Bulletproof Weeks

by Taryn Elliott

  “Depends on the questions.” His voice was baritone low with the faintest trace of the south.

  “Who are you?”

  He inclined his head. “Try again.”

  Bella’s brows snapped down. “Should I flag down security? I’m sure they’d be interested to know why you’re following me around. Especially when my work deals with priceless books tha—“

  “That currently have a value of seventy-thousand-three-hundred and twenty-three dollars?”

  Her nails bit into her palm. To the penny. “And you know this why?”

  “Because it’s my job to know.”

  “And why would it be your job to know?”

  “Again, I can’t answer.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “My boss.”

  Bella’s palm throbbed as she consciously unclenched. “And who is your boss?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “What are you at liberty to say?” She knew her voice was bordering on snide, but she didn’t care. This was ridiculous.

  His attention faded as he seemed to be actively listening to someone else. RBF also perked up and the human tank pulled a phone from his blazer pocket.

  “Understood.”

  No, she didn’t understand. She wanted to yank tank boy down to her level and scream in his face until he answered her. But she had a feeling she’d scream herself hoarse first.

  Tank held out the phone, turning the face toward her. The faceless icon and the word “Unknown” flashed across the screen. “For you.”

  She took the phone and held it up to her ear. “Who is this? Who hired you?”

  “Ms. Grace, I’m sure you have questions.”

  “You’re damn right I do. Why do I have two obvious security type people following me around?”

  “It was a request from a client.”

  “So, now you can hire people to stalk others? That’s rich. Who did this?”

  “My name is Marcus Roth, and the two people before you work for my company, Roth Defense.”

  What the hell kind of security was that? The over the top set for boys who wished they were in an action movie? She glanced at RBF—or girls for that matter. “That sounds made up.”

  “I assure you it’s not. We do a number of different things. Personal security is among the more important functions we can be hired for.”

  “Why would I need two…what? Bodyguards?” She turned to Tank, whose blazer slid open to reveal a small logo on his shirt. The familiar R and backwards D nagged at her. She’d seen that before, but where?

  “Our client chooses to remain anonymous. Sarah and Elijah will be discreet, but one or the other of them will be in your vicinity at all times.”

  “You can’t do that if I choose not to be…” What the hell was the word? “Surveilled.” God, Bella, that sounds lame. But seriously, what the hell?

  “Ms. Grace, when was the first time you noticed one of my operatives?”

  “I…” She trailed off. How many times had she felt eyes tracking her? A handful in the last month? Possibly a little more. “Maybe a few weeks at most.”

  “We’ve had you under surveillance for five and a half months.”

  Dumbfounded, she rocked back on her heels. “What? How?”

  “My people are very good at their jobs. And if you’ll cooper—”

  “No, I’m not going to cooperate. I demand to know who hired you.” When the man at the other end of the line didn’t answer, she put her stern auction voice on. Being a woman in her industry, she dealt with a lot of good ole boys. “Now, Mr. Roth.”

  “Impressively impassioned, Ms. Grace, but I’ll need to discuss this with my client and get back to you.”

  “Is it a buyer that wants to work with me? An auction house? What?” She huffed out a breath. “Mr. Roth?” She pulled the phone away from her ear and growled. He’d hung up.

  Tank plucked the phone out of her hand. “We’ll be sure to stay out of your way, ma’am.”

  “Where are you going to go? We’re stranded in an airport for at least the next six hours. And why the hell would anyone want to watch over me?” She folded her arms. “Is this something kinky?”

  “I need a new assignment.” RBF—Sarah—pivoted and stalked across the hall to the newsstand.

  Bella looked up at Elijah. “You’re seriously not going to tell me?”

  “Client’s request.”

  Bella scrubbed her hands over her face. She’d probably just smudged what was left of her make-up, but she really didn’t care. She wanted to know why she’d been plunked down in an alternate reality where anyone cared enough to watch after her.

  Was she being researched for a job? She’d had a lot of different offers to work for larger auction houses. Her list of contacts in the book world grew each year. And yet, it just didn’t seem likely.

  The auction houses had a helluva lot of money, but not enough to chase after her, especially with the frequent flier miles she’d been accruing. She’d been in full-on work mode for the last four months especially. Pretty soon she was going to know the schedule to every flight out of Chicago, Atlanta, and D.C.

  She hefted her carry-on and her briefcase and walked across the terminal to her scheduled gate. Another couple of inches of snow had gathered on the runway since she’d been gone and the plows were doing their damnedest to keep up.

  A few of the boards had updates from canceled to new departure times. Her job wasn’t exactly the kind that required a rush. It was just a matter of moving a book from one bookcase to another for a lot of her clients. They loved the knowledge that they had a rarity, but in all honesty they wouldn’t actually touch the book often. The fragility of the pages, especially the age of the one she was carrying, made ownership the most important part.

  She understood that, but in the end, she wanted the tactile part of ownership. To know the book was hers, to smell the old pages, and to curl into a chair and absorb its words. That was the reason she knew this job inside and out. She understood the lust of an old book, but she also understood the status factor.

