Chapter 2
Mercedes
The distinguished roar of side-by-side Harleys snapped my attention to the bulletproof glass front doors in time to watch the bikes pull in to the second visitor parking slot in front of the building. My four-thirty appointment had arrived. Uncharacteristically nervous about the meeting, I’d been lingering by the front desk, waiting for the sound of a Harley.
“I thought you said he was bringing his wife?” Adina, my receptionist, asked, standing so she could see over the partition in front of her desk. It was December 21st, and the temperature outside was chilly with Seattle’s signature rain alternating between annoying drizzles and run-for-cover downpours. The bikers cut their engines and removed their helmets. They both had dark hair. The one furthest away had the high and tight haircut of a military man, while the closest man had longer hair with shaved sides. “That’s definitely two men. Two rugged, handsome, delicious men. Which one’s the president?”
“The one with longer hair,” I replied confidently. The Dead Presidents MC had been in the spotlight more than they’d been out of it lately. However, Tyler “Link” Lincoln was even better looking in person than on TV. Wearing jeans and a black leather vest decorated with patches over his leather jacket, he climbed off his bike looking like he was stepping right out of that popular motorcycle club television show. The man with him wore no vest, just a leather jacket and jeans.
Adina sucked in a deep breath as they strode toward us, and I can’t say I blamed her. Not only were they impossibly good looking, but there was something dangerous about the way they moved. It was public knowledge that Link was former Army Special Forces, and he wore his training like a weapon, wrapped around his massive biceps, broad shoulders, and muscular thighs. I’d bet money that the man with him was active duty in one of the branches, probably some sort of Special Forces himself. Rather than coming inside, Link folded his arms, leaned against the brick pillar at the bottom of the staircase, and the two men talked as they waited.
“Think you can find out if the other one’s married?” Adina asked.
“No. They are here for business. No hitting on the potential volunteers, Adina.”
The words had barely left my lips when a sleek black Jaguar slid into the parking space beside the motorcycles. Mr. Lincoln hurried to the driver’s side door and opened it, offering his arm to the very beautiful, very pregnant brunette who climbed out, seemingly unbothered by the rain.
Mr. Lincoln and his associate with their powerful motorcycles and deadly bodies stuck out in our shoddy, low-income gang-ridden neighborhood for an entirely different reason than Emily Lincoln, attorney at law. Wearing a tailored maternity skirt suit, three-inch Jimmy Choos, and standing beside a car that no doubt cost more than my annual salary, she looked like she just stepped off the pages of the latest fashion magazine.
Mr. Lincoln closed the car door and glanced around the area, pausing to meet the gazes of two young thugs who should have been in high school but were checking out the Jaguar, no doubt stripping it for parts in their minds. He said something to his wife, then as she came up the stairs to the glass doors, he crossed the narrow residential street and gestured for them to join him. His associate stayed back, watching the exchange.
When Mrs. Lincoln reached the doors, Adina buzzed her in and I stepped forward to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Lincoln. I’m Mercy Foster, and very glad to finally meet you.”
“Emily, please,” she replied, shaking my hand. “And the pleasure’s all mine.” Her smile was warm and friendly before she cast a glance over her shoulder. “Link and Blade will be with us momentarily. As soon as my husband’s done baring his teeth to your neighborhood wolves.”
“Funny, since every article I’ve read about you says you’re the wolf—in the courtroom, at least.” As one of the city’s best criminal defense attorneys, it was no secret that Emily could hold her own amongst the shadiest of characters and the strongest of bikers.
“Yes, but when I growl, I’m bitchy. When he growls…” Emily looked over her shoulder again, “Well, he’s hot.”
A surprised burst of laughter escaped before I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Emily gave me a smile. “Sorry. I don’t usually have outbursts like that, so we’re going to blame that one on pregnancy hormones.”
But as someone who appreciated honesty and openness, I thought Emily was fantastic. She was beauty and grace, yet had this authenticity about her that drew me in. I’d read that she’d been raised by her grandparents after the death of her parents, and I appreciated that she’d struggled and worked to get where she was in her life and career.
Mr. Lincoln joined us, and insisted I call him Link before introducing his associate. “This is Blade, an old friend who’s in town checking out the club and what we do. Is it all right if he joins us?”
I shook Blade’s extended hand. “Of course. The more the merrier.”
The trio followed me the short distance down the hall to my office. We entered, and I left the door open like usual (I’d read somewhere that closed-door meetings made employees nervous) and stood behind my desk.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I said, inviting them to take a seat on the padded folding chairs in front of my desk. Our furniture was comfortable, but cheap, which could be said about most things around the school.
In fact, comfortable but cheap should probably be our slogan.
Emily was too busy taking in my office to sit. I could almost see the wheels spinning in her head as she drifted from wall to wall, making note of my certification plaques before turning her attention to the colorful student pictures and projects. When I first started as the preschool director, my walls were tastefully decorated with prints from well-known artists. I never asked the children for their artwork. In fact, I’d rather they took it home and displayed it proudly, reminding themselves and their families of the beauty they’re capable of creating. But most of my students don’t have the kind of home they’d feel comfortable displaying themselves—much less their work—in, so my tasteful prints have been steadily replaced by corkboard displays.
Now, my office walls are the kind of colorful chaos that only a group of three- to five-year-olds could create.
It’s the most beautiful space I’ve ever known.
“It’s our pleasure,” Link said, patiently holding the back of Emily’s chair as she perused the artwork. “Thank you for calling.”
Blade stood by his chair, watching all of us and the door, confirming my suspicion that he was elite military. Or maybe security.
“We’ve been researching Bold Beginnings,” Emily said, patting her baby bump. “I have to admit that I’m intrigued. I had no idea places like this existed in our city.”
Taking a deep breath, I began the spiel I’d told more times than I could count. “The school has been in business for about thirty years now. We’ve always focused on low-income children, but we weren’t getting the results we wanted.”
