by Kali Argent
Elena was on the heavy side by conventional standards, but she had the clearest, brightest blue eyes Phoebe had ever seen. Her long locks ended at the small of her back in tasteful waves, the tresses just a shade lighter than Phoebe’s own honey-colored curls. Her friend really was quite beautiful, and she wore her flowing, strapless dress well—even if she didn’t realize it herself. Phoebe just wished more people could see Elena the way she did.
“I look like a cow,” Elena retorted, adjusting the cinched waist of her gown again. “I guess we can’t all be adorable little pixies, though.”
Phoebe blushed at the backhanded compliment. She didn’t think of herself as pixie-like, but more than one person had used the term to describe her in recent years. The first time she’d heard it had been from a reader while at a book signing. The second had been on social media, and from there, it had spread like wildfire.
She just didn’t get it.
Although shorter than average at just five feet, no one would call her petite. Long hours of sitting on her ass while eating chocolate and drinking copious amounts of creamed coffee as she struggled to make her deadlines had seen to that. She didn’t wear makeup often, and she avoided glitter and sparkles. Her wardrobe consisted of mainly sweats, loungewear, and yoga pants—anything soft, comfortable, and easy to launder.
“Come on.” Elena curled her fingers around Phoebe’s wrist and pulled her away from the stairs. “I need a drink.”
“There’s champagne.” Phoebe pointed to a waiter with shiny dark hair dressed in a white button-down shirt with an expertly knotted black bowtie and black slacks. “He’s cute.”
Elena gave the server a cursory glance and sighed. “True, but I need a real drink.”
So, they made their way across the ballroom, decorated in rich golds and creams with splashes of green and red. Twinkling lights, evergreen garlands, wreaths of pine and holly, and lavishly decorated trees adorned every inch of the room. Tapered candles had been lit in the center of the tables, their amber light casting flickering circles over the red tablecloths and gleaming off the polished silverware.
Conversation and laughter echoed throughout the ballroom, a dull drone that buzzed just under the festive music playing from the speakers mounted on the massive floor-to-ceiling columns. A clink of glass, a chair scraping across the paisley carpet, the muffled thud of the doors as they closed behind a group of guests—it all coalesced into an enchanting symphony that filled Phoebe with joy.
She’d always loved the magic of Christmastime. To her, the season felt…hopeful. People were different, more forgiving, more generous. Families came together to reconcile their differences, and the world just seemed a little kinder.
Crossing the room, they stopped several times to speak with men donned in expensive suits and women encased in tight, shimmering dresses. Most just wanted to thank Phoebe for being there. Some questioned her about living out of her car. One man who’d indulged in one too many glasses of champagne had asked her if she’d ever resorted to prostitution while down on her luck.
Phoebe took it all in stride, but she was glad when they finally reached the gleaming white bar in the back corner. She’d never been much of a drinker, but when Elena ordered them both a Tequila Sunrise, she didn’t argue. The questions didn’t bother her, but crowds had always made her nervous. Add public speaking, and Phoebe felt drained.
Tucked into the corner by a potted evergreen, she waited in silence while the bartender—a tall, slender woman dressed in a red shirt with black suspenders—mixed their drinks with sure, agile hands. As she watched, Phoebe wondered how long the woman had been bartending. Did she have another job during the day? Maybe she was working to put herself through college. The bright smile on her pink lips said she enjoyed the work, and her easy banter with those gathered around the bar told the story of someone who had been mixing drinks for a few years at least.
Overcome by curiosity, she pushed away from the carved column and moved toward a part in the crowd surrounding the bar, intent on asking the numerous questions swirling inside her head. She made it only a few steps when she heard her name spoken in a deep, rumbling tone that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.
It had been years since she’d seen her ex-fiancé, not since the day she’d left him. She hadn’t even thought about him in more than a year, but she’d recognize his voice anywhere. Keeping her expression perfectly neutral, she fisted her hands at her sides to hide their shaking and turned to face the man who had made her life a living hell for so long.
