The Closer. Rhonda Nelson

and visited the other business owners around their little block. He’d played chess at the five-and-dime and shopped for all his clothes at Billy Walter’s, an upscale men’s store. He not only knew every proprietor, he knew their families, as well. He’d been social.

      But shortly after moving into the apartment above the store, he’d started manufacturing reasons not to go out. He’d have the diner deliver his meals and he stopped visiting the other stores. He’d stand at the front door and look out, but when Jess had casually suggested that he go see if Billy had any new ties in stock, he’d shake his head and retreat to the backroom.

      She’d begun to seriously worry at that point, but she hadn’t realized how dire the situation had become until she’d discovered that Paula, one of their part-time workers, had been doing his grocery shopping for him. She’d also gone to the post office for him, picked up his prescriptions and generally did anything that would require a trip outside the shop.

      At that point, Jess had confronted her father and had tried to get him to talk to a therapist, but her concern had been met with an uncharacteristic angry outburst and an order to mind her own business. He was fine, he insisted, though it was obvious that he wasn’t, that he’d become a prisoner in his own space. He’d started spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet, his only window to the outside world.

      It was then that Jess had started traveling for him—it would be good for her, he’d said—and, while most of the people her father had done business with over the years didn’t think too much about the fact that he’d stopped doing the legwork, there were a few who did find it odd. One of those, a representative of the Montwheeler Diamond Company, made an unannounced visit to the store to share the news that Rossi’s had made the final cut for the Clandestine design. When the man had asked her father to go out to celebrate and her father had declined, it was then that the older Rossi had become labeled a “recluse.”

      Interestingly enough, it was the “recluse” part that would seal his ultimate nomination for the Clandestine bra. Everyone assumed that her dad had retreated so far into his work that the outside world had become a distraction he couldn’t afford and wouldn’t indulge. It had given him a certain mystique that the press had instantly loved and capitalized on.

      Their web hits had tripled and orders were pouring in faster than they could fill them. Even her own signature line, If It Crawls, featuring bejeweled insects and bugs, had seen a significant bump in sales.

      There was no doubt that the bra, much as it pained her to admit it, was already netting the results her father had expected. And it hadn’t even had The Big Reveal yet. Once it was covering the breasts of one of the world’s sexiest supermodels, the buzz would really get going. And that was good for business.

      In today’s lagging economy, there wasn’t a single company that wasn’t affected in some way, theirs included. High-end jewelry was a luxury item and when money got as tight as it was now, fewer and fewer people had the ready cash to splurge on something like fine jewelry. They’d made good investments and her father had always been a big believer in gold, but they’d certainly had to tap into their reserves over the past couple years.

      The Clandestine bra would change that.

      And really, when one considered what was to gain, she really didn’t have any business being put out over missing a race, one that she only wanted to run in order to prove a point.

      With a quick glance at the clock, Jess sighed and closed up her garage, then made the quick walk through the woods to her place. She’d already packed, but still needed to shower and change. The security agent hired by Montwheeler was set to arrive at the shop at three to collect both her and the bra, and she’d promised her father she wouldn’t be late.

      If she intended to keep that promise, she’d better get a move on. She mounted the steps to her tree house—an eleven-hundred-square-foot architectural wonder of reclaimed wood and leaded glass—and leaped lightly over her cat, Pita (short for pain in the ass), who liked to lie on the next-to-last step, solely in order to better trip someone, Jess believed. Shorty had promised to come out and feed her while she was gone.

      Thirty minutes later, she secured the house and lugged her bag to the car. Because she imagined the security agent was going to be either short on conversation or too long-winded to endure, she’d included her iPod and an eReader. For whatever reason, when she tried to picture the man, her warped imagination kept conjuring images of Kevin James from Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Why? Who knew, but it made her snicker every time all the same.

      With a shake of her head and another glance at the clock—damn!—she slipped the key in the ignition and slung gravel as she peeled out of the driveway. From her house to the shop was ordinarily a fifteen-minute drive.

      She’d need to do it in ten.

      It was obscene how much that pleased her.

      * * *

      “WHAT THE HELL,” Griff muttered, his gaze trained on the rearview mirror. He’d first noted the red Camaro—the retro-kind Chevy had debuted a few years ago—more than half a mile back when it had first appeared in the distance.

      It was damn hard to miss.

      Candy-apple red, white racing stripes from hood to trunk, and the way it had moved seamlessly in and out of traffic, smoothly passing everything that interrupted its path had certainly drawn his attention. A little admiration, even.

      Now, as the car drew nearer to his bumper—so close that he could read the tag on the front, which appropriately read Faster—irritation was quickly dimming the original sentiment. He was moving five miles past the speed limit on a two-lane highway with a double yellow line. The driver couldn’t pass without breaking the law, and he refused to go any faster.

      Though he couldn’t make out much beyond a lot of dark curly hair and sunglasses, he knew it was a woman behind the wheel and he’d admit, she seemed more than capable of handling the powerful, if impractical, car she drove. But if she didn’t get off his damn bumper, they were going to have a serious problem.

      He slowed a little, just to infuriate her. “I’m in front of you, lady. Get over it,” he muttered.

      She dropped back as they mounted a small hill, and Griff had just congratulated himself for making her retreat, when the yellow lines changed in her favor and she roared past him. He barely caught a glimpse of her pleased smile, but it was enough to make him want to hit the accelerator a little harder and take off after her.

      Which was irrational, of course, so he put the thought firmly out of his mind. He was a grown man on his way to an important job, his first as a civilian. Playing cat and mouse with a girl—one who had a much faster car, no less—was a distraction he couldn’t afford, and it rather startled him that he’d been inclined to do it in the first place. Chasing after her would have been pointless and, as a rule, he didn’t pursue things he knew would be a waste of his time.

      Feeling strangely unsettled, Griff watched the red car disappear over the next hill and released a pent-up breath. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, suddenly restless, and shifted in his seat. He’d been on the road for almost eight hours already and knew that at least another four would be in his future today, if he planned to stick to his schedule. Which he did, of course, otherwise what was the point in having one?

      He’d allotted eight minutes to pick up the bra and his Rossi escort, another seven for a bathroom break, and planned to arrive in Hagerstown no later than eight o’clock tonight. Dinner would be a little late, but not terribly, and that would put them within four hours of their ultimate destination. They’d hit New York City by noon tomorrow, which gave him a two-hour window to check out the venue before the press junket started. The bra would officially be on display—on the runway for the reveal—at noon on Saturday.

      Payne had provided the building specs, which were certainly helpful, but Griff preferred to do an in-person review. He wanted to know every stairwell, elevator, exit and access point. He didn’t expect any problems, but would be remiss if he didn’t prepare for them anyway. Besides, he liked to be prepared. There was a certain