Without Warning

by Desiree Holt

  “For luck,” he said.

  “Okay.” She grinned. “For luck.”

  As Sam walked him into the event room, he noticed the pastries and coffee and the larger than usual setup of books were all in place. Reporters hung out along the back wall. And every single chair was filled.”

  “They had to pull out more from wherever they keep them,” Sam whispered. “Is this the biggest crowd you’ve ever had?”

  He nodded. “By far.”

  “Evan, our sharpshooter, is at the back wall.” She nodded her head in his direction. “Everyone else is in their place. I’ll be on stage with you, in the wings, on one side. Mike will be on the other. You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  The manager of the bookstore that was hosting tonight came forward and introduced herself.

  “We’re just delighted you chose to end your tour here,” she gushed. “Everyone’s so excited about it, and about the big crowd. Thank you so much.”

  He swallowed a laugh, wondering if he should point out to her he remembered when they didn’t even want to carry his books.

  She mounted the steps to the stage ahead of him and headed for the podium. She’d be the one introducing him. Two taps of the microphone to make sure it was working and they were set.

  “Good evening, everyone. I want to thank you all for coming out for this very special book signing. We’re thrilled to host Blake Morgan, who lives here in Tampa, and thank him for choosing to make this his last stop on his current tour. He’s going to tell you a bit about his writing career and then about his latest release, the third in a row to hit the top of the best-seller lists. Please help me welcome him.” She turned toward him, smiling.

  Blake walked out to the center of the stage, carrying the folder with his notes. He shook hands again with the woman, thanked her, then thanked everyone for coming tonight. His throat, as usual, was dry as dust and he reached to the shelf beneath for the water he’d requested. Nothing there. He bent down and looked, but the shelf was empty.

  He looked over at Sam, who was frowning.

  “Sorry, everyone.” He smiled at the audience. “I still get stage fright and my throat closes up.” A soft laugh ran through the crowd. “If someone can get me some water we’ll be good to go.”

  A man in the uniform of the caterer hurried up to the stairs carrying a bottle.

  “Sorry. It was my job and I goofed.”

  “No problem. Thanks.”

  The man handed the water to Blake but as soon as he did he yanked off the waiter’s vest to reveal another vest beneath it. The crowd gasped as one.

  * * * *

  Suicide vest!

  The minute she saw it, Sam knew exactly what it was. It was smaller than the ones she’d seen, made to fit beneath the uniform vest he wore, but no less deadly. It was apparent Rowley had no plans to take out everyone, just Blake.

  No! She couldn’t let it happen. She loved him, and could not lose him.

  The word itself terrified her, but she’d worry about that later. Right now she had business to take care of.

  With one hand, Rowley tore off the wig and fake moustache he was wearing. He lifted the other hand and Sam saw the suicide switch he had his thumb on. The switch was depressed. The moment he released his thumb, the vest would blow. That’s why it was called a dead man’s switch. The goal was to get a cop to shoot him, and when he fell the thumb relaxed and the explosives blew sky high.

  Which was why no one was rushing the stage. She just hoped her key man was ready for the signal.

  Shit!

  “Situation, situation,” she murmured into her lip mic. “How copy.”

  “Five by five,” came the answer from everyone.

  “I have to figure out how to get that switch away from him without blowing up him, Blake, and me. Wait for my signals. Evan, you know the code word.”

  “Copy that.”

  Everyone acknowledged and she slowly inched her way out to the stage.

  “You all came to see the big novelist Blake Morgan tonight, right?” Rowley shouted. “Well, I’m here to tell you he’s a big fraud. He stole every word he wrote from the love of my life, Annemarie Schaefer.” When he didn’t get the reaction he apparently wanted from the audience frozen in its seat, he raised his voice. “Did you hear me? She worked for him for four years, slaved away as his assistant, did his research, and then wrote his books for him. I have the proof.”

  Sam spared a look for Blake, who might have been ready to wet his pants but outwardly was very calm.

  “Is that what she told you?” he asked in a mild voice.

  “Damn straight. She had all those folders on her laptop with all the work she did for you. She told me about them. About how you couldn’t put it all together so she had to do it for you. About how she gave you the plots when you couldn’t create one.”

  Blake nodded. “She was a very big help to me, Gregg. You’re right.”

  “Oh. You know my name? Did she tell you?”

  “Yes. She spoke very well of you.”

  Keep lying, Blake. You’re doing great.

  Sam slid forward a few more inches.

  “I wrote to your publisher. Mailed the letter today. Told him they needed to recall all those books and put her name on them.” He was sobbing now. “She died trying to get away from you. Running to me. It’s your fault she’s dead, so you need to die, too, but not before everyone knows exactly what you did.”

  Sam noticed that Blake had turned so he was facing her more, which meant Rowley now had his back to her.

  Keep him focused, Blake. Just a little further. A little further.

  And then she was there. She leapt forward and grabbed the hand with the switch, pressing her thumb over his.

  “Umbrella!” she yelled into the mic.

