December Frost (A Southern Romance Monthly) (2 page)

Looked to him like something he'd find on his grandmother's knick knack shelf. Eh…but then Thomas had never understood art. He just retrieved it.
 

What excited Thomas about his job was setting things right. From a young age he'd been a small guy. Shorter than his friends and fellow students in school. When puberty hit, all the way to high school graduation, Tom Tom Car, as he was called by the other kids, missed the 5' 9" yard stick. On the video his mom made of his graduation, she could be heard saying, "That's him right there—that dip in the middle of the line."
 

Then somewhere between graduation and his joining the armed services he shot up to 6'1". Growing pains in his legs put him in the infirmary twenty percent of the time in boot camp. But instead of sending him packing on a medical discharge, someone in an office in Washington took notice of his shooting ability, as well as his scores on certain
other
proficiency and profile tests.
 

Yeah…he fit a certain profile. And when the growing pains were over, Thomas Carr finished out his boot camp and went straight into training for a lesser known agency in the CIA.
 

Five years and he was done. Retired at twenty-nine, and now employed by a private company set on preventing crimes before they happened.
 

Thomas had been to France, Italy, Spain, Dubai, Japan, China and Egypt. He'd seen a lot of things, and he'd done a lot of…things.
 

And here he sat in the cold in December in Atlanta, Georgia, looking for signs of a thief that might never show.
 

Until he did.
 

No one really knew what the Phantom looked like, but he was known for what he wore. Dark shoes, jeans, a black suit jacket and white hoodie with the hood up. This description preceded every theft committed by this individual, in every city.
 

Thomas smiled behind the binoculars. And there he was.
 

Spotting him, or someone suspected of being Phantom, wasn't enough to arrest him. Thomas' job was to catch him in the act, get images if possible, or video, and even better, catch him with the item on him somewhere.
 

It sounded easy.
 

Application? Eh…not so much.
 

Thomas followed the white hoodie as he walked back and forth along the sidewalk, stopped and took pictures with what looked like a phone, then walked inside. If he followed his usual routine, the hoodie would buy a ticket, case the place, and then vanish. Then before midnight tonight, the prize would be gone.
 

Thomas lowered the binoculars and thought out his own next move. He'd already looked around and figured out at least twelve possible ways to steal the statue and get away. The statue wasn't heavily guarded, but the security system at the High was top of the line.
 

So how was he going to do this? He'd have to have a distraction of some kind.
 

Thomas had been looking at the museum through the binoculars for so long he hadn't bothered to look at anything around the High. So as he sat there looking out the window at the place, he finally noticed a red banner held between two poles near the sidewalk, just to the right of the museum's entrance. All those hours looking at the place—even a stroll through—and he hadn't bothered to read what it said.
 

Binoculars up, he focused on the sign.
 

ATLANTA ADVERTISERS AWARDS.
 

The date was today. The time, eight o'clock.
 

An advertisers event in the High.
That's
how the Phantom planned on stealing the statue
. All he'd have to do is blend in with the other art snobs and advertising people.
 

Which was exactly what Thomas intended to do as well. He grabbed his phone and dialed an old number. "Hey, Giselle….yeah it's me, Tom. Look…I need to cash in on that favor if that's okay with you. Cool, cool. Are you going to the Atlanta Advertisers Awards? Oh good…need a date?"
 

CHAPTER THREE

Deb showed up at five to dress Cecelia up.
 

And after six dress changes, Cecelia stood in front of her long mirror wearing an upper-thigh length black dress that hugged her so tight if she turned just the right way she could see the indention of her belly-button under the lights of her bedroom.
 

"This is too tight." She reached under her left side to grab the zipper.
 

Deb smacked her hand away. "Don't touch. It's perfect. I can't wait to be seen with you. They'll think we're this posh lesbian couple."
 

