by J. Kenner
I shoot her a sideways glance, wondering if she's flirting with me. Because, honestly, I'm capable of reading research materials all on my own. But I decide I'm imagining things, because she's not even looking at me anymore. Instead, she's tapping her lip with the stir stick as she flips the pages in the folder. A nervous habit, I presume, but there's something so familiar about it, I start to think that maybe I have met her before. One day at Matthew's office, maybe?
I'm about to ask her if we've crossed paths before when my phone rings, the display announcing that it's Aly. "I'm really sorry," I say, grabbing my phone. "But it's my best friend, and she's pregnant."
"Oh, no worries." The stir stick has left a chocolate mark on her lip, which for some reason bothers me more than it should, but since the call has just connected, I don't mention that she needs to wipe it off.
"Hey," I say. "Listen, I've got someone in the office with me. I just answered to make sure you're okay."
"I'm totally fine. But I have a doctor's appointment later today and Ben can't drive me. Do you think you can?"
I glance toward Joanna, wondering how long she's going to stay. And then realize it doesn't matter. I can't drive her without a car. More than that, I wouldn't drive Aly even if my car wasn't in the shop. What if my stalker decided to upshift the action? No way am I putting Aly and the baby in the stalker's line of fire.
I'm about to tell her as much and suggest she call someone else, when the words catch in my throat as I notice her mole and realize where I've seen Joanna before--She's the guest of the gray-haired man.
And while that might be a completely freakish coincidence, as far as I'm concerned, that means that she's my stalker.
A woman. Why the hell had we never thought that the stalker was a woman?
I shove the question aside. Right now, that's really not important. The bigger questions are what does she want right now? How am I going to get out of here? And how the hell do I get in touch with Riley?
For the last, at least, I have an idea.
"That's so scary," I tell Aly, who makes a confused sound on the other end of the line as I barrel on. "You need to call them right now and tell them to send you the right blade. Honestly, someone could get hurt."
"What the hell?"
"I mean it," I say in a no-nonsense voice. "Call and chew those bastards out right now. Make them send you a new blade immediately because that old one is just going to hurt someone."
"I--Oh, shit. Right." She hangs up, and I continue talking.
"Good, you do that. And yeah, I can come over later. We can have virgin pina coladas and watch bad movies. See you later. Okay. Bye."
I hang up, certain that Joanna saw right through my ruse. But she's just sipping her coffee and appearing completely bored.
What if I'm wrong?
What if I've got this all wrong and Aly's calling Riley?
I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. Better safe than sorry, right? And I'm certain that's what Riley would say.
But what should I do in the meantime? Is she dangerous? Do I try to get out of the apartment? Do I try to lock her in the pantry?
I decide to assume that she is dangerous. After all, stalkers stalk. Once they make actual contact, that can't be a good thing. And since I have no idea how to cajole her into the pantry--which actually does have a lock since we converted it into a vault--I decide that it makes the most sense to just get the hell out of dodge myself.
"I just realized this is heavy cream," I say, taking the cream pitcher and standing. "I'm going to go get some half-and-half."
"Oh, don't bother," she says, then lunges at me, knocking the table over and sending the coffee service and my phone flying as she catapults me backward onto the couch.
I struggle to sit up, only to find her pulling a long, thin knife from her bag and smiling at me as if we're just two friends at a cocktail party. "I'm fine with cream. What I really want to do is talk about how you're fucking my boyfriend. Because that's not the kind of thing one girl should do to another."
"Mr. Holt?" I say, even though I'm certain I can't talk myself out of this. "I'm not sleeping with him. I have a boyfriend. His name's Riley." It's true, I realize, and the thought of Riley strengthens my resolve.
"Don't you dare lie, you bitch."
"I'm not." I keep my voice low and level. "I wouldn't do that to you. I only want--"
She lunges, proving that all those long negotiation scenes in movies are just bullshit. I roll sideways and tumble off the couch, then kick up, knowing it won't stop her, but hoping it buys me a few seconds to get to my feet so I can race for the door.
