Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

“Mr. Kinkaid?” the man asked. He was shorter than Atlas expected, with trimmed dark hair carefully combed back from his face. His suit was pressed and Atlas caught the glint of cuff links. If he was armed, even with a knife, Atlas couldn’t tell, either a tribute to the man’s careful stance or to his tailor’s talents.

Regardless, he didn’t appear bothered by Atlas’s inspection. If anything, he seemed to expect it. When Atlas nodded affirmation to his question, he continued, “I’m Helias Casimir, Mr. Vladislavic’s consilier. He’s expecting you. Please, follow me.”

The sense of scale and wealth didn’t disappear when they stepped through the front door. The long, tiled hall before

them stretched toward an ornate, carved staircase that wound its way to the upper stories. Several decorative wooden doors lined the hall, promising hidden rooms beyond. The space wasn’t cluttered like some of the houses he’d visited for jobs. A few tasteful paintings—originals, he guessed—hung on the walls and small tables decorated with vases of fresh flowers brought bursts of color into the hall.

The minimalist decor meant for a clean line of sight from the stairs, which they ascended, all the way to the small vestibule at the front door. The same vision existed on the second floor, though the exquisite carpet runners, rich wood paneling, and lower ceilings did much to soften the open views. More of Atlas’s trepidation drifted away. He’d rather work with someone cognizant of security, regardless of their stipulations, than someone who assumed he could work miracles despite their refusal to change anything.

Helias came to pause at a thick wooden door at the end of the hallway. The raised voices coming from the room on the other side weren’t obvious until he and Helias drew closer. Not English, Atlas noted.

“Just a moment, please,” Helias told Atlas. Once Atlas nodded his agreement, Helias gave the door a sharp rap. The arguing inside cut off abruptly, and a bark of command sounded. Only then did Helias open the door and step inside the room, closing himself away too quickly for Atlas to get a good look at what lay beyond.

There wasn’t much to do but wait. Surely Helias wouldn’t take long before coming back out to invite him in, and Atlas had no desire to be halfway down the hall when the office door opened. Too bad it wasn’t that door that opened first.

The nearest of the side doors swung open with unexpected viciousness. Atlas barely avoided jerking in surprise, though he doubted the stranger stalking out of the room would have noticed anyway. He looked younger than Helias. He was almost Atlas’s height, though his build was slimmer. No visible weapons under his fashionably tight pants and tailored shirt, which was a rich blue that made the veins under his pale skin stand out even more. He didn’t strike Atlas as a threat, at least, not in the traditional sense. Sure, he was muttering unfamiliar words under his breath and he appeared genuinely pissed off, but nothing about him seemed out of control. Atlas’s most nerve-wracking contacts had been with erratic people. He wasn’t stupid enough to think control secured safety, but, for good or for bad, he was more comfortable dealing with others who could keep a level head.

The man’s gaze flicked up to Atlas. The realization that he was not alone in the hallway made the stranger posture. His chin went up, his shoulders back, and his full lips twisted into a charming, but hollow, grin. That grin was a weapon in itself. It had probably coaxed people to their knees, gotten deals brokered, and won the day too many times to count. The open manipulation irritated Atlas. The man noticed.

The man stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks and moved closer with the same canny grace of a cat slinking toward something intriguing. His hair, a bit longer and shaggier than Helias’s, brushed the tops of his ears, and he absentmindedly swept it off his forehead. Every nerve in Atlas’s body hummed at the approach, though there was none of the usual fear coloring the reaction. No, there was nothing except...interest.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” the man said, drawing up a few spare feet away. “I would remember you.”

Atlas couldn’t help but relax at the familiar curl of the words, the light emphasis on the syllables that took him back to the time he’d spent in Romania before the attack. Other than that nightmarish fight, his time overseas had been a dream come true for a poor kid who’d never even gone on a camping trip before. He’d loved learning what snippets he could of the language, even though he was absolute shit with pronunciations and had forgotten most of what he’d learned. He enjoyed hearing the accent again; he enjoyed taking a closer look at the man more.

He may not have been Atlas’s usual type, but it was impossible to deny his allure. Dark stubble emphasized the cut line of his jaw and his expressive mouth. His clothes belied a lean musculature built from something other than daily gym trips. Atlas had been braced for the heavy chemical scent of cologne, which could set off one of his migraines, but it wasn’t there. Instead, he caught the lightest hint of chamomile. Atlas revised his assessment of the guy. Definitely a threat, just not in the way he’d expected.

He tried to keep his expression impassive and his voice neutral. “Haven’t been here before,” he offered.

“That explains why you’re following after Helias like a lost puppy.” This time the man’s reciprocal perusal was slower. He started at Atlas’s shoes, lingered over his thighs and chest, and eventually lifted to hold his gaze. Heat rose to Atlas’s cheeks.

“If Whitethorn sent you here for the job, I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he remarked. “No one’s been able to stick it out yet.” The faint curl of his lip warned he wasn’t impressed with what he saw, and he made a dismissive gesture. “Or maybe they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and hope we won’t notice.”

Atlas’s burgeoning attraction transformed into hard-edged anger. He knew he looked like shit. But to insult Bea was unacceptable. He looked down at his cuffs and pretended to focus on adjusting them. “Thank you for the warning. I’m sure Mr. Vladislavic will be straightforward about the position when I speak with him in a moment. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

His response made the man laugh, a short, crass explosion of sound. “Is that your way of telling me to fuck off?”

Rather than saying the truth—a vehement yes—Atlas took a slow, steady breath. He was almost positive this was the person who was being yelled at when Helias interrupted. There was no reason to get into a pissing contest with someone who was looking to get some of his own back after getting chewed out by the boss. Bea needed him to last out this job. He needed this job and its paycheck, which meant he had to play nice with Vladislavic’s other employees. He had to keep his head.

“No,” Atlas said once he was sure he had himself under control. “If I told you to fuck off, you’d know it.”

The man’s lips pursed slightly and he shifted his weight back to his heels. “I’ve no doubt.” When Atlas didn’t say anything else, he offered one more grin, this one sharper than the first and, strangely, even more attractive for its honesty. “I think I’ve changed my mind. I hope you get the job. You’d at least be interesting.” He moved faster than Atlas expected, knocking into his shoulder on his way past, and headed down the hall. He removed a hand from his pocket and waved it behind him, though he didn’t turn around when he said, “Bafta.”

The door to Atlas’s left opened, revealing his guide. Helias’s mouth pressed into a tight line as he watched the other man retreating down the hall, but he stepped out of the way and gestured Atlas inside. “Mr. Vladislavic will see you now.”

The man sitting at the desk by one of the windows commanded Atlas’s attention wholly, despite his relaxed sprawl against the chair’s wooden back. The lighting of the room created warm pools of illumination that left much of the office in shadow. For once, Atlas’s instincts didn’t complain about his inability to see all the details around him. There was nothing in the darkness that needed his attention more than the man before him.

Decebal Vladislavic cut an impressive figure in his bespoke suit, clearly a man used to the finer things in life and seemingly unafraid to reach for them. His gray hair was neatly cut to stay out of his face, exposing the deep lines of his features. Every thought crossed openly over his face—his pleasure to see his guest and the appraisal that rapidly followed—and Atlas wondered if it was his honesty or business acumen which had helped him build the empire that obviously supported his lavish lifestyle.

“Mr. Kinkaid,” Decebal said after offering a hand toward him, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Vladislavic.”

“Please, call me Decebal. Beatrice spoke highly of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Atlas said, and settled into the chair Helias shifted for him.

“I appreciate your willingness to meet outside your agency’s usual business hours. I do much of my business during this time, and often forget others do not.”