“Hello, Tucker.”
Dressed in a charcoal-gray designer suit that hugged every hard muscle, he looked exactly the same has he had that morning in June nearly four years ago. He still styled his dark-blond hair the same as he always had—the sides and back shaved with the top slightly longer and parted to one side. His eyes were the same deep brown she remembered, and his impeccably white teeth gleamed in the lights that spiraled around the column beside them.
On the surface, he presented a smooth and polished veneer, a tempting and attractive package. Phoebe had fallen for it when they’d met, but she knew better now. She knew the snake that lurked under the flawless mask.
“How have you been?” she asked, unwilling to let him see how much his sudden presence had shaken her.
“Good, good.” He laughed richly and patted his flat stomach. “Business is good.”
Tucker had been named the sole beneficiary to a rather substantial inheritance when both of his parents had died during a boating accident in the South Pacific. In the eight years since their passing, he’d grown his wealth by investing in several lucrative ventures, but his favorite was the popular CrossFit gym he owned and coached at downtown.
“I can see that.”
She’d been referring—sarcastically—to the overpriced suit he wore, but Tucker was far too arrogant to catch the slight. Some things really never changed.
“I know, right?” He lifted his right arm and flexed his bicep, seriously testing the seams of his Armani jacket. Then, he relaxed his stance and turned a critical gaze on her. “You’ve gained weight.”
The muscles in her jaw flexed as she grinded her teeth, and she shot a furtive glance out of the corner of her eye, searching for Elena. She found her friend at the bar, both drinks sitting untouched, her attention focused on a tall, handsome man with a killer smile. She laughed and touched her hair when he spoke, her gaze soft and a little dazed.
Phoebe sighed. Clearly, she was on her own.
~ ~ ~
Milling through the patrons on the ballroom, Rayce scanned the crowd for trouble while he listened to the updates coming through his earpiece.
“Charlie Report, A1 clear.”
“Delta Report, A4 clear.”
“Echo Report, A7 clear.”
“Indigo Report,” Rayce muttered into the transmitter in his cufflink, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. “A3 clear.”
Each member of the security detail had their designation for the evening, their updates to the rest of the group identifiable by a call-sign report. The ballroom, foyer, lobby, and the hotel entrance had been divided into sections, and each member of the detail had their assignments.
If someone had told his younger self that he’d one day be dressed to the nines in a thousand-dollar suit while protecting Dallas’ elite, he’d have laughed in their face. Dominic Steele had literally saved his life that lonely, winter night three years ago, a night he still thought about often, especially around the holidays.
He’d had every intention of blowing off his former lieutenant, but some instinct had propelled him off the sofa and down the street to a dark and smoky bar on the corner. In ten minutes, and with just four words, Dominic had changed his life forever.
Come work for me.
Of course, Rayce had eagerly accepted the offer without any details or negotiations. As it turned out, the position had been more than he could have ever imagined. During the first ye
ar of working for Watchdog Security Solutions, he’d lived in a fully furnished, company-owned apartment on the upper east side with a stocked pantry, a twenty-four-hour doorman, and zero mice living in the walls.
No matter how long or hard he worked, he knew he’d never be able to repay Dominic.
“Juliet Report, potential situation in A2. Hawk, check your three.”
Rayce immediately turned to the right, his gaze drawn to a tiny woman with hair the color of pure sunshine. He recognized her as the guest speaker for the evening—the romance author—the beauty with the big hazel eyes and sweet, southern lilt. He’d had the pleasure of patting her down when she’d first entered the ballroom, and while he’d remained professional, even aloof, he’d been anything but disinterested when he’d run his hands over her luscious curves.
“Got it,” Rayce answered into his transmitter. “Moving that way now.”
