“Come in, Clay,” Veronica said, stepping out of the way to let him in. “If it’s okay, I’d like to discuss tomorrow’s schedule.”
“There’s no need to pretend,” White replied with a smile, closing the door behind him. “I’ve sent the other agent downstairs to relieve Marcus.”
Veronica was dressed casually in a pair of blue jeans, dark ankle boots, and a cream-colored sweater that showed off her curves. With her brown hair pulled back into a messy bun and her face devoid of cosmetics, she looked a decade younger than her thirty-six years. She grabbed him by the tie and pulled him close as she stood on tiptoe. Her lips, so giving and so soft, found his. Her hands brushed his face. A shiver rolled down his spine as his fingers curled around the back of her neck.
“How much time do we have?” she asked, her voice a soft growl.
“Depends if you want to skip the cocktails or not,” he replied, kissing her bottom lip.
“I’d skip the whole damned thing if it meant we could be alone for two hours,” she said under her breath.
White smiled and placed a silencing finger on her lips.
“XJD-31, this is Vigil-One,” White said.
“Go ahead, Vigil-One.”
“I’ll be off comms for a few minutes,” White said. “Call me on my cell if you need anything.”
“Ten-four, Vigil-One.”
Veronica grabbed at his belt, and in two fast, aggressive flicks she had the buckle undone. Her hands continued to move together as she undid the button at the waistband of his trousers. With nothing left to support them, the weight of White’s portable radio, his pistol, and the two extra magazines took over, and his pants fell to his ankles, bunching around his feet. Veronica removed his suit jacket and began to roughly pull his tie apart. Soon, all her clothes along with his tie, shirt, and soft body armor lay in a heap on the floor next to the bed.
Veronica ran her fingers over his bare chest and down his flat stomach. He kicked off his shoes and let her push him onto the bed, unaware of the danger swiftly closing in.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Oxley Vineyards
Kommetjie, South Africa
Roy Oxley knew it was going to be a long, stressful, and probably sleepless night. It wasn’t every day one ordered the assassination of the vice president-elect’s daughter. Oxley didn’t mind the lack of sleep. He was used to it, and he expected the staff on his payroll to deal with pressure the same way he did. So, he felt no shame in having Pierre Sarazin, the newly hired general manager of Oxley Vineyards, stand almost at attention in front of his desk at five minutes to midnight, long after the man’s normal working hours.
Oxley’s hands were locked behind his head and his ankles crossed atop the large mahogany desk behind which he sat as he considered the two wine bottles presented to him by Pierre. The first one was a sauvignon blanc, while the second was a pinotage, South Africa’s signature variety.
“You’ve tasted them?” Oxley asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I’d prefer if you’d form your own opinion, sir,” Pierre replied, his French accent coming through. “I wouldn’t want to influence—”
Oxley shut him up with a wave. “You’re new here, Pierre,” he said, “so let’s make something crystal clear, shall we?”
Pierre remained silent but nodded.
“Good.” Oxley swung his feet off the desk and stood. He straightened his sport coat and walked over to Pierre, entering his personal space. “There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you can say that will influence how I think. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he asked.
Pierre blinked several times and took a small step back. “I—I’m not sure I do,” he said tentatively.
Oxley eyed him for a long time. He didn’t like what he saw. There was a je ne sais quoi about Pierre he wasn’t fond of. The Frenchman was in his midforties, small, blond, and impeccably dressed, but he exuded an arrogance and superiority he shouldn’t have. Not yet, at least. In Oxley’s humble opinion, Pierre hadn’t done or accomplished anything since he joined the winery a few months ago that warranted such pride. He didn’t care about Pierre’s embellished résumé, or his past achievements.
“You came highly recommended by your previous employers,” Oxley continued. “Do you believe yourself to be good at what you do?”
“I was once the best sommelier in Europe,” Pierre said, straightening his shoulders, a trace of a smile adorning his lips. “And I must mention that the winery I managed in California, after working at two Michelin-star restaurants, just won second place at this year’s World’s Best Vineyards. So yes, I believe I’m good at my job. Sir.”