Tristan watched the texts roll down the screen.
Micah wrote, I’m in San Francisco. What’s going on?
Tristan told them, Some shit is going down. I’m here with a woman who’s an innocent bystander. I can’t believe I got her caught up in this shit. If you can get us out, get her out first. Name is Colleen Frost.
How’d she get involved?
I thought she was cute, Tristan admitted.
Laughing emojis filled the screen.
Logan texted, Are you sure she’s not part of the problem?
I’m sure. This is all me.
Yeah, figures, Micah texted back. He was solemn when doing business, but he had a wicked sense of humor.
Drop a damn location pin, @Tristan, Logan said.
He did.
When he saw Micah’s pin, he sighed. You’ll never get here fast enough. You’re hours away at best.
Don’t be so sure, Micah wrote.
15
Matchmaker
Colleen
Tristan King secluded himself in one of the bedrooms to do something on his computer for business.
Colleen sat on the couch in the living room, her arms huddled around her knees, as she checked in with Anjali, spelling out the name of the restaurant they were going to and dropping a location pin to show that she was still at the hotel. She didn’t mention that she was about to have dinner with Russian mobsters and might be inducted into the Russian mafia before the night's end. That seemed like bragging.
Jian paced as he talked on his cell phone, speaking to people in at least three rapid-fire languages that Colleen could discern.
Within an hour, a woman arrived bearing a heavy garment bag. She whipped a golden silk waterfall of a dress out of the luggage, and Jian was ushered from the room while the woman stuffed Colleen into it and then pinned and chalked the fabric.
The garment bag was marked with round art deco letters that read Dolce & Gabbana, which meant nothing to Colleen.
The woman whipped the dress off Colleen like a magician flicking a tablecloth out from under a china set and went to work in a corner of the living room with shears and needles, leaving Colleen to breathe for a while.
After another check-in with Anjali, who texted back, hint-phone-number-hint, Colleen sidled up to Jian, who was sitting at the living room desk that overlooked the pounding surf of the Pacific Ocean and making businesslike notes on a sheet of hotel stationery.
She said, “I have an odd question to ask you. Please don’t be offended, and you can tell me to go to hell if you want.”
Jian did not look up from his work. “I am Chinese. I was born in Malaysia, and my parents still live there. They are very traditional. I am not. No, I don’t get homesick. I speak English, French, Malay, and Mandarin and have studied hospitality management and Krav Maga. Yes, I enjoy traveling and working with wealthy people. Sagittarius.”
Colleen couldn’t repress a smile at his spiel. “That’s not what I meant.”
Jian swiveled and looked up at her, one neatly groomed eyebrow raised. “Mr. King seems to have taken a personal interest in you. Naturally, as a personal assistant, I would not interrupt my employer’s pursuits.”
Yeah, he had. “Oh, no, not for me. I’m not interested in anybody. I have zero interest in everyone. But my friend saw you at the airport, and she’s a nice person. I mean, Anjali is great. I just love her. She’s the greatest, nicest person ever. So if you are interested in meeting her or talking to her, I can give her your phone number, or I could give hers to you. If you’re into girls. If you’re not, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Or even if you are interested in girls. Sorry, I mean. I’m sorry.”
Jian raised both his eyebrows.
Colleen grumbled, “I feel like I’m in junior high, telling someone to check a box if they like my friend.”
