by Sue Wilder
He had a small notebook open on his knee, where he made notations.
“Do you know who set the fire?”
The abrupt shift surprised me, but I’d expected it, too. From other interviews, I knew there were two kinds of questions—those probing for information, and those probing for a reaction, and I crossed one leg over the other, grateful that my tennis shoe wouldn’t fall from my heel if I curled my toes.
“I know nothing about the fire, other than what I learned from news reports and talking with my mother, my sister, and my agent.”
“You haven’t talked to any friends about it?”
“No.” I picked up the coffee and sipped. “The studio revoked my security pass, and I’ve avoided co-workers for the obvious reasons.”
“But after using that motorhome for months,” Wentz persisted. “You never even speculated?”
“Speculation isn’t knowledge.”
“It’s natural to come up with scenarios.”
My lips felt dry. Detective Wentz was after something specific. He wanted to know who I talked to, who I speculated about. Perhaps he thought I was trying to get my story straight or establish an alibi. The idea shouldn’t shock me. Shirl suggested it, that I had motive. The book I’d written proved I was capable of revenge, and who knew what Brand and his associates told Wentz to cover their own problems.
But another question bothered me more.
How had Wentz tracked me down?
The connection to Newport was obvious. The family property wasn’t a secret, but finding me at the Fisherman’s Memorial?
A place I hadn’t even realized I would be until fifteen minutes before I arrived?
Alarm made my hand unsteady. I set the coffee aside and rubbed my palm against the chair arm, too startled to react when the front door opened and Garrett walked in. He was dressed in his usual tee and jeans, revealing the hard flex of muscle beneath black cotton. His mouth was tight, and I recognized the anger. But beneath anger, his concern brought an ache to my throat.
He crossed to my chair in three strides. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” It was a lie. Whenever Garrett was close, I wasn’t alright. “How did you know to come?”
“Tad was worried.” He turned to the two detectives, who were both standing. “Garrett Kincade. I’m handling Ms. St. Clair’s security.”
He didn’t bother shaking hands, just pulled his wallet from a back pocket and offered a white business card to Wentz. Smooth, intimidating—using a damn business card.
The detective’s expression remained stoic. “You own Ibiza?”
“I do, although I stepped back a few months ago.”
“I thought Ibiza handled private contractors and corporate security.” That made me draw in an unsteady breath. “Local seems beneath your expertise.”
“Ms. St. Clair is an old friend,” Garrett answered as if that should be enough. “We’ve been doing a threat assessment.”
Wentz stared, alarming me. As territorial as the detective was, he should have been hostile. But he held a grudging respect for the Ibiza name, and he knew Garrett Kincade by reputation alone.
Which meant I’d severely underestimated Maxton Wells and his ability to be devious.
And I’d forgotten how Connor Lange was this mogul billionaire who could get anything he wanted, at any professional level he wanted.
They’d let me think G. Kincade owned a bar, and I’d trusted Garrett because I thought he was that eighteen-year-old jerk I once knew. A man who flashed me in the shower, then slept, vulnerable and obedient, sprawled across the bed as if he always slept alone. We’d be equals, his quarterback to my cheerleader, and I could hold my own against him.
But we were not equal. Not when Garrett’s name was enough to intimidate Wentz. In the last five minutes, our power dynamic flipped, and I hated the way he took charge, talking to Wentz as if I wasn’t in the room.
Everything about this situation infuriated me, from the first ambush, the silent intimidation, the innuendo Wentz put in his questions. Then Garrett walks in and it’s a boy’s club where I’m not allowed.
I was tired of the manipulation. Of being blindsided by Garrett, if I was honest, and I stood, crossed my arms and stared.
“There’s just one problem,” I said when the conversation paused. Maybe they noticed my rebellious expression and wondered why.
Garrett glanced at me. “Which is?”
“You aren’t doing anything for me.”
“Yes, I am.”
His amusement set me off. My chin lifted.
“Did you give me the fake ID when I asked?” I glared at Wentz in case he found something incriminating in my request. “That’s all I asked for, because I’m trying to hide from this freak who’s after me. But he said I was too famous to fake it.”
“And you can’t stop taking all those selfies,” Garrett pointed out.
“I was being polite.”
“Reckless,” he countered. “But fortunate, in this case.”
Garrett’s attention rocked back to the detectives. “On the day before the fire, she was down at the old harbor, posing with kids. Check social media. The time and date stamps will be in the metadata, and the rest of the time she was with me.”
“Because you chased me down like a crazy person.”
Garrett arched me a look. “Running is on you, cupcake. I was just there to help.”
I felt dizzy and wondered if it was the caffeine, kicking in. Or if it was just Garrett.
“Will you stop?” Frustration made me edgy. “You’re misrepresenting everything that happened.”
Which he apparently didn’t give a damn about because he looked back at Wentz and said, “I spent the night with her.”
I barked out a laugh. “Flat on the floor after you fell and hurt your back.”
“Old injury. Gave out on me.”
“You dropped like a rock.” I snapped my fingers, then whipped around to glare at Wentz. “He looked like a dead fish.”
