Whistler's Angel by John R. Maxim Page A

not serious, right?”
    “On the other hand, angels don’t do humans as a rule. For me, it might be a real letdown. You think?”
    She was watching his expression. She reached to take his hand. She said, “Yes, Adam, I’m still teasing you.”
    He muttered, weakly, “I knew that.”
    She said, “Okay, Adam, all kidding aside. All I’m trying to do now is make you comfortable with me. We’ve both got to try to relax.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “No, you’re not, and you’ve never been comfortable with me, especially not after we’ve made love.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “Yes, it is, Adam, and now we know why. You were holding so much back. That’s changed, but now there’s this. You do love me, don’t you?”
    “From the first day I met you.”
    “Then give us a chance. We’ll be okay.”
     
    He had booked an overnight flight to Geneva, with a change of planes in New York. All three slept through most of the crossing. His father met their plane at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport. His limo was waiting for them on the tarmac.
    The chauffeur had a wheelchair for Claudia. An escort car, engines running, stood near. Two bodyguards in it. Whistler didn’t recognize them. The twins were probably still back in Denver having seen to their safe departure.
    Whistler’s father, who’d arranged that they needn’t go through Customs, was dressed in a business suit and tie. He had gotten a haircut and his beard had been trimmed. It seemed to Whistler that the look he was going for was that of a respectable businessman. He had greeted Claudia with a kiss on both cheeks after first kissing Kate Geller’s hand.
    Kate Geller nudged Whistler, “This the housebroken version?”
    “Be nice,” Whistler answered. “He’s trying.”
    His father’s home, in which Whistler had grown up, was a three story town house on the Place Des Alpes. It was one of Geneva’s many park-like squares and one of its better addresses. The house was, like its neighbors, of white brick and mansard roofed with a flower box in every window.
    The house to its right was his father’s as well. Whistler hadn’t been inside it in years. From the outside it looked very much like the others. It was staffed and run like a small hotel with rooms for any visiting associates. It had two meeting rooms, one of which was a “bubble room” impervious to listening devices. The top floor was his father’s communications center staffed by several full-time employees. It probably contained more eavesdropping equipment than most foreign embassy buildings. Whistler doubted that Kate would be given a tour. She would have to be content with the residence.
    Whistler’s father had arranged to have Claudia’s records forwarded to his personal physician. He had also arranged for a visiting nurse who was trained as a physical therapist. The doctor didn’t want her using the stairs, so his father had converted a first-floor study into a bedroom for Claudia. His father had moved out of his second floor suite. That was where Kate Geller would stay. Whistler was given a room on that floor that had been his own, growing up. There was still another guestroom on the second floor, but his father had chosen not to use it. That room had been Alicia’s. That might have been the reason. Or perhaps he simply thought that for propriety’s sake he should not be on the same floor as Kate. He opted to stay up on the third floor where his driver and housekeeper also had rooms. Whistler knew them both well. They were long-time employees. Both did double-duty as bodyguards.
    “It’s so pretty,” said Kate as she was being shown the house. “Very warm. And inviting. I’m surprised.”
    “You expected a barracks?” asked his father.
    “No, in your case, a bunker. But a woman must have done this. Your wife?”
    “Every stick.”
    The furnishings were an interesting mixture of styles. Mostly Empire, Queen Anne and a little Swiss Rustic with rich Persian carpets on the floors. Good