Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  She heard Baby Blue’s voice in the background, reaching her through a hollow tunnel as he asked the officer some questions. She walked numbly across the living room, skirting an overturned end table to get to an open window and the fresh air scented of summer roses and lilies that she suddenly needed. She glanced jerkily around the house, unable to shake the sensation of being caught in the crosshairs of a rifle scope.

  Perfect. Now her paranoia came with details.

  Outside, a soft, hot Mississippi breeze rustled the trees in this quiet suburban neighborhood. She could hear the shouts of children playing in their yards, smell suppers cooking on grills nestled on patios opening onto neatly manicured lawns.

  It was the kind of neighborhood she’d dreamed of living in when she was a little girl. Quiet and clean.

  Safe.

  Her reality, however, had never been any of those things. Her reality had leaned more toward rusted-out trailer houses with weedy dirt yards where mangy dogs fought rats for the garbage rotting in overflowing trash cans. And where crack houses flourished every four blocks.

  Instead of flower scents, she remembered the scent of stale, spilled beer or, if her mother had scored a “visitor,” the whiskey that had been her drink of choice.

  “Come on, snooks.”

  She started when Max’s voice and bracing hand on her arm brought her back to the moment.

  “Let’s get you out of here. If the local Barneys want to talk to you again, they’ve got mine and Jase’s cell numbers.”

  She didn’t argue. More than anxious to leave, she let Max guide her out the door as Wilson dealt with the throng of reporters lurking like gnats and yapping like dogs and help her into the waiting Lincoln they’d rented at the airport. An hour later they were airborne in her private jet.

  Janey closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the plush leather headrest, and steadied herself by breathing deep of perfectly conditioned air. Alice Perkins was dead. She’d died a violent, solitary death outside a run-down bar—probably at the hands of someone whose blood alcohol level had rivaled that of the woman whose life had been taken.

  Liver disease. Suicide. Janey had always thought that was how it would end for her mother. That was the call she’d always anticipated. But this. This was just one more grievous insult to a sad and wasted life that could have been so much more.

  She wished she could cry. She wished she could feel something . . . something more than empty . . . as if someone had used a rusty knife to carve a gaping hole in her chest.

  How a hole could have a presence she didn’t know. But the weight of it stayed with her—along with a persistent, nagging sense that someone was watching every move she made.

  Friday, July 14th, Atlantic City Hilton, New Jersey “You’re not going to believe what happened.” Chris Ramsey wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and rummaged through her suitcase for her green silk blouse. She liked the way it looked with her red hair. Liked the new short and sassy cut she’d gotten before joining Sweet Baby Jane’s Fire and Soul tour.

  Quincy Taylor, Chris’s longtime lover, an independent movie producer, was sitting poolside back in California. “Babe, I’d believe damn near anything you told me after some of the tape you’ve sent. This documentary is going to make you the most sought-after videographer in L.A.”

  Which was exactly what Chris was shooting for when she’d wangled her way into Sweet Baby Jane’s inner circle. She’d begged. She’d bribed. She’d called in favors. And it was all paying off. Janey Perkins’s mother—a drunk, from what Chris had been able to dig up—was dead, the victim of a hit-and-run. This kind of drama was going to be the power boost that propelled Chris’s career to that A-list level.

  Quickly, sparing little detail, she filled Quincy in on Alice Perkins’s death. “And on top of that, Edwin Grimm—the guy who was convicted of stalking her three years ago? He’s been released from prison. They’ve hired a full-time bodyguard to protect her because of it.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Almost giddy with the scent of success, Chris laughed and flopped to her back on the hotel bed. “I’m so high, if you were here right now, I swear I’d take you on a ride you’d never forget.”

  Quincy groaned, which made her laugh. “You’re killing me here, babe.”

  “Speaking of killing,” she rolled to her side, propped herself up on an elbow, “wouldn’t it be something if Sweet Baby Jane ended up dead, too, before this was all over?”