The woman—Phoebe, if he remembered correctly—twisted her fingers together in jerky, agitated motions. Her eyes appeared even bigger than usual, and a suspicious sheen of moisture had gathered in the corners. The smooth, fair skin along her throat was mottled in angry patches of red, and a deep flush stained her cheeks.
It didn’t take a genius to pinpoint the source of her distress, either. Tall, imposing, with more ego than brains, the man towering over her had “douchebag” written all over him.
“Oh, come on, Phoebe. It’s one dinner.” Mr. Douchebag chuckled sardonically. “You clearly like to eat.”
“I said no, Tucker. I’m not interested in getting back together, not even for dinner.” Phoebe took a step back, but stopped when the asshole caught her by the elbow. “Let me go.”
“Aren’t you lonely? I mean, I doubt you’re getting laid if you have to resort to writing fantasies about it.”
Mr. Douchebag laughed again, this time with an edge of cruelty that slithered under Rayce’s skin. He’d known plenty of guys like him in his lifetime. Guys who thought the world owned them something. Overgrown boys who figured because they had good looks and a little money, women should fall at their feet.
His first inclination was to punch the guy right in his stupid mouth. Protocol demanded he calmly escort the man from the premises without disrupting the other guests. His gut, however, told him the situation needed a more unconventional approach.
“Phoebe,” he called as he approached the couple. “I’m sorry, but we have to go. The valet just pulled the car around.”
Sliding between Phoebe and her unwelcomed admirer, he wound his arm around her waist, taking far more pleasure in the act than the situation dictated. She stiffened beside him for just a moment, her lips parted in a comical little O. Thankfully, she was quick on the uptake, and after only a brief hesitation, she relaxed against his side and looked up at him with an adoring smile.
“I’m sorry. I was on my way when I ran into Tucker. You remember my ex-fiancé.” She turned to said ex. “Tucker, this is my boyfriend—”
“Rayce Hawkins,” he interrupted smoothly. With one arm still secured around Phoebe’s middle, he offered his hand to the gaping moron in front of him. “Your loss is my gain, I suppose.” Then to Phoebe, “We really do have to go, sugar.”
Tucker hadn’t said a word during the exchange, and he continued his silence as Rayce ushered Phoebe past him and across the ballroom to the double doors that led out into the foyer. There, he paused near the curved staircase that led down into the lobby and lifted his wrist to his mouth.
“Indigo Report, situation neutralized. Moving to A1. Need cover for A3.”
“Pike here. I’ve got your six.”
Sawyer Pike was their newest recruit to complete his Level IV Personal Protection Training. He was also the youngest member of their detail, barely more than a baby at twenty-four. Fresh out of the Marine Corps, everything about him screamed efficiency and discipline, right down to his sandy, regulation-cut locks.
The kid exhausted him.
“You’re making me leave?”
“Nah, just hiding out until your ex finds someone else to harass.”
“Ah, makes sense.” Phoebe leaned against the banister and tapped her lips with a crimson nail. “Okay, let me see if I got this. Indigo Report…that’s what you call it when you check in with the rest of your team. Not a call sign.” Her bow-shaped lips twisted into a shrewd grin. “It’s the name of the communication.”
Impressed, Rayce folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the painted-white banister opposite her. “Keep going.”
“A1 is an area. A…A…Assignment? Your assigned section?” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I’m guessing the lobby since that’s where we seem to be headed.” She didn’t look happy about this. “A3 was where we just came from, and you need someone to keep an eye out for trouble while you escort me downstairs.”
“Did you used to work security?”
She laughed, the sound musical and enchanting. “No, nothing like that. It was part of a book I wrote. Different language, different jargon, but same concept.”
“You wrote a book about a security team?”
“Something like that.”
Now, he was intrigued. “And what does that mean?”
Phoebe worried her bottom lip between her teeth for several seconds before she answered. “Mafia.”
“Ma…” Trailing off, Rayce let the information sink in before tossing his head back and laughing right from his belly. “Is that how you see me?”
