Malachi sat back to eye her mockingly. “And why is that?”
“Don’t take offense, because I’d never even heard of Kingston Security before tonight.”
“It takes a lot to offend me too,” he assured.
She nodded. “But I’d take a guess, from the bespoke tailoring of your suit and shirt, the fact your tie is silk, and your shoes, which were probably handmade in Italy, that when Kingston Security does decide to take on the protection of a private client, that they’re invariably rich or famous?”
“Those are good observations,” Malachi appreciated.
“Accurate ones?”
“Up to the part where you said our company only caters to the protection of the rich and famous. We do have clients like that, of course, but we also retrieve kidnap victims and return them to the people who love them. Plus, all the members of my family were individually wealthy before we formed Kingston Security.”
“Kidnap victims?” Lara echoed curiously.
“Usually children.” He nodded. “But we do rescue adults who have been kidnapped too.”
“Wait a minute. I remember reading something…” Lara held up a finger for him to remain silent as she sifted through her memories. “Is one of your brothers Sinclair Kingston?”
“He is.”
“The same Sinclair Kingston whose wife was kidnapped and murdered almost six years ago?”
Malachi nodded. “And my brother Max, and my cousin Adam, are now married to the two sisters they were involved in rescuing almost eleven years ago after they were kidnapped, along with their mother.” His expression darkened. “Their mother was already dead before Max and his team went in.”
Another light went on in Lara’s memories. “The Ferrari-Smythe sisters!”
“You’re very good at this,” Malachi drawled. “Maybe we should think about hiring you.”
“I already have a job.”
“As?”
She raised mocking brows. “We weren’t talking about me.”
“Not for want of trying on my part,” he lightly rebuked.
“To get back to your present client,” she stated firmly. “I asked if you like him?”
“He’s as pretentious and boring as the crowd he hangs around with.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t like him?”
“No, it didn’t answer your question.”
She breathed heavily. “Did you know that you’re an extremely frustrating man to talk to?”
“Yes.”
He was equally as handsome and charismatic. The appreciative, if sideways, glances in Malachi’s direction from the other women in the coffeeshop told her they thought he was too.
Lara pushed her empty coffee mug into the middle of the table. “I’m going to leave now.”
“Return the wallet first.”
She looked at the hand he held out across the table, palm up. “I haven’t admitted there is a wallet.”
“We both know there is.”
She lifted her chin in challenge. “Thinking we know something and actually knowing for certain are two completely different things.”
Malachi leaned against the leather back of the booth as he considered his options.
He could force this young woman to give him Gerard Taylor’s wallet.
Or he could let her leave with it and see how Taylor reacted once he realized the wallet was missing.
“Okay.” He nodded. “You can leave and take the wallet with you.”
Her eyes widened. “I can?”
“You can,” Malachi confirmed.
“Not that I need your permission,” she rallied to defend. “I’m just surprised you’ve given in so easily.”
“That’s because I know we’ll meet again.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t see how when you don’t even know my name.”
“Trust me,” he mused. “We’ll see each other again very soon.”
He had already noted the security cameras in each of the corners of the coffeeshop, and he had every intention of asking to look at them before he left. Or, as was probably more likely after the coffeeshop staff refused to allow him to do that, having his brother Casper hack into the system and download a copy. It would be easier to identify this young woman once Malachi had a photographic image of her.
She rose slowly to her feet, all the time eyeing him warily. “You’re really going to let me leave, even though you think I stole, and still have in my possession, your client’s wallet?”
“I am, yes.”
“You’re a strange man, Malachi Kingston.”
Malachi had heard that said about him his entire life by people who weren’t his family. By the teachers and other kids when he was at school. The professors and other students when he went to university at sixteen and had acquired a degree, and master’s degree, both in engineering, by the time he was twenty.
They also said he was odd.
Weird.
Insane.
Unfeeling.
Robotic.
Women usually went one step further on that last one, often calling him a cold bastard. Probably because he wasn’t emotionally invested in being in a relationship with any of them. Just because the two of them had fucked, and enjoyed doing so, didn’t mean Malachi ever wanted to see the woman again or repeat the experience. He certainly didn’t want to be in a relationship with any of them.
But this beautiful young woman hadn’t said he was strange in the insulting way Malachi was used to hearing.
In fact, she sounded intrigued rather than scornful.