Cecelia gave Deb's reflection her best
I don't know you
look before she turned and hobbled over to her closet to look for the right black shoes. Deb was already dressed in a stunning dark blue dress that draped in all the right places. Curves looked good on Deb, and Cecelia had often wondered why men didn't notice her more often. She had a gorgeous face with blue eyes. Her mother's Korean heritage showed up in just the right place in the shape of her eyes, and her spiky blond hair was an art form.
 

My hair would never do that. It would stick out at funny angles like straw
. Cecelia wasn't just being self-deprecating either. She'd tried to have her hair coiffed into an upsweep twice with disastrous results. Her hair was shoulder length, thick, and very coarse. The best she and Deb could do was iron the hell out of it. Cecelia shoved a few hair bands into her purse, along with her gun, license to carry, license to drive, and her license to be a cop, her badge.
 

Once they were primped and ready—Deb having insisted Cecelia wear lipstick—they piled into Deb's Lincoln SUV and headed 85 south to downtown.
 

Cecelia couldn't remember the last time she'd been to the High—or had she? She remembered its architecture more than anything—the place did not look like a museum. Maybe it'd been when she was small? Or maybe it was something her brother's wife had taken her too there.
 

Either thought brought back a slight melancholy with it when she thought of Veronda's death, and now finally, her brother's possible happiness again. She hated the way she'd sounded earlier at lunch. She didn't want to come off sounding like she was jealous, or she didn't like Nana. She did.
 

But the thought Lex would spend more time with Nana…bothered her.
 

And she really…
really
…didn't want it to.
 

Deb arrived just past the event time and handed the car over to the valet. After handing Cecelia her invite, the woman in blue led them up the ramp to the front entrance. Walking up was when Cecelia wished she'd brought a jacket or coat or a wrap. She wrapped her arms around herself and noticed the tops of her breasts—those parts that would not stay tucked in the dress—were covered in goosebumps. Had the temperature dropped since they left her apartment?
 

The place was decorated in style, complete with a few of the local TV stations on hand with their reporters and microphones. Luckily they counted she and Deb as nobodies and moved along.
 

"It's cold," she muttered to Deb after they handed their invites over and after Cecelia had to go through a different line for her gun. She was afraid they were going to take her weapon from her, until Lt. Saxx from the Robbery division gave her the okay.
 

"What they hell are you doing here? I don't think Homicide has anything to worry about with these artsy types." The dark skinned young man shook his head as his gaze traveled up and down. "MmmMmm! Who knew you could clean up so fine, Inzmann?"
 

"If you like the dress, Dar, you can borrow it next time." She smirked as she slipped her gun back in her purse. "And you never know…everyone looks like a killer to me."
 

Saxx gave her a salute but never stopped smiling.
 

"Well the weather guy on Channel 2 said the temperature was supposed to drop tonight. Might even get some sleet."
 

Cecelia grabbed at Deb's upper arm as they moved through the elegantly dressed crowd on their way up the spiraling staircase to the first bar. "Sleet? Are you serious? It's not even the middle of December yet."
 

"Oh calm your ass down. Have a drink. Oooh… do you smell that?" Deb grabbed Cecelia's
 
upper arm. "That's shrimp and grits!"
 

Cecelia made a few.
Ew?
 

She followed Deb around, ordered a simple Coke at the bar, and then strolled into the main room where the best advertisers for the year had their work on display. From what she knew about the event—meaning what little she'd read on the brochure at the door—the winners were already chosen and were to receive their awards tonight.
 

Cecelia had already decided that after food and drink, exiting before any kind of awards ceremony would be a great idea. And if Deb wouldn't come, she could always hold her at gunpoint and insist.
 

What made her uneasy at the buffet were the leers at her breasts by several creepy old guys. She really wished she'd brought a wrap or something but was glad the black bodice hid her nipples…or did it? She was cold, despite the number of bodies in the room, so she was pretty sure her nipples were at attention.
 

"And what house are you with?"
 