  Quincy made a sound of agreement. “Yeah. Wouldn’t that be something? This Grimm character—you thinking he’s going to come after her again?”

  Chris smiled. “He almost killed her once.”

  “The world loves a dead artist, I always say. Think of the bucks you’d make off this documentary then.”

  “Way ahead of you there, pal.”

  “Going to be interesting to wait this out, see what unfolds, huh?”

  “You know me, Quin. I’m not the waiting kind.”

  “Say what? What are you up to?”

  Chris laughed at the shock in Quincy’s voice. He had her pegged. She’d been known to “help things along” from time to time to elevate the drama level of a story. “Nothing. I’m up to nothing. Don’t mind me, okay? Too many late nights. Love you, babe. I’ve got to go.”

  She headed for the shower after she hung up with Quincy, who would be shocked if he knew how much Chris thought about Janey Perkins’s demise. Thought about it so much, in fact, that sometimes it scared her. She’d even caught herself plotting ways to facilitate Janey’s death.

  She’d never actually do it, of course—but it wasn’t against the law to think about it, right?

  “The world loves a dead artist.”

  The play this film would get if Sweet Baby Jane suddenly turned up dead would make Chris a fortune.

  She lathered up her hair, thinking that she’d been chasing the dream of megasuccess for the last ten of her thirty-one years. Near misses. Always, the best she came up with were near misses. She’d watched competitors upstage and outgun her time and time again. And she hated—absolutely hated—that her career was going nowhere.

  But . . . if a famous star whom Chris just happened to be filming ended up getting whacked. Well. An almost orgasmic shiver eddied through her. Hell, she could end up optioning her footage for millions.

  She dried her hair, then got dressed for the meet she’d set up for later tonight. Had to be tonight, because Janey Perkins would return to the tour here in Atlantic City tomorrow.

  “Yeah. It would sure be something if Janey Perkins ended up dead,” Chris said aloud, and headed out the door for her appointment.

  Okay. Dead might be going a little too far—but a close call . . . well, that was something she might be able to make happen. And she knew just whose buttons to push to do it.

  Saturday, July 15th, two days after the funeral, Gold’s Gym, Atlantic City

  Janey felt the impact from her ankle to her hip as she aimed a hard kick that landed her heel dead center in her opponent’s midsection. When he doubled over, she pivoted and clipped Bryce Jennings behind the ear with her calf, dropping him like a stone.

  The gym’s trainer fell to the mat with a thudding grunt. “Mother of God. Who’ve you been taking lessons from? Bruce Lee?”

  Sweat dripped into her eyes and down the small of her back. The hair she’d drawn into a loose tail on top of her head was drenched and falling into her face; her breath came fast and deep. She was revved and she was rockin’. And she’d gotten carried away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drop you so hard.”

  To his credit, Bryce laughed as he rolled to a sitting position. “The hell you didn’t.”

  Janey conceded with a guilty smile, Okay. She’d put her all into that kick. She’d needed contact. She’d needed crunch. She’d been more than edgy lately, and poor Bryce had just borne the brunt of her excess tension. “Well . . . I’m still sorry. I should have pulled the kick.”

  “Hey—you took
me clean. You’re out of my league, Ms. Perkins. Who did you train with?”

  “Actually, she’s self-taught.” Max entered the closed workout room along with Baby Blue—who was, in part, responsible for her need to let off steam—on his heels. Max’s voice bounced off the walls of the cavernous room that had been reserved and emptied to protect Janey’s privacy.

  “And I pity the fool who catches her on a bad day,” Max added in his best Mr. T voice.

  Bryce lifted his hand. “Pity me then,” he said, and let Max tug him to his feet.

  Janey bent over to snag a towel off the mat—only to find Wilson had already picked it up. He held it out to her, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest of moments. He smelled of summer heat and sunshine, and clean. He always smelled so damn clean. And he looked better in worn jeans and black T-shirts than any man had a right to look.

  “Thanks,” she said, both surprised and—and what? Aware? Intrigued? Or maybe just puzzled by the vibrations she picked up from him from time to time. Vibrations that sometimes made her think he might be feeling some of the same physical heat that she was.

