by Kim Karr
While I wait for him, I continue scanning the area for security risks. But instead, what I note is the lack of any personality to the space. Everything is white, white, white.
Sterile.
It’s a bit strange.
A few minutes pass and I decide to use my time assessing my surroundings—how many steps to the door, how many windows there are, where the two hallways might lead. Over by the windows, I estimate how many yards it is to the beach. Then there’s the foliage to the right that provides opportunity for cover. It needs to be trimmed.
My mind is in a myriad state of calculations, escape routes, and back-up plans when I hear heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
I take a deep breath and swivel toward the hallway from the expansive bank of windows I’m anchored at and prepare to meet my next assignment.
I’ve already had a really shitty day and having to babysit this hidden away little sex kitten is not what I really want to be doing with my time. However, I remind myself, it’s a means to an end. I also have a need to validate the threat against her that Cruz has presented—make sure he’s on the up and up and that he’s not on to me, to us.
Cruz enters the room and the woman who will be my detail follows slowly behind him. When she comes into view, she’s nothing like I’ve been envisioning.
Standing in front of me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s definitely not the young plaything I imagined Cruz would have tucked away.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s not old by any means. Probably not even my age—somewhere around twenty-six or twenty-seven would be my guess. Yet, for some reason, I had been envisioning a floosy-like girl in her early twenties. This woman looks more like a wife than a mistress.
Although they shouldn’t, I can’t stop my eyes from subtly sweeping over her, scoring every detail of her into my mind—skin white and smooth like fine china, hair toffee-colored and bouncy, hanging past her shoulders, a body that is very fit, and clothing which is polished and sophisticated looking.
I can’t shake the oddest feeling of déjà vu. I know this woman. I try my hardest to place where I’ve seen her. Is she an actress hired to fill a role? No, I don’t watch enough television that I’d recognize someone like that.
A person who worked in his office building, perhaps? No, I worked security there for two months though, and I’d remember her.
I rack my brain, mentally sifting through cases to remember where I might have seen her before, hoping it wasn’t in an agent capacity.
My mind begins to catalog my past encounters, where we might have met, when we met, how we met.
Did I arrest her?
Interrogate her?
Fuck her?
No.
No.
And no, I’d definitely remember that.
Then she removes her oversized sunglasses and the world falls from beneath my feet the moment my gaze lands on those big brown eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I do know this woman.
She saved my fucking life. I hope she doesn’t remember because one against six doesn’t account for good odds.
I’m a fucking dead man.
As soon as she averts her gaze, a look of terror seems to wash over her, and I know she remembers. Yet, she says nothing.
Either this woman is afraid of me or I’m wrong and she doesn’t remember me at all. In fact, she’s so collected, I feel like a pussy that’s pissing his own pants. Other than her jaw dropping, she remains calm, cool, and composed. Still, she refuses to look directly at me.
I don’t have this problem and keep my eyes trained on her, waiting for the bomb to drop.
Nothing.
Cruz’s voice booms, and without looking at her, he says, “Gemma Heart, this is Caleb Holt. He will be accompanying you anytime you need to leave here. No exceptions.”
Getting ready to extend my hand, I walk toward the center of the room and so do the two of them. The intention is to meet in the middle. Neutral ground or a standoff, I don’t have a fucking clue. It could be my death march for all I know.
She takes her time, walking slower than him, almost behind Cruz. It occurs to me she’s shielding herself.
What the fuck is she worried about? I’m the one whose cover is about to be blown.
Once she meets up with me, her gaze finally lands on mine and our eyes meet for what we both know isn’t the first time.
Recognition flashes in her pupils.
I know she remembers me and sweat coats my brow.
Shit, is she going to blow me in? Am I burned before I even get started on this job? If so, I might need a body bag to get out of here.
“Gemma,” Cruz warns, his tone harsh.
She bristles but quickly recovers. I notice a blankness cross her face as she lifts her hand. It’s a mask. “Nice to meet you,” she politely says to me. She doesn’t call me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m in the clear.
“Gemma.” I dip my chin, shaking her hand, getting into the role as her security detail, her bodyguard.
“You’ll refer to her as Miss Heart,” Cruz scolds me.
“My apologies. Miss Heart,” I correct myself.
Smith clears his throat from behind me. “Sir, we should be heading to the airport. The plane is fueled and waiting.”
I take note of Cruz’s upcoming trip. My team has no information on his plans to leave the area. Somehow, we missed that. I missed that. I knew I shouldn’t have gone away for five days.
“Yes, now that this business is settled, I’m ready,” Cruz responds. He gives me a nod, and once I nod back, he vacates the condominium without another word, not a goodbye to his mistress, not a kiss on her lips, not even a glance her way. I’m left stupefied by the interaction, or lack thereof.
Not that I understand relationships, but I know enough to realize they don’t work like that, illicit or not.
Once the door closes behind him, she moves toward the kitchen, and I watch her.
Curious about so many things, I’m drawn to this woman—to the complexities that seem to be playing out before me.
