The Closer. Rhonda Nelson
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lazy breeze along in the ditches as he drove on. Nestled in one of the many valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, Shadow’s Gap suddenly came into view, a quaint village of white clapboard houses, red bricked shops and well-manicured grounds. Though the leaves had begun to turn, fall hadn’t quite gotten a foothold yet. Varying shades of green blanketed the hills rising up over the valley, creating a verdant landscape that would look perfectly at home on a postcard.
Following the signs for the Historic Town Square, Griff made the necessary turns and began scanning the various storefronts for Rossi’s Fine Jewelry. It was then that he saw it, the red Camaro, and his pulse gave an inexplicable little jump.
Wonder of wonders, it was parked directly in front of the jewelry store.
Clearly “Faster” had a taste for the finer things. Irritatingly intrigued beyond reason, Griff took the empty parking space next to her car, then exited his Suburban and entered the shop. Though he automatically noted everything about the store—two workers, one old, one teenager, royal-blue carpet, rich wood-paneled walls, gleaming glass cases filled with equally gleaming jewels—she was what drew his gaze and held it.
At least the back of her, which was all he could see at the moment.
But it was enough.
She was tall with a slim waist and especially generous hips—which she needed to complement her extraordinarily lush ass—and long legs. She wore a thin-knit pink sweater, perfectly fitted jeans and a pair of worn cowboy boots, which had been embellished with vines and pink roses. Her hair wasn’t merely dark or brown, but a deep decadent sable that didn’t so much absorb the light as catch it, and it sprung from her head in a riot of big, wavy curls, then cascaded over her shoulders. It had energy, that hair. In fact, everything about her was vibrant, wholly alive, for lack of a better description.
His stomach gave an odd little jolt and a swift blaze kindled in his groin.
“I’m not late,” she insisted to the older man, presumably Frank Rossi. “I arrived with a minute to spare.” She huffed a breath. “Why on earth are you complaining? He’s not even here yet.”
“You’ve got to stop treating the town square like it’s the track, Jessalyn,” the older man said, as though he hadn’t heard her argument. “Screaming in here on two wheels? It’s unseemly. What would your mother think?”
She muttered something that Griff didn’t quite catch, but whatever she said made her father frown.
Her father...
But if— Did that— But surely— No worries, Major Wicklow. You’ll recognize her soon enough.
Oh, hell.
“And of course, he’s here,” Mr. Rossi told her, looking past his daughter to meet Griff’s undoubtedly confused gaze. “He’s a professional. Being late wouldn’t do.”
He heard her gasp, then she straightened and turned around.
The picture hadn’t done her justice, Griff thought as a prickly heat spread from one end of his body to the other, then turned abruptly cold and made the return trek. He felt as if he’d been dipped in scalding water, then dunked in the Arctic Ocean, much like forged metal.
Naturally, only one part of his anatomy hardened.
The photograph could only depict so much—the shape of her face, the color of her eyes and hair—but it was the animation of the features, the sheer vitality of her being that couldn’t be captured with something as mundane as a camera.
She glowed.
Her eyes rounded briefly when she saw him, then undoubtedly recognition dawned, and the corner of her lush mouth twitched. “Suburban, right?” she said, looking out into the street for confirmation. She didn’t need it, though. She knew it was him.
“That’s right,” he said. “Though I’m surprised you remembered. You passed so many people this morning.”
Her eyes twinkled in admiration at his vague little dig, and she gestured toward her father. “Dad appreciates punctuality.”
Rossi snorted. “I appreciate a lot of things, for all the good it does me.” The older man found Griff’s gaze once more, then he hurried forward and extended his hand. “Frank Rossi,” he said. “You must be Griffin Wicklow, of Ranger Security.”
Griff nodded. “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Rossi glanced at his daughter. “This is Jessalyn, my oldest daughter and, as I’m sure you’ve deduced, she’ll be accompanying you to the show.”
Yes, Griff thought as he turned and offered her his hand, as well. He’d worked that one out within seconds of walking into the store. What he hadn’t worked out was how he felt about it, though if he was hard pressed to pick a predominant sentiment, excited probably worked better than anything else.
Alarmed was a very close second.
With a quirk of her sleek brow, her palm connected with his. Though the ground didn’t shake beneath his feet, he felt some sort of internal quake all the same, and a bizarre tingling rushed through his fingers. Her hand was soft, her grip strong and puzzlingly, a line of small calluses curled around the top of her palm, nearest her fingers. Gratifyingly, her smile faltered a bit and a hint of uncertainty lit her misty-gray gaze.
“Mr. Wicklow,” she said with a nod, making the opal dragonfly earrings dangling from her ears sway. A matching larger pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck, suspended between her breasts. He envied the jewelry.
“Griff, please.”
“Well, I imagine you’re eager to get on the road,” Rossi announced with a bracing breath, thankfully ending the awkward moment. He gestured toward the rear of the store. “If you’ll just follow me, I’ve got everything all packed up and ready in the back.”
Equally chagrined and concerned that he’d needed to be reminded of their schedule, Griff nodded and followed both Rossis behind the counter. While the sales floor was immaculate and poshly decorated, the back was less tidy and decidedly more shabby. The heart-pine floors were scuffed from generations of wear, faded wallpaper peeled in places from the walls and, though he was sure there was some order to the chaos—there had to be, didn’t there?—there didn’t seem to be one designated work area. Tools and invoices and bits of metal, clasps and links of chain...they were everywhere.
Just looking at it made him twitchy.
Rossi ran his hands reverently over a black plastic case, then glanced up at Griff. “Would you like to see it?” he asked eagerly.
It would have been rude to refuse. “I’d love to.”
The older man almost ceremoniously flipped the latches and then carefully lifted the lid, revealing what was inside. Though he hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond dim curiosity, Griff found himself awed nonetheless. He felt his eyes widen and he instinctively moved forward, drawn in by the sheer beauty, to get a better look.
It didn’t so much look like a bra as a work of art. Shaped like a butterfly, the body of the insect was a glittering stunner made out of various black stones, emeralds and rubies, as well as many other stones he didn’t recognize. The wings were unbelievably detailed, with authentic-looking variations of colors and lines and flared out over the cups in a dazzling display of black, purple, pink, green stones, with row after row of diamonds inset to give it additional depth.
“Wow,” he said, for lack of anything better.
Seemingly pleased, Rossi chuckled. “Two hundred hours in the design, more than a thousand in the execution. You’re looking at six months of my life there,” he said, “and the key to the continued success of the Rossi family tradition. Guard it well.”
“Of course, sir,” Griff responded.
“It’s incredible, Dad,” Jessalyn Rossi said, her voice soft with admiration. “Definitely some of your finest work.”