It doesn't work. Yes, I manage to land my feet hard in her gut, sending her tumbling backward, but that's only after she sinks her knife into my thigh. I scramble backward, lightheaded from the pain and the sight of blood. But it's no use. She's already back on her feet. She's already coming toward me.
And because of the couch on one side of me and a heavy armchair a few feet from my head, there's no place that I can go.
Chapter Twelve
"Get the fuck out of the way, you lousy piece of shit." Riley slammed his hand onto the steering wheel, his horn blasting at the BMW in front of him, which of course had nowhere to go in this fucking bottleneck on Santa Monica Boulevard.
He growled and pressed redial on his phone, but once again he only got Tasha's voicemail. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit.
He laid on the horn again, not because it would do any good. Just because he was so wound up he'd probably kill somebody if he couldn't offload some of his fear and frustration.
Surely she's okay.
Surely she just has her phone on silent.
Finally--finally--the traffic moved enough to let him turn off this motherfucking road, and once he was clear, he floored it, then laid on the horn as he blew down surface streets as he zig-zagged in and out of traffic, stopping only when traffic patterns and red lights forced the issue.
He was at just such a light when his phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID, saw it was Ian Taggart, and hit the button to connect the call.
"Why the hell aren't you in China?"
"Why the hell are you calling me? I'm in kind of a rush here. Some serious shit hitting the fan."
"So I've heard. I just got a call from some woman named Aly. Says she has a message for you from Natasha but didn't know how to reach you. But she remembered you work for me, and so she called the number on the website. Gotta love the modern world, huh?"
Oh, Christ. "What was the message?" His voice was tight, and he was working to hold back his fear.
"The girl just said that they were on the phone and all of a sudden Natasha told Aly that she needed to get a new blade. Said that since the words made no sense, she figured that was a code. A message for you."
Thank God for Allison McCray. Riley hadn't seen her in probably six years, but in that moment, she was his best friend in the whole damn world.
The light changed and he floored it into the intersection. "Do me a favor and call Detective Garrison for me. I talked to him already, so he should be en route, but tell him the situation I told him about has escalated. I'm on my way now. And for God's sake, Ian, tell them to hurry."
There's crazy in Joanna's eyes as she lunges at me once again, leading with the knife. And though I may be trapped, I'm not giving up. It hurts like hell, but I thrust my legs up and out, catching her in the gut and giving me a few precious seconds to climb to my feet so that I can stumble out of here.
Except I can't climb to my feet. The wound is too bad, and as I try to rise, I stumble once more, then fall, smacking my head on the corner of the table in the process.
"He's mine," Joanna says, her words sounding like they are underwater. "He doesn't want you. He wants you to just go away."
My hand closes around the fallen coffee pot, and I force myself to think. To not give in to the pain in my head. I try to hurl it at her, but I have no strength, and it travels only inches.
Joanna laughs. "You should calm down." She strokes a finger over the blade of her razor-sharp knife, raising a thin layer of blood. "It will only hurt a little, then it will stop. As the blood leaves you, it will all stop. And then we'll both be fine. You see? It's all so simple."
Hell, yeah, it's simple. You're crazy. I blink, realizing I've only said the words in my head. The pain in my leg and the pain in my head are drawing me under, and I'm not even scared. I'm just lost and sad. Riley. I won't even have the chance to say good-bye to Riley.
Above me, Joanna's face contorts, and she lifts the knife at the same time I hear a loud crash from the far side of the room. I have no idea what it is--I'm on the floor, my vision blocked by the couch.
But the next thing I hear is a sharp crack, and then the knife clatters to the ground. For a moment, Joanna looks stunned. Then I see that her hand is a bloody mess.
Gunfire, I think, as my head pounds and my vision turns gray.
I fight to stay conscious. But it's hard, and things are moving so slowly. I have to stay awake though. I have to fight so she doesn't hurt me again. But it's hard--it's so damn hard.
