by Sue Wilder
“And if he already knows?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Max leaned back and set his drink aside. “Man, I’m gonna love watching you handle Slate. Should be entertaining.”
Twelve minutes passed before Ethan ushered Brandon Slate into my office. I’d arranged the extra chair beside Max’s hulking bulk, for both the intimidation and the entertainment, and Max smirked while I returned to the desk.
“Mr. Slate.” I sat down and looked up at the man. “Whiskey not to your liking?”
“I liked the whiskey. Didn’t like the wait.”
“Should have called ahead.” I took time to study trouble’s choice in men, and wondered what she saw in him. He was physically fit, with a genuine tan. The dark stubble on his jawline was rugged and trendy, and his confidence oozed box-office appeal.
Even if he behaved badly, he’d get away with it, but the fake was there, in his appearance. In the way his expensive leather bomber jacket didn’t match the wrinkled white tee and the ripped jeans, the canvas dude shoes. As if he aimed for a laid-back California style, too wealthy and fabulous to care, and fell short in both categories.
With a motion of my hand, I pointed him to the wooden captain’s chair. The legs squeaked when he sat down, thanks to a loosened screw Ethan hadn’t fixed yet, and I stared at Slate in a silent game of chicken until he slouched back, folded both hands against his stomach and widened his knees to display his crotch.
The pose probably worked with some people. Beside him, Max snorted and picked up his whiskey.
“I’m here about my wife,” Brand said.
“Your ex-wife,” I corrected.
“She is what she is.”
I let it go and waited while he glanced around, noting his amusement over the photo of Oz’s trawler on the wall.
“Detective Wentz said your company was providing security, so I looked you up, Kincade. Saw that nice, glossy presentation on the website. Didn’t expect to find you owning a bar, though.”
“Nothing wrong with owning a bar.”
“Maybe.” Slate tipped his head to the side, calculating. “I guess you and my wife are old friends, go way back. Considering who you are, I should be grateful.”
“That’s why you were waiting in my bar—because you’re grateful?”
“I’m worried about Soleil.”
“We all are.”
“When I heard about her house, the graffiti, I went to see her mother. I tried to offer support. But she wouldn’t tell me where Soleil was.”
“Because you’re harassing her,” I observed. “Tying your ex-wife up in court for over a year, even though the divorce is final.”
“I see she’s confided.” His smile held aggression. “Soleil is passionate and driven. Sexy and powerful. And if I’m tying her up in court, it’s because I’ve been trying to reconcile since she walked out.”
“You think you can reconcile after a nine-month marriage that ended almost two years ago?”
“If I’d handled things differently, she might not have left.”
“You threw your lovers in her face,” I said dryly. “Not sure how you’d handle that differently.”
“She wrote a book, so I guess we all make mistakes.”
I stared, bored with his recitation of the facts. “Your point?”
“I want to talk to her, and I’m asking first so there’s no misunderstanding.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” And there was no way I was letting Brandon Slate anywhere near trouble. “She’s made that clear through her attorney.”
“And you can’t stop me from talking to her.”
“So you can tell her what?”
“I’m not the one threatening her, but I have information she might find interesting.”
Casually, I twisted the whiskey glass before flipping open the file, pushing the photo of Billy-Joe Hicks across the desk to test his reaction. See if his tells were as obvious as trouble’s flicking foot.
He didn’t disappoint, pushing one hand through his hair to make sure every strand was in place. “Billy-Joe can be hot-headed,” he said.
“Tell me what I don’t know.” I wanted him to talk. Better he revealed what information he had so I could act upon it.
“He worked on the Kingdoms set. Took care of the stunts. He’s probably good for that fire.”
“Nice guess,” I agreed, “considering the pyrotechnic device he left behind. We tied the fragments to similar devices used at the last rock concert he worked. I’d call that sloppy.”
Slate shifted his position, and I glanced at Max; the crinkles around his eyes told me he was enjoying the show.
“He might have hit her in that parking lot.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I know she got hit by someone.” When Slate crossed his arms, the leather jacket tightened around his biceps. “Wentz dropped it like a bomb. Thought I’d have information—which I didn’t.”
“So, you’re speculating about the parking lot.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
I’d been tracing one finger around the rim of my whiskey glass, getting on Slate’s nerves with the movement, and now I tapped once.
“I’ll give you my perspective, Mr. Slate. Hicks is out for revenge, going after her to get to you, since you tossed him aside when you got married. Or you’re the one, using him to scare her, because you’re still angry about being exposed. Either way, when it comes to who’s threatening her, you’re at the top of my list.”
I let the accusation sink in. “Did Detective Wentz mention Soleil’s recent car accident?”
“No.” The expected answer, since I knew Wentz couldn’t have mentioned it. I hadn’t told him, and Ty said the sheriff’s department wouldn’t share the information without a formal request.
“The driver used a pit maneuver,” I continued. “Clipped her car from behind, in the rain, at dusk and on a curving road. How many people do you know, Slate? With driving skills like that? Other than you—and a jilted lover with revenge fantasies against your ex?”