“Well, you do have the same black hair and brown eyes as my hero. Same muscled build. Same scruff along your jaw.” She considered him, not like a woman looks at a man she’s attracted to, but like a specimen under a microscope. “It’s kind of eerie, actually. Like one of my characters come to life.” Suddenly, she jerked back, her cheeks flaming and stared down at her entwined fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No offense taken. I think it’s interesting.” He couldn’t even create a grocery list, let alone an entire world populated with interesting and believable characters.
Still, she didn’t seem appeased.
“Thank you for your assistance back there.” Her cheeks still held a hint of pink, and she refused to meet his gaze. “I can take it from here.”
Probably, but Rayce wasn’t ready to let her go. “I’ll walk you to the lobby to make sure he doesn’t follow.”
“Really, I don’t need a babysitter.”
Turning, Rayce held his arm out to her. “Are you always so stubborn?”
“Are you always so pushy?” she countered, ignoring his offered arm as she gathered up the skirt of her dress and swept past him. “Just…go away.”
“Might I remind you that I saved your life.”
Halfway down the stairs, Phoebe paused and jerked around to stare up at him with those big, hazel eyes. “Saved my life? The only thing you saved me from was a boring conversation.”
Rayce jogged down the carpeted stairs, coming to a stop just three steps up from her. “Liar.”
“Are you always this infuriating?”
“Not really.”
With a deep sigh, Phoebe spun around, her dress swishing behind her, and continued her descent. “So, it’s just me.”
“Yep. What can I say? I never could resist a damsel in distress.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and jabbed her index finger into the center of his chest. Her eyes blazed, tightening at the corners, and her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. It wasn’t noble or honorable, but Rayce found her even more beautiful when she was angry. At least he was smart enough to keep it to himself.
“I’m not a damsel, and I damn sure wasn’t in distress. So, you’re just going to have to find someone else to save to feed that hero-complex you’re working. Rayce—it is Rayce, right?” Once again, she didn’t wait for an answer. It seemed to be a peculiar habit of hers. “Rayce, just go back upstairs. I’m going home, so I’m pretty sure no one else is going to bother me.”
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“I’ll wait until the valet brings your car.”
Phoebe growled under her breath, a throaty grumble that made Rayce’s heart beat a little faster. Then, without warning, she grabbed his wrist and jerked his arm up, holding his cufflink transmitter to her lips.
“Someone come get Rayce before I feed him his balls through a straw.” Looking him in the eye, she shoved his hand away with unnecessary force, then turned and stomped across the lobby.
Rayce let her go.
“Who the hell was that?” Pike asked in Rayce’s earpiece, amusement clear in his tone.
Rayce didn’t know how to answer the question, not really, but he was pretty sure about one thing. “I think I’m in love.”
CHAPTER TWO
Phoebe had spent Christmas just like she had for the past three years—alone. In the ambient glow from her artificial tree, she’d curled up on the sofa with her favorite fleece blanket and watched holiday-themed romance movies while sipping cocoa. New Year’s Eve had been spent much the same way, except she’d traded her cocoa for wine, and added a tray of assorted cheeses.
Elena had called her a couple of times during the week, and she’d even invited her to two different parties, but Phoebe didn’t mind being alone. Parties and clubs had never been her scene, and anything bigger than a casual dinner with a few friends gave her hives. After the Frost Gala—especially after her run-in with Tucker—she needed time to herself to unwind and recharge.
The official beginning of the new year arrived without fanfare, which meant back to work on her latest novel, the first book in a yet-to-be-titled trilogy. She’d completed her outline, her character profiles, and finished the research needed to fill in the gaps before the holidays. All her ducks were in a row, all the pieces in place. The only thing left to do was to put words to the page.
A week ago she’d been vibrating with excitement about her newest story idea, and she couldn’t wait to get started on it. Now, sitting at her writing desk, her fingers poised over the keyboard of her laptop while she stared at the blinking cursor on her screen…nothing.
