Heir Untamed - By Danielle Bourdon Page 0,1
she peered out the peephole, she had a view of a man in a strict, very expensive looking suit.
Swallowing a knot of worry, she unbolted the lock and swung open the door.
Two men, hands clasped before them, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, stood waiting. One looked like he could have walked off a runway: dark hair, square jaw, straight nose. He wore a fine layer of short whiskers trimmed just so. His shoulders filled out the black suit perfectly. He held a briefcase in one hand.
The other...was frightening. Lighter haired, face craggy with a long scar slanting across one cheek, mouth a hard line. He was an inch or two taller than his companion, with broader shoulders and a thicker frame. Not fat, she could easily see, just more muscle mass.
These men had nothing to do with the apartment complex. Their clothes were too fine, their demeanor too strict.
“You're not the angels of death, are you? Because that would really round out my day,” she said.
The dark haired man laughed while the one with the scar cut a vicious looking smile.
“Madam, no. We're not the angels of death. I'm Allar and this is Hendrik,” the dark haired man said.
He had a smooth accent Chey found difficult to place. Instead of giving her name, she said, “Yes? What can I do for you.”
Just because they looked like a million bucks didn't mean they were on the up and up.
“We are here on behalf of the Ahtissari family,” he replied with an expectant pause, as if Chey should know who they were.
She arched her brows, searching her memory for the name. Had these been former clients? It didn't sound familiar. “I don't think I know anyone with that last name. I'm sorry—is this to do with a former shoot?”
“Not a former shoot,” Allar said. “New clients, should you agree to come photograph the family and their estate. Is there a coffee shop or somewhere we might sit and discuss business, Miss Sinclair?”
Chey, surprised that he knew her last name, held up a hand. “Excuse me a moment. How do you know who I am?”
Allar opened the briefcase and pulled out one of her latest calendars. The one of old structures at sunrise around Seattle.
“You are the Chey Sinclair who shot the photos for this, yes?” Allar asked.
“I'm...well yes, that's my calendar. Who did you say you're working for again?” Chey glanced between men. She wished she could see their eyes behind the shades.
“The Ahtissari family, Madam.” Allar slid the calendar into the case and withdrew a business card that he extended between two fingers.
Chey accepted it and glanced down. The royal blue card sported a family crest—two rearing lions back to back surrounded by ivy—and neat silver script: Allar Kusta. Security.
Hendrik also produced a card from an inner coat pocket. He handed it over.
Chey accepted it, noting it was the same crisp color and design. Hendrik Vello. Security. Both cards had nothing on the back. They also had no phone numbers or other identifying marks.
“Let me grab my purse and we'll go down to the clubhouse here. It should suit for discussing business. All right?” Chey slid both cards together and glanced at the men. She couldn't afford not to at least listen to their proposal.
“At your leisure, Madam.” Allar bowed his head.
Chey eased the door closed, pushed the cards into the slim pocket on her slacks, and bent down to pick her purse up off the floor. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she plucked her keys off the table and stepped out. Locking the door behind her, she led the men down a flight of stairs and across a cobbled courtyard to a set of french double doors. Here she depressed a code into the keypad specifically issued to residents. Hendrik opened one door before she could reach for it.
Murmuring her thanks, she led them into the main part of the clubhouse. A stone fireplace took up half of one wall, while a kitchen and several conference rooms took up another. Under a vaulted ceiling with heavy beams meeting in the middle sat an array of couches, four overstuffed chairs and a coffee table.
Perching on a chair, she set her purse at her feet and addressed the men as they smoothed their ties and sat down.
“All right then. What are the details of the job?” Chey wasn't surprised when neither man removed his glasses. Allar was the one who replied after balancing the briefcase next to his polished shoe.