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19
Once Liv entered the vestibule,a man in his mid-twenties opened the interior door, a broad smile on his handsome face. He wore a pressed—yes, pressed—T-shirt with Rag and Bone designer jeans and a silver TAG Heuer wrapped around his left wrist.
A Times Square billboard in the flesh.
“Special Agent Olivia Westcott, this is my brother, Phin. He’s our intelligence gatherer and fabricator.”
The younger Blackwell held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Special Agent Westcott.”
She shook his hand and was surprised to feel calluses on his palm. “Olivia, please.”
Phin’s voice dropped an octave. “Olivia.”
A firm hand propelled her forward, forcing her away from Phin and past the large concave natural stone wall separating the reception area from the rest of the office. Black metal lettering affixed to the stone read Blackwell Asset Recovery Services.
Beyond the wall, two rows of spacious offices encircled an open sitting area with plush chairs and sofas, table, whiteboard, and a TV screen any Super Bowl party would envy.
“This is the Theater,” Zeke said. “Where we plan and brainstorm.”
Admiration and jealousy streaked through Liv. The Blackwells’ conference room made the one in her office look like a looted tomb.
A short woman with broad hips, silver-gray hair secured at the base of her neck, and kind brown eyes approached her. A beautiful three-strand necklace of red coral beads hung around her neck, a nice complement to her blue blouse, knee-length capris, and colorful Bombas socks inside Birkenstock sandals.
Without uttering a word, the woman held out her hand, palm up. Liv set her palm over the older woman’s and, before she knew it, she stood slightly bowed with their hands steepled on top of each other. Strong, slightly curved fingernails carried a thin ribbon of dirt beneath them, indicating the woman liked to spend time in the garden. A gorgeous oval turquoise and silver ring that appeared as vintage as its wearer took up half the space on her middle finger.
Warmth spread from Liv’s fingers all the way up her arm and into her chest, stripping away her tension.
“Olivia,” Zeke said, “This is Johona Blackwell, my grandmother. Lover of colorful socks and voice of reason.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blackwell. I understand you served in the Korean War as a nurse.”
“It was an honor to serve my country.” Johona studied Liv for a long moment. The room grew so still that Liv could hear a clock tick-tock in the distance. Then the older woman smiled, and it seemed the entire room exhaled in a single breath.
Releasing Liv’s hands, Johona said, “Come meet the rest of my boys.” She shuffled close to a dark-haired man, who rose from the sofa to wrap a muscular arm around the woman who barely reached his chest. “This is Cruz.”
A strange silence fell over the room as the man turned to Liv. He greeted her with an amiable expression and the most stunning gray-blue eyes she’d ever seen.
She shook his extended hand. “Olivia Westcott.”
“AKA mechanic,” Cruz said, “or if you prefer the more formal title, Gear Head.”
“He’s also our pilot,” Zeke added, an unusual strain in his voice.
“And slayer of girlfriends,” Phin muttered.
Johona shifted to a bespectacled man in a chair on her left and gently pried a tablet from his grip.
He blinked up at his grandmother in confusion, and she smoothed a hand over his wavy, somewhat disheveled hair. “This is Rohan.”
“In case it’s not obvious,” Zeke said, “Technology and surveillance.”
“And keeper of weird information,” Phin said, claiming a spot opposite his techy brother.
Liv stretched out her hand to Rohan and repeated her name. “I’m Olivia.”
The final Blackwell rose, and Liv had to crane her neck to keep her eyes on his face. His eyes were brown, like Zeke’s, but where Zeke’s were so dark they looked black, amber flecked Rohan’s.
Those unusual eyes studied Liv as if she were a frog splayed out on a dissecting tray. Seconds ticked by, her hand warm in his, until a large presence closed in behind her. Zeke cleared his throat.
