“Sure.” Chase dipped his chin with a nod.
Unlike the legally concealed pistol he never left home without, the other man wore his loud and proud, right there on his hip. Given the shelter’s policy of no weapons, only two possibilities seemed plausible…
Either the guy was, in fact, the new day guard Nat had previously informed him about or he was here with nefarious intent.
Since the shirt he wore possessed the shelter’s logo—and the two women who’d just walked behind the man didn’t so much as flinch—Chase deduced the armed dude was most likely the former. Even so, he kept the deadly weapon in mind while purposely keeping his movements slow and careful.
Raising his left palm up—and keeping that hand right where Maybe Hank could see it—Chase made a wide, slow swing with his other as he reached in his back pocket for his wallet. Once the folded leather contraption was free, he opened its flaps and pulled out his driver’s license and business card.
“See?” He held them out for Maybe Hank to check. “I’m with Eagle’s Nest Securities. And if you still need more in the way of confirmation, you can check with Sloane. I have no doubt she’ll vouch for me.”
A deep grunt preceded Chase being handed back his things. It wasn’t until after he’d returned the ID and card to his wallet that the wall of muscle finally relaxed.
“Hank Farmer.” He held out a large, meaty hand.
“Good to meet you, Hank.” Chase shook the guy’s hand.
“Sorry about that.” The man’s deep voice rumbled. “You never can be too careful. Especially with the kinds of assholes these women have had to deal with.”
“No apology necessary. It’s good to know they have someone like you watching out for them.”
Hank released Chase’s hand, letting both of his fall loosely at his sides. “You helping with the auction, or are you here on official business?”
“Auction.” He grinned. “I’m looking for Sloane. Have you seen her?”
“Kitchen, I think. At least, that’s where she was a couple of minutes ago.”
“Great. Thanks.” Chase took a step forward, unsurprised, when Hank shifted his massive form out of the way so he could pass.
The hallway opened up to a spacious lobby designed with the women who came through its doors in mind. Light gray walls. Soft pinks, peaches, blues, and greens. Furniture that looked warm and inviting had been arranged around the large space, offering several places for the residents to relax and converse.
A few indoor trees had been placed throughout. One in each of the two corners near the building’s front windows, and two near the building’s central elevators to Chase’s left. Simple yet classy flower arrangements adorned the accent tables scattered throughout, and several pieces of tasteful artwork hung from the walls.
Even the reception desk was more welcoming than most he’d seen. The way it curved into a slight S shape offered those who approached a clear view of the friendly faces greeting them from the other side.
The modern-yet-comfy space was a bustle of activity with women moving this way and that. Their steps were quick and purposeful, some looking his way as they moved.
No, scratch that. Every woman who spotted him looked his way. Each possessed the same sort of haunted, guarded gaze that twisted Chase’s gut into knots.
He’d expect them to be cautious around a man they didn’t know. Especially when, other than those hired to protect them, men were not allowed inside the shelter. Good for them.
And lucky for you, Hank just gave the women a wave and a nod to let them know you aren’t a threat.
Having caught the other man’s supportive gesture from the corner of his eye, Chase turned his head, giving Hank a wave of his own. He needed to let the guy know he both saw and appreciated his help. Because, again, the sense of safety these women desperately needed at this juncture in their lives—in this, ofallplaces—was of the utmost importance.
A sense of familiarity struck as Chase continued through the lobby, and before conscious thought struck, his legs were carrying him to the set of doors ten feet back and to the left of the elevators.
Bingo.
He’d been in the shelter’s kitchen one other time. It was a case involving a woman who came to his firm looking for protection. Her husband, the bastard, was an abusive prick with lots of rich asshole friends. And as it went with so many aspects in life, money talked.
The son of a bitch had all kinds of snakes slithering around in his pockets. Cops. Lawyers. Judges. In the end, Chase and his team were able to obtain enough evidence to help put the dickhead away.
In the interim, however, his wife had stayed here. At Liberty House. And that first night…
I walked into this very kitchen—with permission from the lady in charge—and made the battered woman a cup of hot tea.
He opened the door on the right and immediately became enveloped in an array of delicious-smelling aromas. Sweet. Savory. A touch of spice, if his nose wasn’t mistaken.