"The horse," I continued, forcing my brain back on track. "Beautiful colt. Sleek, black, one white sock on his left hind leg."
"Socks." He winked.
The wink should have been cheesy. Somehow it wasn't.
"Yes. We called him Socks." I swallowed. This was supposed to be a serious interview—spreadsheets and scheduling and job responsibilities. But Quentin Vanetti was maybe a decade older than me, tall and fit with intelligent eyes that seemed to see straight through my careful professional mask. "I thought he was special the moment I saw him."
"The horse?" The question came with the slightest edge of amusement.
My face went hot. "Yes. Of course the horse."
Was he reading my mind?
"He'd placed in his first three outings," I said quickly. "Once second, but fourth and fifth the other times. So this race was important."
"How'd he look coming down the stretch?"
"He was fourth going into the turn." I could see it now, feel that electric anticipation. "Our jockey moved him like a cab driver in rush hour—found gaps that shouldn't have existed. Third place, then second. The crowd was screaming. I was screaming." I smiled at the memory. "He won by a nose. I could barely talk the next morning."
"Sounds incredible."
I nodded, still caught in the memory. In how alive I'd felt watching it happen.
"This job is mostly anticlimactic." His voice shifted—playful edge gone, replaced by something sharper. His gaze lockedonto mine with sudden intensity. "Can you handle important routines that include boring paperwork, phone calls, planning, and scheduling?"
The shift threw me. "Yes, sir."
"You're sure? Because that story—" he gestured vaguely, "—that was passion. Excitement. This job is the opposite of excitement most days."
"I understand what the position requires." I pulled myself together, called up every lesson Filomena had drilled into me about staying cool under pressure. "Attention to detail. Focus. Discretion. The ability to respond calmly to emergencies and adapt quickly when plans change."
"Good." His eyes narrowed, studying me with cold precision. Like he was deciding whether I was useful or disposable. "Do you know what the most important part of this job is?"
I met his gaze. Kept my voice steady. "Loyalty."
"That's one hundred percent correct."
A horrible, inconvenient realization settled in my chest.
Quentin Vanetti was attractive. Intelligent. Magnetic in a way I hadn't anticipated.
And it was going to be a lot harder than I thought to kill this man.
Chapter 2
Quentin
Iglanced up as Barbara Simmons set a white bakery box on my desk. "Your Friday zeppoles."
"You're the best." I took one, savored the powdered sugar. "What am I going to do without you?"
"You're going to hire one of these candidates and I'm going to train them for the next two weeks." She smiled. "Then you're going to be just fine."
"Maui ready for you?"
Her whole face lit up. "Five grandkids, Quentin. Paradise and family. I still can't believe you made this happen."
"You've earned it." And she had. Eight years of loyalty and discretion—qualities that weren't just valuable in my line of work, they were essential. "I won't be able to replace you."