“Point being,” Garrett said smoothly, “I have two witnesses who saw her here. Angie Taylor and Maggie Jackson. Probably the neighbor, Marsh. In the morning, she went for groceries. Store security tapes and her debit card will have a record. Our cells pinged off the same towers, and I know you already pulled the GPS tracking from her car, or had the rental company do it, so you know exactly where she was during the period in question.”
“Wait—” I pressed two fingers hard between my eyes. “What GPS tracking?”
“GPS is standard with the roadside assistance in that car,” Garrett said. “And rental companies always know where their vehicles are.”
The idea of GPS was sharply alarming, and my attention narrowed in on Detective Wentz. “You used the tech in the rental car to find me?”
“We asked the rental company.” Wentz shrugged. “They cooperated.”
“I’m a suspect?”
“You were someone they wanted off their list,” Garrett soothed. “And where are my shoes?”
My anger flared. “Now? You ask about your damn shoes when I’m asking about GPS?”
Garrett rolled his shoulders, enjoying my meltdown while he glanced at both detectives—who watched with an amusement I found entirely unprofessional. “She hid them, thinking I wouldn’t leave.”
“Because everyone said you needed to rest!” I drew in a breath. Being blindsided by Garrett and Detective Wentz disrupted any ability I had left to cope. “Fine. Just… damn fine, I’ll get your damn shoes and in case I didn’t make it clear, you are not my damn security.”
I overplayed the drama but couldn’t stop the storm as I dug through the hall closet, tossing items around and not caring how it looked. By the time I found Garrett’s shoes, the best I could do was drop them at his feet before retreating with my arms crossed.
Garrett stared.
“What?” I demanded.
“Where are the shoelaces?”
“Gone. But the shoes are in better shape than
my damn bunny slippers.”
“Bunny slippers?” Reyes let the question slip and then cleared his throat when Wentz frowned.
Garrett bent down to collect the shoes and set them aside. Detective Reyes had retaken his seat, and I noticed his phone sitting on the table beside his coffee. I wondered if he’d been recording my tirade. Wentz was also sitting with his notebook out. He made a quick notation, then looked up.
“What did you do after Mr. Kincade left, Ms. St. Clair?”
I hesitated. Personal security was important in ways I found difficult to explain. I was used to public scrutiny. The paparazzi were a constant, and when career events required my presence, I dealt with the exposure. I even wrote about my affairs, embraced public scandal as part of the Soleil St. Clair persona.
But I never imagined someone could use secret means to track me, or that I’d be questioned about where I drove and what I was doing. Thinking. My private failings were no longer mine. Not even the smallest secret was solely mine, and my breath tangled in my throat.
Everything I’d done—changing phones, using a rental—had been to protect myself. Protect others. But Wentz saw my actions through a different lens, using GPS to pinpoint my location so he could ambush me.
I felt trapped and skittish, wondering how far I would get—or how guilty I would look—if I just walked out the door. Got in my car and drove.
I reached for my cell. “I need to call my attorney. This… doesn’t feel right.”
“You’re safe.” Garrett closed his fingers gently around my wrists. “I’ll let you know if you need to stop.”
“Garrett…”
“Tell them what you did after I left, cupcake.” The command in Garrett’s voice centered me. I drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the woodsy scent of his skin. The comforting male warmth of his fingers.
“The house was empty when I got home. Garrett left me a note, so I put things away. Then Luna called so we could cook together. Virtually, using tablets. She was making a roast while I baked cookies. I’m sure there’s a record somewhere. Then my mother called and told me about the fire. I turned on the television. It was shocking, and I called my agent, Shirl. We talked about making a statement because I wasn’t sure about the exposure.”
“Why was that?” Wentz asked as he wrote.
“I knew critics would distort what I said, turn my concern into self-promotion. A freak is after me. I want him to think he’s won, so he won’t go after people I love. Like my parents.”
Garrett brushed the hair from my forehead. His posture changed and, gently, he directed me to the chair, waiting until I was comfortable before staring at Wentz.
“Track her movements from the moment she got fired. We did—I’ll send you the file. Save you some time.”
Wentz narrowed his eyes while my foot jerked at the idea of Garrett tracking my movements as casually as I wrote out a grocery list.
“She’s accounted for her actions, given you alibi witnesses,” Garrett continued. “There’s no way she could have been in L.A. around the time of that fire. No motive, when all the attacks, including graffiti and a parking lot assault, were directed specifically at her.”
“Which would have made her angry and wanting revenge,” Wentz countered, but without the accusation he’d used with me.
Garrett shrugged. “Let’s say you’re right. She wanted revenge. She didn’t need an arsonist when all she had to do was call her brother-in-law. Connor Lange. Look him up if you don’t already know. See how easily he could buy out the production company. Dismantle it, if she asked. Go after the director, the lead actor with defamation lawsuits. I could go on.”
“And you, Mr. Kincade?”
“Like I said, I’m helping a friend.”
“The degree of this help?” Wentz asked, pushing his shoulders back, territorial again.
“I have someone in L.A.” Garrett’s tone dared the detective to challenge him. “He’s looking into the parking lot attack. The hit was professional, a kidney shot from behind. I train my teams on how to protect against the tactic—and it’s easy to recognize on that security tape. I’m surprised you missed it.”