  It was a fine line to walk. One of prestige, and one of passion. Not many of her contemporaries understood that. The business was aging out and the auction houses needed younger people like herself. She could understand a background check, but not this. She glanced up at the broad-shouldered man. Her new shadow didn’t even attempt to make himself scarce.

  He walked beside her, his eyes quietly assessing everything.

  Disgusted, she tucked her belongings into the little corner she’d created and pulled out her phone. Tank plucked her phone out of her hands.

  “Hey!”

  He held the power button at the top of her phone and shut it down, then tucked it into his pocket. “According to your itinerary, you have plans to go to Vancouver after Seattle?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Credit cards rule the world, Ms. Grace.”

  She rested her forearm on the briefcase. “Where is your company based, Elijah?”

  “We’re nationwide. I go where the work tells me to.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Where can I find Marcus Roth?”

  “Meeting him face-to-face won’t allow you to gain any more information. We pride ourselves on discretion.”

  His voice was so modulated. Like he’d said the same thing a million times. His eyes were intelligent, but there was no give and take there. She tilted her head. “So, what made you leave the…Navy?”

  His eyes flattened for the briefest moment before he turned his attention to their surroundings.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “All you need to know is that I’m well-equipped to protect you.”

  Her heart stuttered. “Protect me? Don’t you mean the book?”

  “I’d leave your precious book in a slushy pile of snow without another thought. My job is to make sure you make it from point A to point B without bodily harm.”

  “Who the hell woul
d want to harm me?”

  Unsurprisingly, Elijah fell back on his stellar conversational skills and didn’t answer her.

  Frustrated, tired, and antsy, Bella dug out her kindle to try and lose herself in the last half of her book. When conversationalist number two came back and handed Elijah a cup of coffee, Bella ignored them both.

  After five and a half more eternal hours, the ticket counter finally called for boarding. She turned to Elijah with her palm out. “Phone, please.”

  He laid it in her palm.

  She turned it on, but the little red battery icon came on. “Really?”

  He lifted a shoulder.

  Bella pulled her backup battery charger out of her carry-on and hooked the cord to her dead cell. “What exactly do you think that was going to accomplish?”

  “Your row has been called.”

  “I’d report you to your boss, but I think he’d just give you a raise.”

  “Of course you’d tattle. The princess isn’t getting her answers. Boo hoo.”

  Bella’s gaze swung to Sarah. “Somehow I don’t think you’re going to get a glowing job recommendation. I spotted you. Or should I say, the princess spotted you.” She flicked her carry-on over her shoulder and tugged out her boarding pass as she gave the ticket scanner a genial smile.

  “Have a pleasant flight, miss.”

  One of the perks of all the hours and miles she’d racked up was the bump into first class for nearly every flight. This one was no different. Gigantor and RBF could enjoy coach.

  She had research to do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Logan King swung his legs off his bed and raked his fingers through his hair. It was getting too long again. Which meant he’d spent too many weeks holed up in his apartment again. Zeke had dragged him off to his family’s house in Colorado for Christmas. His best friend had even managed to wrangle him into staying through New Year’s. Logan had allowed it because he’d needed the voices and the laughter. One thing he could count on with the Stacey family was a good time. And again, they’d saved him. Or, at least, a little of his sanity. Zeke had done the same when he was nineteen and the world had gone to shit the first time.

  Colorado also meant no paparazzi, and no Aimee Collen.

  Reason one and two that he was turning into a goddamn hermit.

  But now he was back in New York and his brain was too fucking loud all over again. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to his cabin. Winchester Falls was still too full of her. Main Street, the barn, the gazebo, his bed. All reminded him of those damn topaz eyes that just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone.

  For the first three months he’d drowned himself in bourbon. Investing in a black market liver wasn’t in his repertoire, so he put the bottle away and gave into the workaholic side of himself. Songs chased him from sleep, leaving him scribbling blearily in the middle of the night, or like now…stuffed full of chaos. These were the days he hated. He’d rather work with manic purpose than to pin down words and melodies that tumbled around in his head like someone training for the Cirque du Soleil.

  He scratched at the heavy beard he hadn’t bothered to trim in…hell, months, and hauled his ass out of his empty bed. Cool hardwood kissed his bare feet as he padded to the huge paned window that looked down on New York City. He’d bought the penthouse in one of the remodeled buildings in SoHo long before it was cool to live there. But he liked the mix of cultures. The rich and the working class, the artists and the trendy.

  It was a cool city, even at 3 AM. He didn’t need to check the time, he could tell from the traffic patterns. Snow was also on the horizon. The sky was that iridescent orange that teased a righteous snowfall.

  He didn’t mind. One more reason to stay holed up. The thought of interacting with people made him downright surly lately. Playing nice for Christmas had used up the last of his reserves. He wandered over to his kitchenette and brewed a large black coffee, bringing it over to the new jewel of the apartment. An upright piano he’d found at a back alley auction in Chelsea. The thing had a magic to it that he hadn’t felt since he and Alex Nash had christened a broken-down piano in a bar in Georgia.