And then I hear a feral yell, and as if in slow motion, someone leaps into view, knocking Joanna to the ground before turning his attention to me.
I try to smile, but I'm not sure I manage.
Riley.
He's here, and I'm safe.
And that's when I relax and let the gray pull me under into sleep.
"I could have lost you," Riley says hours later as he carefully settles me into my bed. "I just found you again, and I could have lost you."
"But you didn't," I say. It's the same thing I've been saying for the last two hours--ever since I woke up in the condo as he'd held me, his muscles straining as he kept pressure on my leg while we waited for the police and paramedics. I reach out and clasp his hand. "You didn't lose me. You saved me."
"I sent Big Tag a text message from the hospital. I'm done. With Dallas. With all of it."
The words are clear enough, but they make no sense, and I decide that I must be woozier from the pain meds than I thought. The knife missed my femoral artery, thank goodness, but it was still a deep slash, and I now sport a lovely set of twelve stitches on my thigh and some even lovelier pain meds pumping through my veins.
"Ian Taggart," he says, obviously seeing my confusion. "My boss. I quit. I'm not going back to work."
That time I understand the words, but I'm still fuzzy on the meaning. "Why?"
His laugh is strangled, and when he cups my cheek and looks into my eyes, I see that the man looking back at me is just as wounded as I am. "Why? Because I can't leave you. Because I'm staying here."
My heart skitters, and I fear that the drugs and the pain have discombobulated my brain. Surely he's not saying what I think he's saying. Is he?
"You're not going back to Dallas?"
"No." He takes my hand, then kisses my fingertips. "I told you. I'm staying here."
"Oh." I lick my lips, barely daring to hope. "But you hate it here."
He studies my face, his expression tender. "I did. I've had a change of heart." He draws a breath. "I don't want to scare you by moving too fast, but I love you, Natasha Black, and I want a chance to make this work between us."
My chest tightens, and I can't speak through the tears of joy that are trying so desperately to escape.
"I figure I can consult on films and television. Lyle and Matthew can help me line up work. God knows this town makes enough action movies that I won't starve."
It takes a moment for those words to process, and when they do, I take his hand. "I can't... I don't think I can handle that. Knowing I pulled you away from something you love. I don't want you to resent me."
"I wouldn't."
"You might. But it's more than that. It's part of who you are. Just like it was part of who my dad was. And even though the worst happened to him, I wouldn't want to go back and change who he was. And I don't want to change who you are either."
His brows rise. "Are you saying you want me to call Tag and tell him I'm moving back to Dallas after all?"
I smack him lightly on the chest. "Don't you dare. But maybe you could tell him you're open to freelance? When he needs you? And you could even do freelance work for Ryan, too. And the Hollywood consulting. That should keep you busy. The rest of your time can be devoted to pleasuring me."
"Oh, can it?"
"Absolutely. In fact, you can start by kissing me."
"Anything you want," he says, then slides a hand under my neck as he rises over me, his mouth closing hot and gentle over mine, a kiss like making love slowly, lazily. A kiss that holds a promise of things to come, and when he pulls away, I regret the pain in my thigh and the exhaustion and drugs that weigh down my body. But at the same time, I know it doesn't matter. There will be so many more nights between us, and so very much to look forward to.
"I love you, Riley Blade."
"Oh, Tasha, I love you, too."
I sigh, deeply satisfied, then press my cheek to his bare chest. "We do have one problem though, you know."
"We do? Wait. What are you talking about?"
I rise up, perversely enjoying the hint of panic I hear in his voice. "It's just that you're too good at what you do."
I watch as his face relaxes as he realizes he's being teased. "Is that so?"
"You caught my stalker without having to take me back to The Firehouse."
"I see. And that's a problem?"
"Not if you promise to take me back."
His grin is pure, carnal wickedness. "Sweetheart," he says as he carefully curls up next to me. "I'll buy us a membership in the morning."