  Evan’s shot split the air barely a second later, hitting Rowley in the forehead, and he fell, with Sam on top of him and her thumb still on the switch.

  Then everyone moved. Justin hurried onto the stage to grab Blake, who protested he wasn’t going anywhere until Sam was safe. Someone got up to the microphone and urged everyone to be calm, and to help themselves to refreshments until they could get the program started again.

  Sam had to stifle the hysterical urge to giggle. Yes, coffee and pastries while she was lying here on a dead body hoping she didn’t get blown to kingdom come.

  “We called the bomb squad the minute we saw his vest, Sam.” Avery’s voice came through her ear bud. “They’ll be here any second.”

  “Thanks.”

  Someone pulled the curtain on the stage to hide the gruesome sight.

  “I thought this was supposed to be my show.”

  She turned her head to see Blake crouching beside her, a worried look on his face but his lips forced into a grin.

  “I decided I wanted to see what all the fuss was about being a star.”

  He took her free hand and wrapped one of his around it, holding tightly.

  “I think my heart stopped beating twice. Was this your way of upstaging me?”

  “Yeah.” Again she swallowed a hysterical giggle. Lying on a dead body wasn’t her idea of a pleasant way to pass the time. “I figured there was no way you could top this.”

  Finally the bomb squad was there, moving Blake aside while they did their thing. Sam felt as if a year had passed before the leader told her she was good to go and someone lifted her from Rowley’s body. Blake, waiting right next to her, hauled her into his arms, crushing her to him as if he’d never let her go. And for a moment she thought how great it would be if that happened.

  But just for a moment.

  “Let’s move over here,” he urged, tugging her away from the body.

  “You okay, Sam?” Avery’s voice sounded in her ear bud.

  “I’m good.” Go
od? She was alive. That was good enough.

  “We’ve got the crowd corralled and we’re feeding them pastries and coffee. The bookstore manager gets a lot of credit for not losing her shit and for making all that happen. Henry, too.” She paused. “Blake okay?”

  Sam looked up at him. “He seems to be. He’ll probably fall apart when we get back to his condo but right now he’s a real trooper.”

  “I can help down there,” Blake told her.

  She frowned. “How? You planning to be a waiter?”

  “Always the smart-mouth. No, I figured if I started the book signing now, it would take people’s minds away from what happened. Besides, they can bombard me with questions and get their picture taken with the author who almost got blown up.”

  Her eyes widened. “You know, that’s a damn good idea. You up for it?”

  “I’ll make it work. Let’s tell Henry to set it up.”

  In the end that’s what they did. The media, of course, salivated over the story they had to report and begged a few minutes to question Blake before he sat down at the signing table. She gave Henry points for pulling it all together and Blake for managing to appear relaxed and focused only on his readers. He answered questions, chatted with people. Signed books until she was sure his hand would fall off.

  That meant hardly anyone paid attention when the wagon came to cart Rowley’s body away. The deputies stayed on to help the Vigilance agents with crowd control, but all things considered, Sam thought, the rest of the evening went off okay.

  For herself she’d never been so damn glad to see an evening end.

  Chapter 15

  Noted Author Victim of Stalker

  Bestselling Author Victim of Bomb Plot

  Plagiarism Debunked as Bestselling Author Faces Off with Stalker

  Blake closed out the screen and fixed another cup of coffee for himself. The acid reflux reaction told him he’d been drinking too much coffee for his own good.

  Better than alcohol, he told himself.

  It had been his drug of choice as he got through the aftermath of the scene at the event hall. In all his life, he was sure he’d never forget the sight of Sam lying on Gregg Rowley’s dead body, blood pooling beneath his head, her finger holding his thumb on the dead man’s switch. He was sure his heart had stopped beating altogether and he’d trembled so much he was afraid he’d fall down. When he crouched beside her and took her hand in his, he never wanted to let it go.

  Which was part of what brought him on today’s journey.

  With the danger gone, Sam’s assignment was over. She had stayed with him the next day while he did all the public relations things provoked by the dramatics of the previous evening. Gone with him to drive Henry to the airport. They’d come home, had a light dinner, and then indulged in some of the most intense sex he’d ever enjoyed. He knew, however, it was only that way because of who he was with.

  He fell asleep determined to talk to her the next morning about where they could go from here, because he sure didn’t want to walk away from her again. He loved her and he was pretty damn sure she loved him. If he’d ever had any doubts about his own feelings, they were gone. He wanted a future with her and he sensed she felt the same, if he could just get past whatever was holding her back.

  But in the morning when he awoke, having slept the sleep of the dead, she was gone, as were all her things. He looked around for a note, a message of any kind. Checked his phone for a text because he’d shut it off when they went to bed.

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  At first he was angry. No, raging mad. How the hell could she just walk away like this without a backward glance? Hadn’t what they’d found meant anything to her at all? They weren’t those teenagers anymore. He thought he’d proven to her that this was real and deep and lasting. Now he wanted to find a way to for them to build a life together.