She knows me but doesn’t acknowledge that she does.
Cruz seems distant and cold.
She seems indifferent.
Yet, he’s hiring someone, me, to keep her safe. Again, I begin to wonder if this is a set-up. If my team didn’t know about a mistress because there never was one.
Is she a fake, and does Cruz know about everything?
There’s only way to figure it out. I decide to straight up ask her if this is a set-up and then gauge her reaction. After all, if it is true, my best chances of survival will be getting the hell out of here before the six-man team storms in, even if it means crashing through the big, glass window six floors up.
I open my mouth to toss the question out there, but when I find her staring at me with big, worried eyes, I shut the hell up.
She’s not going to blow me in—I can see the terror in her pupils.
Putting our previous meeting on the table might not be the best move right now. I’ll keep it tucked away in my pocket until I figure out her angle.
Gemma smoothes her tight skirt and then grabs a black clutch off the counter. “I’m ready to leave,” she dictates and heads for the door.
Blinking, I realize she’s going to be giving me orders, and I’m not at all liking it.
The keys are on the table and she grabs them. Like a dumbass, I remain standing where I am. When I don’t move, she glares at me. “Are you coming or staying here? Either way, I don’t really care.”
Okay, we’re going to play it that way, are we? “Miss Heart, you know you can’t leave here without me,” I answer dryly, a little more than peeved at her arrogance.
“What I know is that I am going to Santa Monica,” she informs me and walks out the door, leaving it open.
In a blast, I rush across the room, but the wind slams the door shut in my face. Fuck! After jerking it open, I hightail after her, making sur
e to lock the door behind me.
Gemma doesn’t stop at the elevator, opting for the staircase instead. She moves swiftly and opens the door at the bottom, once again letting it slam in my face.
That’s enough of that.
Running, I catch up with her and gently take ahold of her arm. When I do, a strange feeling runs through me. I don’t like it.
She stops, glares up at me, and is quiet for a few moments before yanking her arm away and seething, “Don’t touch me.”
Remembering right now I’m not an agent of the law, I have to pull myself into my role. I tighten my lips because Caleb Holt, the man, would tell this lady what a bitch she is being. Sucking in a breath, I remind myself that I work for her. Eye on the prize. “Please give me the keys, Miss Heart.”
Glancing down, she looks at the keys in her hand. “Call me Gemma, and I’ll be driving.”
I stifle a sigh of exasperation. “No you won’t, Miss Heart. I will.”
Her eyes go wide and she stares at me in disbelief. “I don’t want you to call me that.”
Ignoring her, I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
With a huff, she drops them in my palm. I grin and toss them in the air in victory. Childish, I know.
Rolling her eyes, she turns on her heels, stomping out of the garage with me on her tail.
“Which garage is yours?”
“I’m parked next door,” she informs me matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
She turns to look at me. “Not that you’re here for me to answer to, but someone was parked in front of my garage yesterday, so I parked elsewhere and forgot to move it back.”
Looking around at the wide-open space, I can’t help but wonder why. Even if what she is saying is the truth, there are a number of other spots here to park in.
She’s lying. I have no doubt.
The question is, why?
Why lie?
Why park next door?
Something is off.
Keeping it in the back of my mind, I follow her to the neighboring complex—a much busier one than hers.
She comes to a stop at a white Range Rover Sport and crosses her arms, waiting. Ignoring her behavior, I click the unlock button on the key fob. Without waiting for me to open her door, she climbs in the back seat of the passenger side.
I’m not sure what the attitude is for, but she better lose it quickly because it’s fucking annoying.
I hop in behind the wheel and program the address Cruz handed me into the Rover’s GPS system. Once I’m done, I turn to ask where exactly we’re going but I shut up because her eyes are closed. She did look tired, more than tired, actually, and I decide to let her rest.
Twisting back around, I follow the directions being cited to me. As I drive, I steal a glance at her in the mirror every once in a while. Her eyes remain closed and so does my mouth.
With each passing sign signaling, “Santa Monica,” I can’t help but wonder what exactly her deal is.
Who is she?
If she’s with him, why didn’t she blow me in all those years ago?
Why does he treat her like she’s his possession?
What she’s doing with him?
And most of all . . . what she’s doing to me?
Chapter 12
I Don’t Know Why
Gemma
THE ROAD AHEAD seems to be tilting, or maybe it’s just my mind.
As I try to pull my thoughts together, I can see him watching me, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I know he’s wondering where we’ve met, and I hold my breath hoping he doesn’t remember. That the lighter hair will be enough to camouflage who I am.
My gaze drops and I’m staring at his hands, the way they’re clenched around the steering wheel, the bruises on his knuckles, the roughness of his skin.
A flush washes through my body and it feels an awful lot like desire. I can’t want him.
I just can’t.
Wishing I could erase him from my life, I close my eyes once again and slide further down in the seat. Maybe it will make me disappear, make him disappear, but I know it won’t. Nothing will.
