HANDLE WITH CARE (The Ludzecky Sisters Book 5) (17 page)

“There might be cause for concern, here,” Delores went on.

“Why?” Ellen
asked. “We have the best security of any art museum in the world here. And Director Callahan is top notch.”

“We do. Physically.” They had the requisite cameras, guards in every room, motion sensors on each work of art, and vigilant overnight security.

The collections manager offered, “These emails have been coming periodically for a while now. Aren’t they just from some kook who doesn’t
understand genius or wants attention?”

“There’s more. The frequency has increased. And the tenor of them has become aggressive. Then, too, a few employees have noticed lurkers around the quietest spaces in the museum. When security was called, they vanish.”

“A lot of people lurk in museums. We call it browsing.” This from the research associate.

Elizabeita agreed about the lurkers.
Her favorite patron of the museum, a little old Polish man who took the train in from Brooklyn three times a week could be considered one.

“All I can say is the director wants you all to be on the lookout for anything unusual. And be sure to send your emails to him as soon as you get them so his team can analyze the data.”

Elizabeita’s gaze strayed to the painter in the corner. He hadn’t
gotten much done. Right now, he was on his haunches doing something she couldn’t see. It was
unusual
to have a workman in a room during a staff meeting.

When the group broke up, Elizabeita took out her phone as she was walking out. Three texts had come in and she stopped outside the doorway and off to the side to read them. One from a professor she taken classes from who lived in London. One
from Ana. Another from a guy she’d dated once and didn’t plan to repeat the experience. She answered them and then pushed herself off the wall. Right as the workman came out. They collided.

He carried brushes and a gallon can, which went flying. When it hit the wall, the top came off and beige paint spattered everywhere. ““What the hell?” he muttered and turned to her. “You ran into me.”

She didn’t usually catalog a man’s appearance upon meeting him, but there was something about him that made her take a second look. He was over six feet tall, nice shoulders, and no fat anywhere on his body. His light brown hair was a bit longish and his beard scruffy. The blue of his eyes reminded her of the sky.

She shrugged. “Call me clumsy.”

“Not funny, young lady. Do you have any
idea how long that’s going to take me to clean up?”

She sobered. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, sure.” He turned back to the wall. “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

“Listen, I can help you. It was my fault.”

“Damn right it was.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I can just see you mopping up paint in those heels and the suit.”

Hmm. Must be he didn’t know who she was. Not a big
shot at the museum, for sure, but she’d started working here just after she got her second degree in art and had interned in galleries in London and Paris. She climbed the ladder fast. Now at twenty-six, she was recommending exhibits and had just gotten one approved. She could, if she wanted to, get him in trouble.

Sofia would kill her.
Sweetie
, she’d say.
Be forgiving of people. You never
know if their cat just died, they were up all night at a second job, or if they’d lost everything they’d worked for.

So she backed up a few steps and nodded. “You’re right. I was only trying to help.” Stung, she walked away.

And heard behind her, “I could probably just leave it on the wall, and people would think it was just another piece of that damned modern art.”

Hmm. He had a sense
of humor. Who would have guessed?

Nick Casella enjoyed hard labor, but today his back was protesting. At the moment, he was dismantling several display units that had been in an exhibit for some famous painter—whose work he thought looked like amoebas. From outside this particular space which was sectioned off from the museum proper, he heard someone say, “Hey, Ms. Ludzecky,
can I ask a question?”

Glancing over, he saw a group of about ten little ones, not quite kindergarten age, gathering around Elizabeita Ludzecky, whom he’d had a literal run-in with a few days ago. It had been a nightmare cleaning up the spill. But this was his job right now and he’d do it. For a lot of reasons.

“Yes, of course you can.” Her gaze narrowed. “Marcus, is it?”

“Uh-huh.”
He gestured to the painting she stood in front of. “How come I can draw as good as that guy?”

Nick chuckled. His thoughts exactly.

“Some people think modern art can be done by anyone. And it would be nice if you tried to do what he did. But I think that isn’t the point. You
didn’t
draw it. Piet Mondrian did.”

“It looks like a lot of lines,” another kid put in.

“Then let’s talk
about the lines. Their color. The shapes they form. Stare hard at it. What do you see?”

Tuning the dialogue out, Nick yanked some nails from lumber. He hadn’t spent much time in art museums, and he’d had no idea the exhibits were so much work.

Behind him, someone tugged on his shirt. “Hey, mister, whatcha doing?”

Glancing down, he saw some half-pint looking up at him. “Shouldn’t you
be with the group?”

The kid shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Hell, if the blonde gave him permission…Nick was in the process of explaining about the exhibits when she came in. Up close he could see she wore more makeup and had scraped her hair back into what seemed like a painful knot. Why the hell did women do that?

“Sammy, I told you not to leave the group.”

Chagrined, Sammy said, “Just
wondered what this guy’s doing.”

She looked at him. God, she was a kid, barely out of college. And though not in years, he was an old man in many ways. She said, “Hello again.”

He nodded. “You should keep better track of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“The kids. They’re not allowed to wander around the museum alone.”

“I know. The two chaperones should have caught that this one left but
they were busy with two other kids who were crying.”

“Probably at the ugly art,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Aren’t they a little young for the Met?”

“You’re never too young for art.” She arched a brow. “Who knows what would have happened to you if you’d spent more time in a quiet gallery like this contemplating art and life.”

“Honey, all the art in the world wouldn’t have
changed my life.” Now he arched a brow. “Or my disposition. I gotta get back to work.”