I was goading him. Even though trouble couldn’t place Billy-Joe at the wheel, didn’t mean there weren’t other people Brandon Slate knew who could do the same thing. I was dropping the bomb the way Wentz did, to see what information Slate had. Measure the extent of his involvement.
“Billy-Joe runs with a rough crowd,” Slate said, pushing at his hair again. “All that bad behavior is part of his appeal. People lie and say they don’t love it.”
“But you love it?”
“Fuck what I love.” The aggression he’d been holding back erupted. “It’s Soleil I’m worried about. She shouldn’t be anywhere near you when BJ finds out who you really are.”
He rocked forward, his gaze mocking, while his laugh had my gut tightening.
“Oh, now this is really funny—you didn’t think I’d find out, did you? Thought I’d just slink away into the sunset after you got my ass canned from that movie with all the… derring-do.” He spread his fingers, and the rapid jazz-hand movement he made looked idiotic. “Was all that heroic shit really about you?”
So much for advantages and my connection to Brandon Slate. When trouble talked about how she hated having her life distorted through a movie script, I understood what she meant. A film was currently in production, based on my last mission. I’d learned about it when the producer called for technical advice—it was my screw-up, after all—and since then I’d tried to stop the production.
But I hadn’t written the book. I didn’t own the film rights. They belonged to the woman we pulled out of that hellhole. The film was her story. Legally, I couldn’t touch her. The studio had millions on the line, so when I heard Brandon Slate was up for the lead role, I did the one thing I could do.
I flexed Ibiza’s muscle and got Slate thrown out on his ass.
Petty, but I couldn’t stomach having trouble’s ex glorify my failure. I should have told her when I had the chance. Now I’d hav
e to deal with the fallout.
“I wouldn’t describe what happened as derring-do,” I said, sipping whiskey and needing the burn to keep me level.
“Nah, you’re right.” The words dripped with sarcasm. “More like a cluster. That film was my ticket back—until you convinced the director I couldn’t handle the part. But after I talked to him, I talked to the woman who helped write the script. She told me how that mission was hushed-up diplomatic shit. How her father hired you to save her ass. The famous Ibiza—but you’re the one who ended up on his ass, shot in the back with two men dead at your feet. Badass rescuers, needing to be rescued.”
The desire to grip his throat had the muscles in my body tightening. I was ready to stand, come around the desk until Max caught my attention. His warning look made me breathe in hard to regain control.
“I mean, I get it,” Slate mocked; he’d grown bold with my continued silence. “Must be hard, having your failures exposed. Or maybe this is all about revenge, and you, reaching out, getting my contract cancelled—makes me wonder who you know with revenge fantasies of her own. Who’d like to see me ruined the way she was.”
Ice slid through my veins. “I didn’t have your contract cancelled because of who you are.” It had everything to do with who he was. “You didn’t look enough like me to pull it off.”
“Oh, okay, that’s good,” he shot back, “because I’d hate to think my wife had anything to do with getting me fired from that project.”
I stared coldly. “Unlike you, I don’t mix pleasure with business. And your ex-wife knows nothing about that film.”
“Well, see, that’s half the problem when it looks like she does.” A nervous tick flicked beneath Slate’s left eye. “And I’m not the only one who’s angry because you can’t stop playing the fucked-up hero. BJ lost that film gig, too. He’s a little crazy, and if he’s going after Soleil, it might be her, first, before he comes for you.”
“Billy-Joe Hicks doesn’t intimidate me.” It was a simple fact. “Should be fun. But if anything happens to Ms. St. Clair while you’re here, you won’t like the consequences. Who provides the limousines you like to ride around in? The bodyguards who keep you safe?”
“Ibiza isn’t the only company providing limousines and bodyguards.”
“But we’re the ones the investors love. Ibiza approves the contracts before the underwriters sign off on the films. Before the director can piss his pants. We go where our competitors won’t, protect the projects that make the money, and there’s a reason why a fucked-up hero like me can reach out and rip apart your contract without breaking a sweat. Because if it comes down to a choice between me—or you—I will always win. And I’d hate to see every script you’re offered turn to shit.”
Slate’s jaw tightened. “You can’t screw with my life and get away with it.”
“What I get away with would shock you. Actors like you come and go so fast I get whiplash, so make the right choice for once in your selfish life. Put your ex-wife’s safety ahead of your career.” I picked up the whiskey, rolled the burn around my tongue before I swallowed. “Find Hicks before I do and give him to Wentz.”
“Like hell if I will—”
“Just do what he says, Brand.”
At the sound of trouble’s voice, Slate swiveled around, then lunged to his feet. I stood just as quickly, turning to study her pale face.
She hovered in the doorway, looking gorgeous in a blue cotton sweater cropped at the waist, black jeans, and strappy red-heeled sandals. She’d swept her blonde hair into a messy bun. Diamond studs glittered at her ears. She was the sexiest woman I’d ever seen, strong and vital, and knowing that Slate had her and never appreciated her twisted in my gut.
“Soleil.” When Slate took a step toward her, I moved around the desk and braced a hip against the corner. I wanted him cautious and aware. To realize I’d touch him before he touched her. And I needed trouble to know I’d protect her.
