by Misty Evans
She rubbed the tight tendons in her neck. “I take it you didn’t find any listening devices?”
“Place is clean.” He hit another button on the security remote. “The whole system is tied into the Rock Star Security offices. If anything happens, hit this red button and it will activate staff there. They’ll be able to tap into the feed and speak directly to you. They’ll contact emergency services if necessary.”
They’d gone over the new security system a couple of days ago, and it wasn’t all that complicated, but she didn’t like the feeling of being spied on. “Are they seeing this live feed?” she asked.
“No, nothing like that. Your privacy is guaranteed. Only by hitting the red button will you allow them to view the feed and see what’s going on.”
Security. She’d never given it much thought beyond the basics until this past week. The studio sometimes provided a bodyguard or two when she went to live public events, but those security people were nothing like Coldplay. They were more like a showpiece to keep the paparazzi at bay. “Thank you again for all of this.”
“Is your neck still bothering you? I can make a call, get a physician to look at it.”
“It’s just stiff and tight.” She didn’t mention that that was a common problem with her constant sitting and computer work. “I don’t suppose you’re a chiropractor?”
Something sizzled between them and she hesitated. She’d never been good at flirting.
Flirting? What the hell was she doing? She wasn’t allowed to flirt, and Coldplay didn’t seem the flirting type. He was more of the alpha male type who took what he wanted when he wanted it.
Which only stirred her up more.
And didn’t that annoy her? She’d never been into gruff, domineering men, so why did this one turn her on?
The mystery, she told herself. She never could resist a good mystery, a little danger, good manners.
Damn. She was a fool.
“I recommend you call the studio,” he said, his voice taking on a slightly huskier edge. “Postpone tonight’s story. Can they run a previously recorded episode?”
“We can’t change the schedule this late. Besides, news is only news for a short window. If I don’t go live with the Westmeyer investigation reveal tonight, someone else will jump on it and scoop me.”
His eyes were serious, concerned. “It’s too dangerous, Savanna.”
Her lips curved into a smile. Right now, dangerous seemed pretty damn sexy. “But I have you to protect me.”
“The studio lacks proper security and there are too many people milling around.”
He liked to control things. People. She learned his looks, his slight nods, the almost invisible shake of his head when he was communicating with her. He was controlling her, that was for sure, and she didn’t give a care.
A shiver skittered over her skin. “I’m not letting Linc Norman intimidate me.”
Whenever Coldplay didn’t like what she said, that telltale tick in his jaw would start up. “There’s a time to back down and there’s a time to retreat temporarily so you can regroup and live to fight another day.”
She was about to respond when her house phone rang, the handset on her nightstand flashing and vibrating. She reached back to grab it. “I can’t disappoint my viewers, and the studio will have a fit if I change the schedule this late in the day.”
Her hand missed, knocking the phone off its base and sending it skidding across the wooden top. “Oh, shoot.”
The handset hit the floor and spun in circles, a high-pitched voice coming from it. “Savanna? Is that you? Are you all right?”
Before she could move to pick up the phone, Coldplay was bending down. He retrieved it and handed it to her, their fingers brushing as Savanna accepted it.
At least it isn’t the president, she thought as the voice continued to call her name. But it wasn’t far from being the second to the last person Savanna felt like speaking to. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
Coldplay’s eyes stayed on hers as he rose and towered over her.
“Are you all right?” her mother said. “Why didn’t you call us?”
From the look on her bodyguard’s face, her mother’s voice was as loud and grating as Savanna imagined. Coldplay could hear every word.
“I’m fine,” she said into the phone, massaging her neck once more with her free hand. No surprise her mother had interrupted the closest thing to fun in her bed in forever. “How did you find out about the accident?”
“I had to hear the news from my television set.”
The frigid tone told Savanna what she already knew. She was in deep shit with Mommy Dearest. “I just got home and was about to call you.”
Coldplay snatched up the TV remote and hit the power button. Her screen flickered to life with the station’s news desk. Her picture was in the corner above nightly news anchor Courtney Collins’ shoulder as she rattled off information that was muted.
“We were worried sick,” Gloria Jeffries went on. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook with people calling to find out if you’re okay. Who was that man with you? I saw the video.”
As if on cue, Courtney’s face was overplayed with a grainy video shot at the scene of the accident. Coldplay and Martin were speaking over the top of the limo.
Savanna’s gaze shot to Coldplay’s face. Uh oh.
The muscle in his jaw was going crazy, his eyes half lidded. The grip on the remote tightened.
“He’s my bodyguard,” Savanna told her mother. “Have you heard from Parker?”
“Bodyguard? What do you need a bodyguard for? It’s not like you’re a real celebrity, Savanna. This narcissistic streak of yours is really out of control.”
Coldplay turned toward her, his face once again filled with concern.
Great, just what I needed. Not only was her mother calling her a narcissist and condescending to her about her job, Coldplay had overheard her. “Have you heard from Parker?” Savanna repeated.