It took a few seconds before Cecelia realized the woman with the gray hair and flower arrangement for a hat was talking to her across the Shrimp & Grits. She frowned. "What house?"
 

"Yes," the woman said through her nose. "I don't recognize you from any of the portfolios."
 

Cecelia noticed this snooty old biddy was looking at her boobs too. "I'm here with a friend."
 

"Figures." Old Biddy sniffed again and continued heaping grit-covered shrimp onto her already over loaded plate. "Probably some artist's cheap date."
 

Cecelia opened her mouth to give the old bat a piece of her mind but was stopped when a warm hand touched her bare shoulder. "Mrs. De Prune is the head of the Advertiser's Fund Raisers," a deep voice said to her right. "And I believe was responsible for raising close to half a million dollars this year."
 

Mrs. De Prune's face almost cracked in half with the smile. She looked proud of herself. In fact, Cecelia was pretty sure no one could be as proud of her as she was of herself.
 

"I see you are a man of tastes." The pickled princess moved on from the shrimpy grits to a platter of cheeses.

And of course, Cecelia, never being one without words, snickered. "She puts anything more on that plate of hers and they'll be rolling her out on her—"
 

That's when she looked up at her savior, the deep voice that maneuvered the old pickle away from her. She wasn't sure what she expected to see—but Hugh Jackman's double wasn't it.
 

He was smiling at her, his brows arched high, waiting for her to finish her sentence. Of course, Cecelia couldn't remember what she was saying and really didn't care. This man stood a good foot taller than her and his smile when he flashed it was…stunning. "You were saying?"

"I—" and that was about all she had in her as warmth spread from her knees all the way up her legs and settled between her legs. How long had it been since she'd seen a man that could instantly warm up her languishing libido?
 

Ah…never.
 

But here he was and she was suddenly moist. She was pretty sure her nipples were showing
now
.
 

"Are you all right?" His expression did reflect concern as he started to put his own plate on the table's edge. "You look flushed."
 

I do? Yikes!
Cecelia cleared her throat and motioned at his plate. "Oh…no I'm fine. I just…I've never been to a function like this."
 

"Oh…" he retrieved his plate. "Then consider yourself lucky. I've been to six of them this year. Not always advertising awards, but functions." He nodded past her to the old pickle. "And no matter how many I attend or where, there's always a Mrs. De Prune."
 

"Well…I'm glad you knew who she was. You saved me from more scrutiny." She was very aware her breasts were out and about and turning just as red.
 

"Actually," he smiled. Oh that smile! "My date told me who she was. Otherwise I wouldn't have known myself."
 

Date?
 

Cecelia sighed as her libido deflated. But nothing was going to take away that warmth. Not for a while. She could still have her fantasy, right?
 

He checked his wrist and Cecelia saw the gold Rolex. "Oh…I am sorry. But I'm supposed to check on something. If you'll excuse me?" He winked at her and walked away to disappear into the crowd.
 

Before Cecelia could gather her wits, Deb appeared in front of her, her own plate piled high with boiled shrimp. "Who the hell was that? Man he was checking you out wasn't he?"
 

Cecelia shrugged and eyed the shrimpy toast before she moved to the cheese with a sigh full of missed opportunities. "I have no idea. And he's here with a date."

CHAPTER FOUR

Thomas did not want leave this brunette beauty. And if he wasn't working, he'd have texted Giselle to find her own ride.
 

Wow.
 

He'd spotted her when she walked in—who didn't? Not with that dress on. Nothing was left to the imagination in it, and she knew how to wear it. He assumed she was a model and toyed with the idea of maybe hooking up with her later—after he'd finished the job.
 

Before he left Atlanta.
 

So, after leaving Giselle with her friends, he followed the bombshell to the food and maneuvered himself a place just in front of her. The opportunity to intervene with the old biddy was perfect and he was able to talk to the knock out. From her mannerisms and the way she held herself when he was up close—once he could tear his gaze away from her physique—Thomas knew she wasn't a model.