Images of him from that night appear unwanted. The dark knight with a dark mission who never resurfaced. I always wondered who he was and what he was doing there.
Still, I didn’t expect for him to be standing in my living room.
Hell, I never expected to see him again.
I try to mentally slow down my racing pulse when I force myself to try to forget the man from a night so very long ago it seems more than a lifetime has passed.
What he looked like then.
What he looks like now.
The same, yet different. Tall, angular, lean muscled, extremely sexy.
It takes me a few minutes to put the two of them together. His height is the same—a couple inches over six feet. Yet, this man is lean, leaner than before. So much so I can see the veins and tendons that run under his skin. Still, that could be a result of weight loss and brawn.
In addition, his hair has grown in and it’s perfectly disheveled in a way that says he just doesn’t give a fuck.
In his V-neck black tee, black jeans, and high-tops, he looks like a completely different man from that night, and the very same, too.
All of a sudden, I can feel the blood rush to my head, and I have to allow myself to breathe.
Taking slow breaths, in and out, images of the past collide with the present and I know I’m in trouble. Big trouble. That I’m not wrong about who he is. The man sitting in the front seat of my SUV is the same man who scaled the cliff at Enrique’s almost four years ago in order to escape. Escape from what I still don’t know.
But he knows. And he knows I didn’t alert Enrique’s team as to where he was, as well. If that information is shared, it will most definitely put an end to my plan and possibly even to me.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to remember me. I can tell he has a hint of recollection though, and I hope that if I’m a big enough bitch, he won’t have time to put the pieces together.
What is he doing here?
What’s his game?
And how did he get on Enrique’s security team?
Should it concern me that someone who once fled from Enrique has worked his way up the ranks and now has the job of looking out for me?
Yes, it should.
Enrique’s security is topnotch, so he would have had to pass the multiple background checks.
Was he there that night as a diversion? A reason to cancel the event, perhaps? A hoax?
If so, does Enrique knows I saw him and didn’t tell him? I shake the thought off. There’s no way because if he did, I wouldn’t have ever been allowed to be a part of his life, regardless of how small a part it is.
Whirlwinds of questions pass through my mind.
Why have I never forgotten this man when it’s obvious he never thought twice about me? He knew how to find me, after all. I knew nothing about him. Because of this, I should have banished him from my thoughts long ago. However, since I never did, now I must.
Most certainly those emerald green eyes will haunt me forever. However, if I just don’t look at him, I can pretend he’s like everyone else who surrounds me—a nameless face and a faceless name.
Opening my eyes, I avoid his fierce gaze and glance out the window. I’ll pretend I don’t recognize him—that I don’t know the hired help.
How hard can it be? It’s true.
Chewing my lip, I watch the swells of the rolling blue waves in the Pacific as I try to figure out what to do if he does remember. What to say? How to handle it? Where to run?
Time seems to be passing so slowly with no answers. I’m surprised when I look up and see a sign that reads “Santa Monica Pier.”
Those words are a trigger and the memories of a better time come in a tumble.
They are too dear to push away and I allow myself to get lost in them. Lost in a time when I had my family. In a time when life was normal. When I was normal. I
n a time when my parents would take my brother and I to the pier to play the carnival games, ride the carousel, the Ferris wheel, and of course, the roller coaster.
Almost immediately, I blink them away—the memories of how my life used to be are too painful.
Before I’ve had a chance to figure out what to do about Caleb Holt, or even to refocus on him, the car comes to a stop.
I look out the window.
We’re on a small side street that is only a hop and a skip from the beautifully hand-painted horses just outside the pier entrance.
I’m slightly confused.
The building is old and run-down. It’s definitely not the gallery I thought I’d be arriving at. I clear my throat. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
Caleb picks up a piece of paper and compares the address to that in front of us. “This is the location Mr. Cruz gave me, unless he jotted it down wrong.”
His eyes seem to be assessing everything about the seedy surroundings.
I grab my purse and then open the car door. “No, Enrique would never make a mistake like that.”
“Close the door,” Caleb orders.
And I do, with myself on the other side of it. Before my feet even take one full step on the pavement, Caleb is standing in front of me with a very disgruntled look on his face. Regardless of his current mood, his close proximity causes my stomach to flutter in a way I don’t want to think about. “What is your problem?” I ask, my voice way too hoarse for the question and his body way too close for an answer.
He dips his chin down. “I told you to close the door.”
“And I did.” A thousand baby butterflies are fluttering in my chest.
He narrows his stare. “You know very well that’s not what I meant. Where do you think you’re going, anyway?”
Gulping, I avert my gaze and point to the partially lit sign across the street that reads, “Art Capital,” and tell him, “Inside to take care of my business.”
He’s shaking his head. “No way are you going in there. It’s a pawnshop.”
“You’re very observant, Mr. Holt. Now, please, move out of my way.”
Like a boulder, he doesn’t move. “What business could you possibly have in there?”
“I don’t see how that is any concern of yours.” This time, I bulldoze my way past him, knowing I don’t have to answer to him.