Wentz tightened the muscles in his jaw. “The case is still open.”
“Then you appreciate why she’s here and why she needs a security detail. Whoever this person is, he’s escalating. If that fire was deliberate, it’s more likely Ms. St. Clair is the continued target.”
“Any idea about who that person is?”
“Top of your list should be obvious. Then buy her book and add all the names.”
“Garrett…” I drew in an uneven breath. “You know I changed the names.”
“Wentz can figure them out. All of Hollywood did.”
My eyes were as scratchy as my throat. I ached with the need to lean on Garrett’s strength, but this felt too much like all the failed relationships I’d ever had with men, based on power and expectations.
I refused to fall back into old patterns because a moment felt too hard, or because what a man offered felt too easy. If I was ever going to change, to be the new Soleil—like there was this ending person I would become—then I had to handle life by myself. Not turn to men for my answers. My selfish insecurities.
“Do I need to call my attorney?” I asked Wentz.
The detective studied my face, then glanced down at his notes. Rose to his feet and signaled to Reyes. “I think we have what we came for, Ms. St. Clair. But we’ll be in touch, if anything changes.”
I listened to the sounds as Garrett escorted the detectives to the door. “You want out of here?” he asked when he returned. “Get out on the water, let the ocean take you?”
Ah, God. How did he know?
That was the right thing to say. No platitudes. No false reassurances. Only an offer of freedom impossible to turn down.
I held out my hand. “What do I need?”
He gripped my fingers. “A hoodie, if you have one. I’ve covered the rest.”
CHAPTER NINE
Garrett
Trouble paused beside the illuminated mooring post. We’d arrived at the private marina where I kept the boat when I wasn’t at the bar, and she stared. “This is yours?”
“All sixty feet of her,” I agreed, smiling when she blushed.
“I sounded rude.”
“You sounded fine.”
I settled my hand against her back, urging her forward. After Wentz blindsided her, she didn’t trust her rental, so I’d driven my black BMW. It still bothered me, the uneasiness in her expresion when I’d walked in. I realized she’d been talking to Wentz, and my first thought was that Tad had been right. I needed to protect her, and the relief in her eyes when she looked up affected me more than I could explain.
But Wentz concerned me with his tactics. He had no jurisdiction in Oregon. They’d already brushed off her assault, called it random street crime. And according to the reports Wade sent, the suspect list for that fire was long.
Trouble was high profile, a gorgeous woman by any measure, but the detective still used GPS to set up an ambush instead of asking for an interview. So, I deliberately stepped on Wentz’s toes. Pointed out what he should have known and how she wasn’t on her own.
I knew she’d be furious if I told Wentz we spent the night together. But her cautious answers fueled his suspicions and I had to push her into authenticity. That moment, when she snapped her fingers and told him I’d looked like a dead fish—no one could have doubted her honesty. She’d been staggeringly beautiful, and I’d needed to breathe in, keep my focus on the detective until I escorted him to the door.
I untied the mooring ropes and opened the small tuna door in the boat railing. Trouble needed to step across the widening gap between the dock and the teakwood deck. I held out my hand. Slowly, she curled her fingers around mine, and that small sign of trust after I’d annoyed her was a gift.
When the deck rose, pushed by a gentle swell, the movement threw her off balance. My fingers tightened
automatically, and she looked up, her smile cutting me to the quick.
“When you said a boat, Garrett, I imagined one you towed behind a truck.”
I shrugged. “Big enough truck can tow anything.”
“I guess with the ocean, size is an advantage.”
“It’s safer.” The boat—the Ibiza, what else—was a private place. I’d heard it described as a display of wealth and not a love of the ocean, but it meant freedom to me, and I allowed few people to enter.
I guided trouble across the open cockpit deck—where the action was when fishing. Not that I did much sport fishing. But it was a good place to sit in the sun, and two teakwood steps up and a sliding door put us into the salon.
When she drew in an awed breath, it pleased me. I’d designed the galley kitchen with zero-degree refrigerated drawers, a sink, cooktop, marble counters and polished wood. A flat screen sat across from the cushioned seating, and bar stools edged a small eating island. Below this deck was the master cabin and guest quarters, but the salon was where I spent most of my time.
Slowly, I led her toward the other unique feature—curved interior stairs to the bridge deck, steep but necessary, since the exterior metal ladder wasn’t easy on my back. We reached the bridge deck too soon, and trouble turned in a circle. “What’s the secret for getting something this perfect?”
“Four hundred grand and one mistake.” A mistake I wouldn’t repeat. I’d handled risky situations before, but when the last one turned bad, I’d failed in trusting my instincts—and during those nights that wouldn’t end, I retreated to this boat. Remembered each choice, every explosion. Too screwed up by my decisions to sleep.
Now I wondered how I’d come full circle, to where my first mistake stood admiring the result of my last mistake. If it was luck or retribution.
My fingers fisted before I reached into a locker and pulled out two orange life vests, handing one to trouble. When she looked at it, puzzled, I efficiently slid it over her head.
