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“You’ve been here before,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You know about the traffic, and you say ‘city’ in that way that sounds like it has a capital C. I would say New York or New York City.”
She shrugged. “I lived in New Jersey for a time.”
He gave a crow of satisfaction. “A piece of your past!”
She quirked one corner of her mouth at him. It wasn’t a big deal that she’d lived in the New York metro area. Millions of people did.
Gabriel walked down the aisle to unlatch the seat belts around his two guitars. One case was smooth black leather and held a very expensive guitar he had promised to Marisela Alejo on the same day he’d learned about Kodra. Quinn’s throat had clenched when he’d told her that. She hoped like hell that the precious instrument came back to Caleva with them.
His other instrument—what he called a true flamenco guitar—was in a scratched brown leather case. He’d bought it when he was admitted to the conservatory in Spain.
He held the guitar cases like they were extensions of his body. In fact, in his black jeans and T-shirt with his dark hair waving down to his shoulders, he looked more like a musician than a duke.
She hoped like hell that the tocaora they’d traveled all this way to see had something encouraging to say. Otherwise, Quinn might use the Glock on her.
As they got to the door, Isaac approached Gabriel and offered to carry one of the guitars down the narrow steps of the airplane. Quinn was startled when Gabriel handed the steward the fancy one.
“Watch your step,” Isaac said as Gabriel gestured for her to exit ahead of him.
A black limo was parked just beyond the jet’s wing tip. She saw her small red overnight bag being loaded into the trunk by a man in a dark suit. He had to be Vincent, who was both a bodyguard and their driver.
Travel was frictionless for the very wealthy. And the very noble.
She shook her head in amazement all over again. While Gabriel supervised stowing the guitars in the limo, she walked over to the driver and held out her hand. “I’m Quinn.”
“Vincent.” He gave her a firm handshake and said in a low voice, “I slipped the package in your bag. Thought you’d prefer that to explaining it to Don Gabriel.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Anneliese is already at the hotel, so the room will be secure by the time we arrive. Ivan and Doug are in the sedan by the gate. They’ll be right behind us on the road.” He closed the trunk. “The duke is waiting.”
She glanced up to see Gabriel standing by the limo’s open door. “Thanks again,” she said to Vincent. It felt good to be treated as a member of the team.
Gabriel followed her onto the leather seat, and Vincent closed the door behind him.
“We have a couple of hours before we meet with Kyran Redda,” Gabriel said. “How about a shower and room service?”
All her other concerns had eclipsed the meeting with the international rock star. “You said we. Am I going with you?” She figured Vincent and company would be enough security so she could stay behind in the suite.
“Don’t you want to meet him?” Gabriel’s smile was teasing since he knew that almost every woman on earth wanted to meet the sexy rock god.
“Now that I hang out with kings and dukes, it’s not that big a deal,” she said with a shrug.
That got a laugh out of him.
Two hours later, they were back in the limo. Gabriel had changed into a black collared shirt but retained his black jeans and boots. He felt a suit wouldn’t be the right attire for charming a rock star. So Quinn had worn her jeans but put on a dark red silk blouse under her leather jacket and left her hair in loose waves. She planned to remain in the background while Gabriel worked his magic.
Vincent dropped them—along with Anneliese—at the entrance to one of the most expensive hotels in New York City. The hotel manager met them at the door and whisked them to a private elevator that rose directly to the penthouse suite.
They stepped into a marble-lined foyer, where they were met by two large men who stared hard at them before opening one of the double doors to allow them in.
Quinn’s first impression was of people sprawled everywhere in the vast sitting room, on couches, on chairs, on the carpet, even on a table. Their attire of T-shirts, jeans, scruffy hair, and boots or bare feet clashed with the ornate furniture.
She glanced up at Gabriel to find him surveying the room with his chin tilted upward at a ducal angle, his gaze cool. “Ah, Mr. Redda,” he said in a voice that cut through the din of multiple conversations without being a shout. He started toward a couch on their left.