“What? No. Parker’s fine. I know her as well as I know myself. That girl never got in trouble. Never gave me a minute’s grief. Stop worrying about her, Savanna, and worry about yourself.”
The line went dead.
Savanna hung up and gave Coldplay a what are you going to do shrug. “My mother. She has a low opinion of my show.” As well as me.
He shut off the TV. “Why don’t you get some rest? I need to call Beatrice and set up extra security at the studio if you insist on doing tonight’s show, but I’ll be right outside if you need me. Later, you can fill me in on Westmeyer.”
She hadn’t noticed her legs were shaking until she’d stood. Her arms suddenly felt like boat anchors. A rest might not be a bad idea. “Sure. Help yourself to the contents of the fridge if you get hungry. There are leftovers from last night.”
One corner of his mouth quirked and he gave her a nod that in her Coldplay Dictionary, she thought meant “thanks.”
He closed the door softly behind him and Savanna sank back down on her bed. She’d disappointed her parents, lost her sister, and nearly embarrassed herself to death by jumping her bodyguard. A man whom she was forbidden from even knowing his real name.
For someone who seemed to have it all, she felt like quite a loser.
Chapter Ten
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“I’M ON TV,” Trace said into his cell phone. “Shit.”
Beatrice was, as always, the model of calm. “No one will recognize you. You look totally different than the last time you made the evening news.”
He wanted to believe her but didn’t. “Facial recognition software can identify me. There are people who’ve seen me without a beard and Einstein hair.”
“Rory is tracking down the digital videos shot from people’s phones and has erased most of them via TapShot. He’s also erased the stoplight camera footage—there was nothing helpful about the cargo van—and any of the downloaded videos on peo
ple’s YouTube channels. The single video that remains is the one the news channels possess. It was shot from a distance and the footage is grainy. You have your hat on. I don’t believe anyone would recognize you.”
“Linc Norman will.”
“President Norman already knows you’ve escaped Witcher and that Savanna has hired a bodyguard. Knowing your skill set and the fact she’s not backing down, if I were him, I’d be concerned. I’d want confirmation that the two of you weren’t working together.”
There was a suggestion in her voice. An idea she was patiently leading him too. “You think the assassin was after me?”
“I think he or she was sent to confirm whether you are now working as Savanna’s bodyguard.”
“And I played right into their hands.”
“Your job was to protect her, and that’s exactly what you did.”
“If what you’re suggesting is true, being with me puts her in more danger. The exact opposite of what I was supposed to do.”
“She hasn’t figured out who you are yet, has she?”
He didn’t respond.
“You need to come clean, Trace. For her sake and for yours. The two of you together make a powerful weapon against the president.”
“She insists on doing the show tonight.”
“That surprises you?”
Not really. “The studio is too open with too many unknowns. I need backup.”
“Of course. How many men do you need?”
They discussed the logistics and Trace hung up. He propped his hands on the table in the hall and ground his teeth. He should have left this assignment when he had the chance. Instead, he’d let misguided feelings of honor and his instant attraction to Savanna cloud his judgment. She could have been really hurt in the accident because of him, not because Norman was trying to scare her.
“Coldplay?” Savanna stood in the doorway to her apartment, dressed in her usual workout attire. A little black number with shocking pink stripes molded to her knockout body like a second skin. “I can’t sit still. I need to blow off some steam.”
A dozen different scenarios ran through his mind, every one of them involving her naked. “What do you suggest?”
Her eyes darted around and she looked flustered. Her fingers toyed with the towel she carried and she almost smiled. “This complex has a nice exercise room. I go there to use the bikes and treadmill when the weather is bad.”
He didn’t like crowds and an equipment room could be crowded. Outside in the open was worse, regardless of the cold. But the accident had shaken her up even if she was pretending it hadn’t. He understood her need to release some of that anxiety. “Let me check the security first.”
“This time of day, the residents are all at work. No one’s in there. I’ll have the place to myself.”
Seeing her running in that outfit was going to be quite a distraction, but if the place was empty of other people…
He punched the elevator button. “We’ll check it out. If I don’t like it, we come back here. I’ll put you through some paces.”
Savanna closed the door behind her and this time her smile totally broke free. “Deal,” she said as she walked past him and entered the elevator.
In the enclosed space, he leaned against the railing and discreetly looked down on the top of her head. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail again and smelled nice. The bandage on her neck reminded him to not get distracted before she even got on a treadmill. “How’s the neck?”
The ponytail swung as she looked up at him. “No big deal. I’m sure you’ve had much worse injuries in your line of work.”
He’d been shot multiple times and stabbed as well, but that wasn’t the job she was talking about. He normally didn’t guard a life; he took them.
“You never explained how you called for help during the accident,” she said.
He caught their reflections in the shiny door, her so much shorter than him and at least sixty pounds lighter. Another floor went by, the light over their heads blinking from one number to the next.
