It was a piece of round rose gold with this very intricate, lacy, rose gold bow on top.
As far as jewelry went, it wasn’t exactly Tiffany. But it wasn’t off the shelf at some novelty shop, either.
“This is all genuine rose gold, so it should pass inspection from acquaintances of yours. But since you will be wearing it from this point on, it might be wise to come up with a cover story for it. A gift from your family or a boyfriend is usually the best bet.”
I didn’t ever talk about my personal life with my staff. Or even my acquaintances, unless we were discussing things like shows we’d seen or gallery openings we’d attended.
But it would be unusual for me to wear the same exact piece of jewelry for days or weeks on end. Sure, I had my staple pieces—about a dozen sets of earrings, and eight to ten bracelets or necklaces to choose between—but I usually wore them in rotations.
“Okay,” I said, nodding, the old part of me annoyed that the new part of me was being so vain over something so insignificant. After all, the old me wore the same gold hoops—a gift on my sixteenth birthday—and tennis bracelet—a graduation present—every single day for years. “Is that it? Or are there more steps?”
“For now, that should do,” Lennon said, giving me the hint of a smile. “When something happens, and we don’t know where you are, Brock and I will both have access to the tracking information from these devices. They’re very accurate. So when something happens, you don’t need to worry. We will be on our way.”
“And when he says ‘when something happens,’” Brock said, tone reassuring. “He means if. And it is extremely unlikely.”
Except, of course, according to Lennon, that was statistically untrue when it came to wealthy clients.
He had one client who was taken three times over the course of one year.
“I could never do his job,” I told Brock as he closed the door to the hallway after Lennon and his man left. “I would be paranoid about everything.”
“Yeah, that does seem to be an unfortunate consequence of the job,” Brock agreed.
“What do you think his apartment is like?” I asked, envisioning rooms full of screens that showed camera angles of every inch of his space. Multiple locks and alarms on every window and door.
“Whatever you are imagining is probably pretty accurate,” Brock said. “He keeps his knife drawer locked. And his toolbox is in a safe. Since a lot of people end up beaten, stabbed, or shot with items the intruder found in their houses.”
“Fantastic. Another terrifying statistic to have rolling around in my head, keeping me from sleep,” I said, going into the kitchen to set the kettle on, feeling too wired for coffee, but needing a comforting hot drink regardless.
“No one is getting in here,” Brock assured me. “Not with me here,” he added, and I immediately felt a bit of calm wash over me. Because, as un-feminist as this was for me to admit, I did feel safer knowing there was a man in the house.
Then again, it might not have had anything to do with his maleness. It could have very well just been his training. I likely would have felt just as safe with a female ex-military guard in my house. Anyone who would know what to do if someone attacked, who wouldn’t hesitate, who could at least distract the bad guy long enough for me to call the police for help.
It wasn’t that this was the first time in my life where I worried about my safety. I mean, I was a woman. We had it hammered into it our entire childhoods and adolescence that we were practically moments away from kidnapping, rape, and murder. Because, well, the statistics didn’t lie. It was true for one in three of us. But I guess gaining success, having the kind of income that would allow me to live in a building with a doorman, those sorts of things had insulated me a bit from threats in the past.
Random people didn’t just get to waltz into my building, going wherever they wanted to.
I also had a driver, so I wasn’t worried about standing on subway platforms at night, or walking around in sketchy areas.
Sure, there was always that heart-drop moment when a guy appeared out of nowhere, or when someone was being a little creepy, but it wasn’t as prominent a part of my life as it had been when I was younger.
It was unsettling to be forced back into that old mindset, to have to be paranoid about anyone who got close to me.
At least until we figured out who’d done this to me.
“So what time tomorrow?” Brock asked.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated, mind a little fuzzy from all the new fears and information clouding it.
“To take a trip to Navesink Bank,” Brock clarified.
“Oh, right. Well, I have two meetings in the morning, then some conference calls. But after that, it is mostly busy work that I can do from the car, or some other time,” I told him. “We could head out by three, if that works for you.”
“Yep. I’ve got nothing else going on while I’m on your case, sweetheart.”
“Okay. I will tell Mitchell… why are you shaking your head?” I asked, brows drawing down.
“I’ll drive.”