Epilogue
Eight Months Later
I wake to the sun streaming in through the windows of Riley's Malibu house. He says his love-hate relationship with Los Angeles is all over, and that he only bought property in Malibu because he wanted beach access, but I know better. After all, as Ian Taggart told me when he was in town last month, Riley knows perfectly well that Malibu isn't really Los Angeles.
I smile at the memory, because that was also the day when Ian told Riley that he was off the books of McKay-Taggart for the next four months, freeing Riley's schedule for another consulting gig--this time for Her Secret Service, Lyle's next movie based on Serena Dean-Miles' erotic thriller.
I roll over, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against my naked skin as I think about all the wonderful perks that consulting job will bestow on me. Then I frown, realizing that cool sheets mean that I'm alone in bed--and have been for a while.
"Hey, beautiful."
Riley's voice caresses me, as smooth as whiskey and just as intoxicating. I prop myself up on my elbows and raise my brows. "You want to explain to me why, on the first day of my two-week vacation, I wake up alone in bed?"
"Might be because I had to feed your cat." He takes a step toward me. "Or it might be because I had to answer the door. A delivery man brought this." He passes me a letter-sized brown envelope.
I sit up, confused, pulling the sheet around me for warmth more than modesty. The windows are open and the breeze off the Pacific is cool. "What is it?"
"Open it."
The envelope is closed only with a clasp, so it's easy enough to get inside. I turn it over and a plane ticket falls into my lap. Confused, I read the destination, then frown as a slow anger starts to boil inside me.
"That lousy prick," I say. "Taggart said he wasn't going to offer you any more freelance work for four full months so that you could concentrate on Lyle and Serena's movie."
"Yeah, but that gig doesn't start for another three weeks. This trip is only for ten days."
"Ten days in China starting tomorrow," I say after another glance at the ticket. "Dammit, Riley, this trip is over my vacation." I will myself not to cry, but all I want to do is burst into tears. I haven't taken a vacation in forever and I only took time off now because Riley specifically told me he wanted to spend it tog
ether.
"Huh," he says, his brow furrowed as he takes the ticket from me. He turns it sideways, narrows his eyes, then steps back and says, "Oh! Of course."
"What?" I demand, confusion piling on top of my irritation.
"You need this, too." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, flat box. Like a jewelry store might use for a bracelet. I open it, then see another ticket folded up on top. I smirk, then pull it out, laughing when I see my name on it.
"Not a mission," I say, rising to put my arms around him. "A vacation for two."
"That's not exactly accurate," he says, and if it weren't for the twinkle in those dark, dreamy eyes, I'd be worried all over again. Instead, I'm intrigued.
I take a step back. "Okay," I demand. "What have I got wrong?"
"Anything else in that box?"
I shoot him one suspicious glance, then poke at the pad of cotton on which the folded ticket had been sitting. My finger hits something hard, and I immediately lift my head, looking once again at Riley, who looks incredibly pleased with himself.
I pull off the cotton to reveal a platinum ring with a stunning diamond, its facets catching the morning light and gleaming like starlight.
My legs go weak, and I fall back onto the bed at the same time that Riley drops to one knee in front of me. "Not a vacation. A honeymoon."
"A honeymoon," I repeat.
"We can stop in Vegas on the way. Or we can break convention and do the honeymoon first."
My lips twitch. "Aren't you jumping the gun a little?"
He flashes me a wide, sexy smile that's just a little sheepish. "Natasha Black," he says, taking the ring from my palm. "Will you marry me?"
I laugh with delight, and I'm pretty sure my heart has skipped a beat or two. "Yes," I say. "Oh, yes, Riley. Of course, yes."
He slides the ring onto my finger, then kisses me in a way that makes clear I belong to him. As if I had any doubt at all.
When we break apart, I sigh happily then tug his hand so that we both drop down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Why China?" I ask as I gaze into the fire of my engagement ring.
"I wanted to go someplace exotic," he says. "And where we could get completely lost together. What better place than somewhere we don't speak the language?" His brow furrows. "You don't speak Chinese, do you?"