With that he gave her his back and soon he heard her heels clicking on the floor. Damn it, he shouldn’t have taunted her—again. But there was something about her that made him do it. Still, he was supposed to be keeping a low profile, which he wasn’t used to. But best he remember that.

Order LOVE
STORY here.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT C.J. (Caterina) Ludzecky and her three colleagues hustled into New York City’s Memorial Hospital on the heels of the Second Lady and the vice president of the United States. Though she kept her emotions at bay when she was on the job, C.J. couldn’t help but empathize with Bailey O’Neil, the vice president’s wife of two years. She remembered
well the night her own father had died in an institution far too similar to this one. She’d been fifteen, and she and her brother, Lukasz, had taken it the hardest, probably because they were the oldest of his eight children. Briefly, C.J. wondered how Bailey’s brothers were faring. Embedded in her memory was the image of holding a weeping Luke in her arms. His vulnerability had crushed her.
She considered saying a prayer for this family, but dismissed the notion; she didn’t believe in that anymore.

The group of six reached the admittance desk and were met by a man dressed in an impeccable suit. “Mr. Vice President. Ms. O’Neil. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I’m James Jones. I manage New York Memorial.”

Bailey and Clay shook hands with the administrator.
“Thank you for coming in at this hour,” the vice president said.

C.J. watched Clay slide his arm around his wife’s shoulders; Bailey leaned into him. They had to be the most demonstrative political couple she’d ever encountered in the six years she’d been with the secret service. Their open affection for each other was often a topic of discussion among the who’s who in Washington—much of it
not always kind. Since Bailey was four months pregnant, Clay was even more attentive than usual.

As they spoke with the doctor, C.J. scanned the forty-by-forty hospital reception area. The other three agents did the same, though her partner, Mitch Calloway, who headed the Second Lady’s detail, and Tim Jenkins, the special agent in charge of the vice presidential force, moved in close to the
protectees.

“I’ll show you the way.” The hospital administrator glanced at the agents, then back to the Second Couple. “All of you, I guess.”

Calloway looked over at C.J. About forty, he had shrewd brown eyes and dark hair accented by a touch of gray at the temples. Nodding to the other side of the room, he signaled her to take note. A striking redheaded woman was arguing with a...uh-oh…a
man with a camera. Damn it, how had the media gotten wind of the vice president’s midnight trek on Marine Two, the VP helicopter, from Washington to New York? And how did they get past the uniformed guards at the entrance to the hospital? True, the service hadn’t had time to do any advance work because this was an emergency. But, still…

Irked, C.J. strode across the area. When she reached
the pair, their disagreement was in full swing.

The female stood tall on her three-inch heels. Apparently she was digging them in. “I said no, Ross. We’re not intruding on them. We’re leaving right now.”

“Yes,” C.J. said, drawing herself up to her full five-eight height. “You are.”

The cameraman, a wiry wrestler-type, peered over half glasses at her. “Yeah? Who says?”

Brushing
back the tailored jacket of her black suit, C.J. exposed her semiautomatic then flashed her badge. They could guess who she was by her suit and the American flag pin on her lapel, along with her earpiece, but a little show of force never hurt. “The United States Secret Service. No media here, hotshot.” She shook her head and let her usually even temper spike. “Can’t you people be humane for once?
This is a family emergency.”

“First Amendment gives us—”

The woman stepped forward, sending a fall of auburn hair into her eyes and perfume wafting toward C.J. “I’m Rachel Scott. Our TV station, WNYC, got a tip that Vice President Wainwright and his wife had arrived in town and were headed to Memorial. But we won’t intrude. Obviously a family member is more ill than we anticipated. We’ll
be leaving.”

“Thank you. I’ll follow you out.” C.J.’s comment was neutral, as she’d been trained in responding to questions.

Don’t confirm or deny the press’s comments. Usually they’re on a fishing expedition. If you agree with them, they’ll phrase it like you said the words.
Her first boss, David Anderson, had given her good advice on all aspects of being an agent. He’d been her mentor,
until he turned on her, which still made her furious, except that it led to her working with Mitch in the D.C. field office. When Mitch had gotten into the coveted VPPD, the Vice Presidential Protective Division, he’d often called on her to substitute for agents or when extra protection was needed. After a year, one of the Second Lady’s personal agents cycled out in the customary rotation of agents,
and Bailey had asked for C.J. to join their detail permanently. That was how she’d come to such a plum position with not even a decade in the service under her belt.

Because she saw to it that the press exited through the front door without taking any detours, and turned them over to the uniformed agents standing post outside, C.J. had to find her own way to the CCU. As she traversed the corridors,
she said into her wrist unit, part of the service’s restrictive radio network, “Reporters are history. I’m on my way back.”

“Understood,” Mitch said. “We’re at the CCU with Bulldog and Bright Star.”

Code names were given to protectees, usually indicative of their personalities. Clay Wainwright was known for fighting relentlessly for the rights of others, and Bailey was a standout on the
Hill because she didn’t play politics.

The smell of
hospital
assaulted C.J. as she made the trip upstairs. Antiseptic, ripe food and something best left unidentified abused her senses. She remembered the odors. She associated them with death. For Bailey’s sake, C.J. hoped her own visceral reaction was wrong this time.

Her three colleagues, Clay and Bailey were in the corridor outside of
CCU talking to a doctor whose tag read, Edward Crane,
Chief of Cardiology
. The vice president of the most powerful country in the world commanded top people’s attention. C.J. came up next to Mitch, who threw her a quick nod.

“Mr. O’Neil is resting now. We’ve given him a sedative.” The doctor’s voice was soothing.