Glass Houses by Stella Cameron Page A

that?”
    Sam sounded so impersonal and tough. But he was an FBI agent, and he had to be tough. “I didn’t see him again.”
    Aiden decided not to push her further on the point. It was perfectly possible this guy had seen her being driven away and followed.
    “I know what to do,” Olivia said, feeling inspired and relieved at the same time. “I’ll mail the checks back to Mr. Moody and Mr. Fish with what money is left, I can put in an IOU for the rest. No, I’ve got it. I’ll write a personal check for the balance and ask him to hold it till I let him know I can cover it.”
    Oh, my, God. “We’ll work it out together, Olivia. I bet beaches and water weren’t what came into your mind when you thought of Brooklyn.”
    “I suppose not. More like gangs and graffiti—only I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it much.” The beach looked more like scrubby marshlands to Olivia. “Why are we going to the— the people you talked about?”
    “The Zanettos.” Who would never let him forget it if he arrived pretending to be Ryan Hill. “They’ve got a big dry-cleaning business. My friend Vanni’s oldest brother runs it for their mother. Several members of the family are involved. We’re getting close. I’ve been told there are similarities to
    London here. The little shops, the people who’ve known each other all their lives exchanging the news of their days. It’s all neighborhoods and families. I don’t think foreigners think about it that way at all. We’re just about there. Don’t worry with the skirt. Hold my arm when we get out of the car. You don’t have a coat? It’s cold, kid. Winter’s coming on. You need more than that jacket.”
    This was appalling. “You’re going to wonder about me, but I didn’t even remember to bring a mac or a brolly.”
    “Yep, well, hold my arm and stand close to my side. I’ll tell ’em you need to freshen up.”
    “What a bother. I’m so—”
    “You said you weren’t going to talk like that again.”
    “No. I mean, yes, I did.”
    “Good. This is it.”
    Sam pulled his boat on wheels into a space undoubtedly intended for at least two cars. The shallow roots of beech trees with big, gnarled old trunks popped up cement along the edge of the wide pavement that separated the road from narrow, steep gardens fronting a long row of terraced brick houses. Each house was three stories high, with basement windows visible beneath black iron steps to the front door.
    “Sit tight,” Sam told Olivia. “I’ll get your luggage out, and we’ll pretend we’re running a three-legged race.”
    She felt hot, then cold. Lace curtains moved in one of the front windows of a house that was bigger than the rest. No face was actually evident. A boy on a skateboard cut off her view. His stiff jeans were wide, as wide at the waist as they were at the hems. She thought it possible that the jeans were actually attached to the board and the boy would have to climb out of them to get off. Several other boys zipped along on roller blades, leaping over the exposed tree roots and dodging baby strollers. Pushed by mums and dads dressed in chic casual and wit h “established professional” all but embellished on their brows, these strollers might cost as much as some automobiles.
    Sam already had her luggage out of the car, and he opened her door. At the same moment, the front door of the big house opened and a man stood on the top step. Olivia was too preoccupied with her predicament to do more than register his presence.
    Sam planted the wheeled cart in front of them and said, “Okay, Olivia FitzDurham, relax and let me manage this, okay?”
    She nodded and didn’t care that he took her hand to pull her to her feet, then tucked the hand and her forearm under his own arm, tigh tl y against his side. With his left hand, he reached back and slammed the car door.
    “Hey there—”
    “Hey, Vanni!” Sam roared, so loud he startled Olivia. “Traffic was traffic. Same old, same