But from her expression, she’d heard enough to realize the secrets I kept. When her hand trembled, the movement drew my gaze. I noticed the small blue gift bag, which she set on the credenza before staring at her ex.
“Why are you here, Brand?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“You’re only worried about yourself.” Her voice was crisp and calm, and when Slate held out his hand, she ignored it.
I found it amazing, the practiced way he turned his hand palm up, then slowly closed his fingers and dropped his arm to his side. “Solee—”
“No pet names. You don’t get to use them.”
“We should talk.”
“About getting your contract back?” Her chin lifted. “Losing that film sounds more like karma to me, but I guess if you roll in the mud, it sticks when you stand up.”
Slate blew out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t come for the damn contract. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“Soleil, give me a chance.” And I wondered how desperate Brandon Slate was, if he was willing to beg in front of me. “I screwed up everything we had, and all I want is to make it right.”
“We ended long ago.”
“You ended, I didn’t.”
Her mouth slanted in a way that made Slate’s expression tighten.
“We had something special,” he persisted. “Remember that night in Paris? You felt it. The music, the stars, the lights. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Trouble jerked her chin sideways, as if he’d hit her with words. “Too bad, because it’s gone from my mine. And no matter how you rationalize your actions, you’re only here because of your image.”
His jaw tightened. “You can’t judge my motives.”
“This is what you do.” Her eyes glittered. “Show up, play the hero, then throw around accusations like you’re the victim.”
“Like hell.” Brand’s hands fisted. He took another step, and I straightened in warning, held his glare.
After a moment, he regained control. Looked back at trouble.
“Kincade jerked that film from me because of you, Soleil. Payback, because you lost The Four Kingdoms, and I’m supposed to stand here and take it? Not be angry?”
“It’s not always about you, Brand.” Her voice frosted. “Garrett never told me about your film, and I did nothing about your contract. But what should worry you is the car that hit me. I saw the driver. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t Billy-Joe, but you’ve used surrogates before, and I’m sure Wentz will come to the same conclusion. My advice is to do what Garrett suggests. Find Billy-Joe and take him home.”
“Soleil.” Brand took another step, reaching for her hand. I was between them, my grip on his wrist punishing. But I’d never anticipated my intense need to keep him away from her.
“She asked you to leave,” I said, leaning in. “Find your friend before this situation gets worse.”
“I’ll leave,” he agreed grudgingly. “But I meant it. BJ is angry.”
“Good to know.”
I released his wrist, and with an abrupt tug, Brand straightened the sleeve on the bomber jacket. “I’d like to stay in touch.”
“Do it with me.” My voice carried the low threat. “Go to her first, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to crush you.”
Nodding, trouble’s ex glanced at Max and left without looking at her pale face. I did, though. My chest tightened. Her eyes were luminous. Wariness kept her balanced and skittish; I was wise enough not to touch her.
“I should go,” she said, her voice thready.
Unease slid down my spine. “You just got here.”
“I… brought you that.” She gestured toward the gift bag. “It’s for your back. Natural ingredients, to ease muscle pain.”
I felt like an ass with nothing to say.
“Luna and Connor are waiting.” It killed me, the way she wouldn’t make eye contact. “Dinner at Emilio’s, and we thought you’d want to come.”
“Trouble—”
“You k
now, I’m really tired. I’ll just go home.”
“Max can take you.” When she protested, I reached out and slid my hand down her arm, gently cupping her hand. “Brand is town. I’d feel better if Max drove you.”
She looked away. “This is such a mess.”
“I should have told you. Not let him blindside you like that.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them and slid her hand from my grasp. “I need to talk to him.”
My gut clenched. “We should talk first.”
“More equality, Garrett? Where you spin the explanation and I believe you?”
I dragged in a deep breath. Felt the alarm grow heavy in my chest.
“I’ll explain. But right now—” I gestured toward Max, who walked to trouble’s side. “Max is going to take you home. And Max…” We made eye contact above trouble’s head. “Make sure she has the security system turned on.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Soleil
Not even the luxurious seating in the back of Maxton’s gray Jag relaxed me. I’d been with Luna and Connor for most of the day. With my rental sidelined, Connor drove the vehicle he preferred, a dark green Range Rover, and we had dinner reservations at an exclusive restaurant called Emilio’s, north of Newport. Reservations were hard to get, but with Connor Lange’s name and Luna’s influence, we were expected, and I’d been looking forward to the evening until the confrontation in Garrett’s office.
Now, as Maxton drove me home, the silence felt like an accusation. I leaned against the window, relishing the cool glass against my heated skin. I’d disappointed Max by hiding in the hall. When I peeked around the corner, he caught me, turning his head and making silent eye contact. In his black suit, with one leg crossed over the other, he’d been intimidating, and I’d felt a rush of guilt. But beside him, Brand was posturing the way he always did, so I stood in the shadows and listened.
It made no sense, why Brand was even there, until it did, and I wasn’t sure which emotion was worse. My anger at Brand for being such an ass. Or my disappointment in Garrett, for not telling me first.