  It was scarred and he was on the fence whether or not to fix one of the keys that stuck. He kinda liked the sound it made. He set his mug down and sat at the mismatched bench he’d picked up at the same auction.

  In only the lounge pants he’d worn for the last two days, he rested his fingers on the oddly warm keys. The melody had been locked in his brain for the better part of a week.

  Knowing that would be the last of his sleep for the foreseeable future, Logan let the music transport him out of his too busy brain. He pounded out his aggression with a Frank Turner song to get his fingers limber, then switched back to his own songs.

  He worked until his fingers ached and his throat was little more than sandpaper laced with coffee. He ignored the telephone’s trill, both his cell and house line. He worked until the fat snowflakes coated his windows and his back screamed from staying in the same position.

  Finally the song let him go. Scrawled lyrics over the back of music sheets were tacked together with bars full of manic notes. The song was good. It was loud and ugly and filled with hurt. The kind of song that his record company would probably shit a puppy over.

  It wasn’t the slick, Everyman’s song he was known for. No, it was a mix of his old anger and his adult world views. It was poetry that he hadn’t allowed himself to let out in a whole helluva lot of years.

  His first instinct was to bury it.

  It was his pain and his words. There was no denying it to himself. This wasn’t a bit of fiction he’d come up with. It was laced with her—both of the women, actually—the hate and misery, the raw edges of loss, and the guilt. The insidious guilt that rode him like a bitch.

  But he didn’t bury it. He slapped it on his scanner and sent it to Zeke and Morgan before he could burn the pages. Then he went to his fridge and drank a quart of water and the better part of a half-gallon of orange juice.

  The sugar killed the haze and beat back the headache. When his phone rang this time, he picked up, assuming it was one of the guys.

  “Logan, would you answer your goddamn phone once in a while?”

  Panic clogged his raw throat. “What’s wrong? Is she all right?” he asked automatically. Marcus Roth rarely called him for more than a status update, and he wasn’t due for one of those until Friday.

  Was it Friday? He didn’t even know.

  He rubbed his hand over his bearded cheek. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was working.” Calm. Deep breaths, man.

  “We’ve got an issue.”

  “I’m assuming she’s not in any danger if you’re busy spanking me and not getting to the point.”

  Six months of babysitting and he and Marcus had quickly fallen out of the professional pandering conversations into a semi-friendship.

  “Look, I told you it was a mistake to keep her out of the loop. She’s a bright girl. She was going to figure out someone was tailing her eventually.”

  “I thought your people were good, Roth.”

  “Fuck off. You know they are. Hell, Elijah’s out there with her right now.”

  “I know, and I’m paying you a fucking fortune to keep him on Isabella.” God, it sounded off to call her by her full name.

  He shook his head. She haunted him and fucked with his head. And he couldn’t let her back in, even if it was just her nickname. Because there were still nights that he woke with his dick so hard from dreams about losing himself in her sweet body.

  A week.

  He’d only had her for a handful of those days.

  Zeke had urged him to get another woman under him, to forget her. Just the idea of him skin to skin with someone else made his head throb. And now Roth, with an unscheduled call, ate at his guts like acid.

  “I’m assuming she caught on?”

  “Yeah. And she’s asking a lot of questions. You said you wanted it anonymous. Is that
still the case?” Marcus paused for a moment. “Or are you going to be smart about this and pull out?”

  His first instinct was to scream a hell no, but Aimee hadn’t so much as moved in her circles. In fact, Aimee was back on the west coast or overseas most of the time. The weekly updates between the both of them were less than two paragraphs long in an email.

  He didn’t give two shits about the money. He had more than enough of that to go around. And part of him lived for those updates. But only the Isabella ones. To see where she’d gone, what she was up to, who she was meeting.

  How many times had he tortured himself with pictures of her with affluent collectors and businessman, art critics and curators, as well as the occasional patron? He moved over to his desk and shook the mouse to bring the computer out of hibernation. He clicked on the folder labeled January.

  He found the photograph that he’d spent way too many hours staring at. Isabella smiling over her shoulder, her dark hair a sweep of silk bunched around her neck thanks to a scarf and parka. Those damn eyes, kicking him in the teeth.

  “Logan?”

  “Where’s Aimee?”

  “Out of the country. Ibiza.”

  Christ. Still living the party life. “Has there been any overlap? Even—”

  “No. I tell you this every week.”

  “Even the same city?”

  “They’ve been in the same airport a handful of times, but Ms. Collen takes a private jet, so they never overlap.”

  “Pull Elijah. Put one of your medium-level people on her. Then we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “All right. At least you’re seeing reason finally. We still need to explain ourselves to her.”

  “Keep it anonymous. If she knew it was me, she’d give you nothing but grief.”

  “Too late. She’s very stubborn. And she’s not stupid.”

  No, she wasn’t. Which was exactly why he pushed her away in the first place. Beyond the lies that started him down that path, it was better for her to steer clear of him. He’d filed restraining orders discreetly, but they were still part of public record if someone wanted to find them. For now, Aimee had let things go.