  But how could he move forward when she had walked out of his life? With each passing day the need for her grew more intense until sometimes he actually ached with it. He stopped himself from calling her for the first couple of days, thinking to give her some time and space to wrestle with whatever problem was plaguing her. He also didn’t think haring off to Arrowhead Bay while he was still so worked up would get him anywhere.

  He was grateful that he had enough to keep him busy so he didn’t sit around feeling sorry for himself and driving himself crazy. The story of Gregg Rowley, Annemarie Schaefer, and the suicide vest turned out to be a nine days’ wonder. Henry was fielding calls from bloggers, magazine feature writers, reporters, television shows, anyone with media access and the ability to use it.

  “Your sales are literally going through the roof,” Henry told him a week after the event. “Your publisher is doing a very happy dance, let me tell you.”

  “Is this the same publisher who sent me Annemarie Schaefer without knowing she was a basket case?” He swallowed back his bitterness.

  “That was your editor, and no, he had no idea.” Henry’s sigh carried across the connection. “He feels very badly about it, Blake. He really does.”

  Blake sighed. “I guess I can’t berate him too badly. I didn’t see it, either. And how the hell did I not?”

  “Blake.” Henry’s cleared his throat. “We discussed this. She gave no signs at all of what was going on with her mentally and emotionally. I met her several times and I didn’t sniff anything wrong. And hell, I’m suspicious of everyone.”

  “I just keep thinking I should have sensed something wrong. But damn, Henry, she acted so normal. She was incredibly efficient and kept me from losing my shit more times than I can count.” He rubbed his jaw. “Maybe I should have tried harder when she packed up so suddenly, forced her to tell me what was wrong, I mean, damn. I think I’m so smart and I had a head case falling apart right under my eyes.”

  “Okay, I think that’s enough wearing the hair shirt. She was a disturbed young lady who somehow convinced herself that helping with your research and spellchecking your manuscripts meant she was writing the books. We need to move on.”

  “The media isn’t letting it go,” he pointed out. “Look at this list of suggested interviews you sent me. They’ll be talking about it next year.”

  “Or until the next hot topic comes around. Which leads me back to that list. Come to New York. We’ll do a big signing here, some interviews, maybe host an event for readers. Good stuff.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Blake.” Henry’s voice was sharp now. “You worked your ass off to get where you are. Through no fault of your own you’re riding a big wave of media attention and sales. Tomorrow it could all disappear. Let’s catch this while we can.”

  Blake swallowed another sigh. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Let’s set some dates.”

  So he’d gone to New York for ten days. A change would help, he told himself. He could put some space between himself and Sam while she worked things out in her head. Henry had set a good schedule for him, including a book signing at one of the major stores where it took more than three hours for him to sign for all the people who stood in line to see him. His editor fell all over him with apologies and the publisher took him to the Hamptons for a weekend where he rubbed elbows with people to whom his earnings were pocket change.

  By the end of the trip he was burned out on it all, and didn’t care if he ever talked to anyone about it ever again. In fact, he hoped he wouldn’t. Three days into the trip he tried to call Sam. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He wanted to ask her what the hell was going on and could he please see her, but all he got was a message telling him it was no longer a working number. He remembered she told him Avery gave the agents fresh phones for each assignment, which meant she was probably off somewhere guarding someone’s body. Or something.

  Dozens of times he brought up Avery’s number on his cell, his thumb hovering over it to call her and ask when Sam would be back. Bu
t just as many times he swiped the screen and shoved the phone in his pocket.

  Finally, two days after his return from New York, his curiosity, if nothing else, got the better of him and he called Vigilance.

  “I’ve been reading all about you,” Avery greeted him. “You’re our resident celebrity.”

  “Yeah, well, I could do with a little more publicity and a little less notoriety.”

  “So how are you doing, Blake? Really.”

  He thought for a moment. “Okay, I guess. Still stunned by the whole thing. What happened hurt a lot of people. One person was badly injured, another killed just because she looked like someone else. I’ll always feel responsible for that.”

  “You’re not,” she said quickly. “There isn’t a thing you could have done. I know you’ve probably had a lot of people telling you that, so I’ll add my voice. Gregg Rowley was a very disturbed man. You had no control over what he did. I know you’ll never forget any of it, but you need to move away from it.”

  “Yeah. Everyone tells me the same thing. I’m working on my next book, so that should help.” He uttered a rough laugh. “And it’s not about a deranged man who wants to blow up an author, no matter what people tell me.”

  “I ran into your folks the other day,” she told him. “I think they’d like you to come down and visit them.”

  He laughed. “No kidding. My mother calls every other day telling me she wants to see me with her own eyes. They came up to Tampa just before I left for New York and right after I came back. I told her I haven’t changed.”

  “You’re right, but I think they’ll be a long time getting over what happened.”

  “Especially with what happened to Grant Kennelly,” he agreed. “Something else I feel responsible for.”

  “Maybe you should talk to someone, Blake,” she suggested.

  “You mean like a shrink?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  He had no plans to do that but he didn’t want to argue with her.

  “I’ll think about it.” He paused, trying to think how to frame his next words. “How’s Sam?”