Linda Johnston - Guardian of Her Heart

She had seen him before.

Where?

He stopped juggling, catching the knives and setting them down on the cart. “Can I help you?” he said. “How about an albacore tuna sandwich for the young lady, and an espresso for her lovely companion?”

The guy’s tongue was as flawless as his juggling. As he’d stressed the word young, Dianna had been certain he would refer to her as the “older lady,” but instead he had complimented her.

She recalled suddenly where she had seen him before: in the reception area of the A-S Development offices, where Dianna managed the dispute resolution center named for her husband.

The Englander Center was an experiment that held great promise, and A-S Development, which had constructed it, also was responsible to ensure its use.

In this area abounding with courts and litigants, the idea was to encourage people to save time and money by paying mediators to help them resolve disputes amicably. Or, if they couldn’t, they could hire “rent-a-judges”—real, retired judges who held realistic trials in the Center’s own model courtrooms.

So far, the experiment was a success. The law offices within the Center were completely rented, and Dianna had no problem filling the conference and courtrooms nearly constantly.

So many people were undoubtedly a good market for food vendors. And that was where Dianna had seen the gorgeous hunk of a juggler before: that morning, in her office, peddling food.

“Would you like a sandwich here, Julie?” she asked the girl. “Or would you like to go to one of the other carts along the promenade?”

“Oh, but you have to stay here,” the man told them. “It’s in the cards.” Dianna couldn’t figure out where he could have fit a deck of cards in the side pocket of his snug jeans, but he whipped one out with a flourish. “Pick a card, lovely companion,” he said, stepping toward Dianna.

She felt her cheeks redden. “No, thanks,” she said. “Julie, let’s—”

“Please, Dianna,” the girl begged, excitement glimmering in her eyes.

“Well…” Dianna turned back toward the man and shrugged. “All right.”

She put out her hand, mentally comparing it with Julie’s much smaller one. Her nails were rounded, and she used a rose-tinted polish.

The man fanned out the cards. “Go ahead,” he said as she hesitated. “Pick one.”

Dianna closed her thumb and forefinger on one from the middle of the deck. She pulled it out.

“Now look at it,” the man said.

She did, then blinked, unable to believe her eyes. It was a three of clubs. But it wasn’t the suit or the number that startled her.

Printed along the card’s side was, “Beware.”

LT. TRAVIS BRONSON, of the special Undercover Response Unit, “L Platoon,” of the Metro Division, Los Angeles Police Department, did not let himself smile at the reaction of the beautiful, slender, but unapproachable woman he knew was Dianna Englander, widow of U.S. Representative Bradley Englander.

He had intended to startle her. It was the best way to get her attention.

“Now, please place the card back into the deck,” he told her. Her slim, elegant hand trembled as she obeyed. But she lifted her pale blue eyes to his and glared.

Brave lady, he thought.

“Watch,” he said. Using simple sleight-of-hand, he formed the cards back into a solid deck, shuffled them, then easily extracted the one Ms. Englander had selected: the three of clubs.

He knew why she had reacted so strangely. It had a warning on the edge. But so did all the cards in the deck he had proffered.

“Is that the one you chose?” he asked.

She nodded. “Of course, but you—”

“Now, how about that tuna sandwich, my friend?” He knelt to the level of the child he knew to be Julie, daughter of Jeremy Alberts, a developer of the building near where they stood.

“Sure,” said the girl, wonder written all over her enormous-eyed gaze. He was careful to make sure she hadn’t seen what was on the card.

“I’ll teach you how to do that someday, if you’d like,” he said.

“Really?” Her tone told him that she considered what he had offered a gift of the highest magnitude.

To him, card tricks, juggling and other feats with his hands were routine.

Ms. Englander appeared less impressed.

“Manny, would you get our young customer her sandwich?” he asked the thin Hispanic man who actually owned the pushcart. Manny Fernandez nodded and motioned to the child.

That gave Travis his opportunity. He reached into his pocket, but she gave him no time to show his badge. Instead, she muttered, “I don’t know what he paid you, but leave me alone. And if you’re smart, you’ll stay away from him, too.” She turned her back and followed the child. “Let’s go, Julie,” she said after she paid Manny, then turned back toward the building.

He wasn’t going to argue with her…here. But this wasn’t the end of it, especially because Travis could guess what “he” she referred to. “See you soon,” he said as she and the child passed.

She spared him barely a look. “Don’t count on it,” she said through gritted teeth.

Oh, but you can count on it, Ms. Englander, he thought.

He watched the woman and child disappear through the doors.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Dianna forced herself to sit still in Wally Sellers’ office in the A-S Development suite, on the sixth floor of the Englander Center.

Wally, chubby and unkempt but happy in his own cascades of loose skin, had decorated his domain in a manner in keeping with his unassuming nature: mismatched but comfortable stuff. He sat behind his cluttered desk.

“I’m glad we’re meeting,” Dianna said. “I have something to tell you both, but I’ll wait till Jeremy gets here. Do you know what he wants to see us about?”

Almost as soon as Julie and she had walked back into the offices, her other boss, Jeremy Alberts, had told her they had to get together on an important matter. Though their meeting would be short, as Wally and he had some potential subcontractors coming in, they would convene now in Wally’s office.

Dianna had tried to take Jeremy aside to tell him about her fright in the plaza but hadn’t wanted to alarm Julie. She had already alerted the security crew downstairs, told them to contact the police. If local authorities interrogated that cheeky pushcart peddler, they might get information about his relationship with Glen Farley that could lead to Farley’s arrest at long last. This time she would not allow her claims to be ignored. She was no longer the terrified, hysterical widow whom federal agents had blown off before.

Jeremy bustled into the office, hurrying across the Berber carpet between the cluttered desk and the sitting area. “Good,” he said, glancing between Wally and Dianna. “You’re both here.” He took a seat on an orange-and-blue upholstered chair that clashed with Dianna’s blue-and-gray one, and tugged on his pants legs to arrange them. “I’ve settled Julie in my office doing homework. He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Who?” Dianna asked, but before he could respond, she continued, “Look, before whoever it is gets here, I have something I need to tell you.” She related what had happened on the plaza.

“Oh, no!” Jeremy rose by his seat. “Are you okay?”

Dianna assured them both—falsely—that she was. The experience had shaken her more than she dared to admit.

Farley was getting more blatant. Now he was even hiring people to frighten her. She wouldn’t know whom she could trust.

See you soon. The man’s words echoed in her head. She didn’t want to think about it…but how could she avoid him, if he stood right outside their building? Beware…

“Damn!” Jeremy said. “Well, you’ll have an opportunity to tell the right person soon. The head of our new security company is coming. He demanded this meeting, said he has something important to talk about. He didn’t sound happy. Maybe he already knows what’s going on.”