“I have a button on my watch.” He held up his wrist for her to inspect the high-tech gadget. “It sends out my coordinates to headquarters and an SOS signal. I was thinking about pushing it right before we were hit.”
“Because of the president’s phone call. You took it as a threat.”
“He is a threat.”
“But how did you know someone was going to run into us?”
“I didn’t.” How could he explain? “Not specifically. I had a gut feeling you were in imminent danger.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that term this week.” The elevator dinged softly upon their arrival to the first floor. “I know my situation is serious, but this all seems so…surreal.”
Trace punched the button to hold the doors closed. “You know the drill. Stay here and let me check things out.”
She gave a single head bob to acknowledge her agreement. He stood in front of her, opened the doors, and saw nothing to make him suspicious. The grand entrance was devoid of people except for the clerk behind the curved marble check-in desk and the middle-aged doorman at the revolving doors up front.
Trace did a full scan anyway, noting every entrance and exit, every light, window, and piece of furniture. Years had passed since doing a mental inventory of every space had been ingrained in his system, but it had never failed to help him down the road. There were many places and situations where you couldn’t take a gun or a knife. An assassin wasn’t limited to standard weapons. Trace could kill with a stick of furniture or a shoestring. A sharpened pencil worked just as well as a bullet in some circumstances.
“Clear,” he said. There were no signs designating the direction of the gym, but he’d studied the blueprints of the building. He motioned her toward the west hallway. “Stay behind me and be ready to move on my command.”
“Wow,” she said. “I feel like I’m in a Bourne movie.”
Trace lost his step for half a second. If only she knew where Robert Ludlum had come up with the idea for Operation Treadstone. The real operation had been called Deadline, but it had spawned Command & Control’s ultimate group of assassin warriors, of which he was the third generation.
“The movies are good,” he said, stopping outside the door to the gym. “The books are better.”
“You’ve read them?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I guess it shouldn’t. It’s just you don’t look like a guy who spends much time at home with a book.”
The gym was as upscale as the rest of the building, a separate one-story wing with skylights, plenty of space between machines, and high-end equipment in pristine condition. Mirrors ran along the walls, interspersed with windows that overlooked a covered pool and, beyond that, a garden area. Even in the grip of early winter, the garden was peaceful and tranquil.
“See?” Savanna said, walking past him. “Empty.”
She was right. It appeared not many of the residents took advantage of the treadmills, bikes, and weight machines. Large screen TVs hanging in every corner were turned off and a shelf unit stood against the wall between the men’s and women’s changing rooms full of undisturbed, fluffy white towels.
His mental scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary, although there were plenty of places for hidden cameras. He locked the door behind them. “I’m going to check out the locker rooms. Be right back.”
“Knock before you enter the women’s. I don’t need old lady Zukaski yelling at me over you invading her privacy.”
Trace gave her an inquisitive look.
Savanna headed for a stationary bike and started hitting buttons on the computer panel between the handlebars. “First floor, apartment 3,” she said. “She’s in her seventies and is hard of hearing, but likes to swim before lunchtime. She should be out of here by now, but just in case.”
He definitely didn’t need to surprise an elderly woman in the shower or scar his own retinas with that image. “Thanks
for the heads-up.”
As instructed, he made sure to warn anyone inside the women’s locker room before he entered. Both it and the men’s were empty.
The security check was quick, but by the time he returned, Savanna had already worked up a sweat on the bike. She was spinning like a mad woman, total focus on the screen in front of her as she climbed some digitalized version of a hilly landscape.
Trace hung back in one corner where he could watch. The door was locked, the entire wing empty. Beatrice had already contacted the building manager about upgrading security at the service doors, and she was lining up a couple of Rock Star guards to help him out tonight at the studio. He’d showered and changed before they’d left the office, popping in new contacts, and shaving. He was ready for the next twenty-four hours, and for a minute, he could drop his hypervigilence and breathe.
The spinning of the bike’s wheels was hypnotic. The movement of Savanna’s long, sculpted legs mesmerizing. Her ass stood out like a neon sign with the bright pink spandex stretched over it, her back leaning forward as she gripped the handlebars. Once again, Trace’s mind went to fantasyland where she was naked, leaning over her bed for him.
Or maybe the back of her couch, or hell, maybe braced against the wall of the elevator while he took her right there.
God, he hadn’t fucked anyone in so long, his mind was on overload. A bulge the size of Kansas appeared down below.
All she had to do was look up and catch him gawking at her in the mirrors and…
He started to force his gaze away but too late. She lifted her head, her gaze zeroing right in on him.
Jerking his focus away, he discreetly crossed his hands in front of the bulge and acted like he was inspecting the stair master machine next to him.
“So we’re at a dead end with Parker?” she said over the whir of the bike.
“Not yet. Her aliases haven’t been used recently, but that means she’s using a different one we don’t know about. Smart, if you think about it. We’re probably not the only ones looking for her and she doesn’t know who she can trust.”
