Chapter 4

4

It was 11:24 on the dashboard clock of the armored Rolls-Royce Cullinan when it made the final turn into the college.

Burrowed down deep in the handsewn Italian Saffiano leather of the second row of the $350,000 SUV, Frank Stone sat stiffly, staring at nothing as he slowly tapped the edge of his iPhone against his knee with a metronome regularity.

A soft jolt in the upslope of the road made him glance forward at his two bodyguards in the front seat. They were very large men and they were sitting as stiffly as he was. Completely silent in their dark suits, they could have been pallbearers driving a coffin to a graveyard.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, Frank thought as he crossed his spit-shined Prada Derbys on the Rolls' jewel-box velvet floor mat. Everything had been going great.

He'd been with his new wife at the Flatiron Building in Manhattan attending a UNICEF charity gala event she'd been going nuts about for a month. It was a fashion thing with so many celebrities he'd lost count. That Cajun "bam" chef guy was actually catering it, and the Savannah lady from morning TV was the MC.

And there they were in their element, he and his knockout of a bride among all the beautiful New York people, schmoozing to beat the band. He had little interest in the sub-billionaire-level fashion or celebrities, but his wife was on cloud nine, and the champagne was incredible and most of the women were like his wife, young and hot and hardly wearing anything at all.

Of course, that was when the word had to come down. They had to bail immediately, and his wife was so pissed she couldn't speak. Not a word on the hour-and-a-half-hour ride back to Pound Ridge in Westchester County where he'd just dropped her off back at the estate. Not one.

Her sparkling Cinderella night had been squashed like a rotting pumpkin and they both knew who was getting all the blame. And it wasn't her Chihuahua, Brad.

She wouldn't be talking to him for how long? Frank wondered. A week? Two?

"Victoria's Secret models," he mumbled to himself as he shook his head.

"We're coming up on it here on the right now, sir," said Shaw from the seat in front of him.

Frank sat up as the Cullinan crested the hill. Beckford College's elaborate sports fields began to pass by on the left, and on the right were small neat houses. It really was a catalog picture-perfect-looking school, wasn't it? No wonder so many of the überwealthy sent their kids here. Well, the dumber ones, anyway , he thought.

Ahead at the end of the lane of houses, he could see a pair of wrought iron gates already swinging inward.

"Where do you want us after we drop you off, sir?" Shaw said from behind the wheel as they swung in. "Out here on the street?"

Frank wiped his sweating palms on the legs of his Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo slacks as he glanced at the intense eyes staring back at him in the rearview mirror.

He was glad he'd called for Shaw for the New York trip at the last minute.

Large and in charge, Shaw was a former Green Beret with a Special Forces r é sum é of combat experience that was simply jaw-dropping.

But of course, it was. Vance Holdings, the firm Frank's hedge fund contracted with for security, was a private mercenary firm as well as an executive protection shop and he had been told Shaw worked both sides of that aisle.

Though the fee Frank was paying Shaw for one night's work was astonishing, the dude was worth it. Not just for his bone-crushing skills but also for his handsome chiseled hard-eyed good looks.

For a big profile event, Shaw was exactly who you wanted parting the crowd in front of you to project invincibility and power. Frank's everyday bodyguard, Kenny, sitting beside Shaw was excellent—a real beast—but matinee-idol looks weren't exactly Kenny's strong suit.

When the paparazzi flashbulbs started popping and you wanted people to think you were the wolf of Wall Street, you wanted a Leo beside you, Frank thought. While Kenny was more of a Jonah Hill.

And Shaw had some mad driving skills. He'd floored them up here from Manhattan in record time without batting an eyelash. Kenny, on the other hand, despite a trip to chauffeur school, was nervous behind the wheel and often drove like a grandmother. Especially in Manhattan traffic. It was good to have someone solid with you in a pinch.

"Park on the street, sir?" Shaw asked again.

"No," Frank said. "Park inside the gate. Also, listen up. When I go in, I don't want you in this vehicle snoozing. You understand me? I want you out of the car keeping your eyes open. Just because we're not in the city anymore doesn't mean you're off duty. I'm paying you for protection, not for you to fall asleep."

"Roger that, sir," Shaw said.

"The both of you," Frank said, looking at the back of Kenny's head.

"Of course, um, sir," Kenny said with a tepid enthusiasm.