  Which was just plain stupid, she conceded, wiping her face and neck. Just like her fascination with him was stupid.

  Rent-a-hunks were a dime a dozen. He was one of hundreds she’d dealt with on many tours. Maybe she was struggling with all this physical awareness because unlike the others, he was going to be around for the duration. A part of her life.

  Max had already started extricating himself from her daily routine, and Wilson was taking up the slack. Professionally, competently. Quietly leaving her to herself. Where she had plenty of time to study him. And speculate. And fantasize, which was something new for her since she was, as Max liked to remind her, too grounded in reality for her own good.

  But with Wilson, it was like constantly staring at the cover of an intriguing book—but never being offered the opportunity to open it up. Look inside. See if there was substance to match the beautifully designed packaging.

  You spend way too much time looking at that package, she told herself, dragging the towel over her chest and, in the process, feeling the burn in her muscles when she stretched. She’d needed this. Needed the physical outlet. She just wished the workout had burned off a little more tension.

  And she wished she could quit thinking about her mother’s death. Just like she wished she could shake the untenable sensation of being watched. And she wasn’t referring to the way Baby Blue’s gaze made a quick survey of her in her damp workout clothes before he averted his gaze to Max. Always in the back of her mind was the reality of Edwin Grimm.

  “Shake a leg, snooks,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “We’ve got to move.”

  Janey groaned. “Is the hour up already?”

  “ ’Fraid so. Time to lock and load. Traffic’s a bitch, and judging from the size of the mob waiting by the back door, word leaked out that you’re here. We’ll be cutting the photo session close.”

  “How does that happen?” she sputtered, and headed for the shower. “How does that always happen?”

  No matter where she went, no matter how secretive and careful they were, someone always found her. The fans she could handle. She loved her fans. But not the press. They were relentless.

  Her hair was still wet as, dressed in a pumpkin-colored leather hip-hugger mini, a gold halter top, and the Celtic cross she never went anywhere without now, she braved the crowd waiting in the sweltering heat on the south side of the building. Max and Wilson helped her run the gauntlet to the car that had been hired to take her to the beach, where a photo shoot was set up on the boardwalk for a spread in Vogue.

  She smiled and waved to her fans, then dove into the backseat beside Max. It all felt so surreal sometimes. So surreal that she often wondered if she were living someone else’s life. She had her very own $30-million jet and a layout in Vogue, for God’s sake.

  And sometimes, she thought absently as she stared at the hard, clean lines of Baby Blue’s profile as he vigilantly scanned the mob outside the car for trouble, she wondered what it would feel like to work off a bit of her tension with her bodyguard.

  Sunday morning, July 16th, Atlantic City Hilton Jase rapped a knuckle on his charge’s closed bedroom door the morning after another sold-out concert. “Wakie wakie. Chow’s here.”

  As of today, he was alone in the suite with the superstar. Max had made the move into a separate suite of his own so he could get some work done.

  Jase was a little nervous about the new arrangement. It was bound to make for a lot of up-close and personal day-to-day contact, and as unlikely as it seemed, he’d been picking up some pretty hot vibes from the rocker lately.

  At least he thought he was picking up something. Wishful thinking? Hell no. Just . . . a gut feeling was all. And probably a crock. By her standards, he was an aw-shucks country clod. She was a star. And he was delusional.

  In the meantime, he’d showered and dressed—thinking the five-star hotels the small entourage frequented were whopping steps up from the housing at Bat and the fleabag motels he was used to—by the time breakfast arrived.

  He’d risen around seven and, according to his bodyguard slash butler duty roster, ordered room service—bacon, eggs, hash, and coffee for him, fruit and chai latte for her. According to the folder, it was her standard breakfast. Once a week she indulged in crème brûlée oatmeal.

  And wasn’t that damn special?

  Actually, it was. So far, the God’s honest truth was that the woman had surprised the hell out of him, he admitted, glancing toward her closed bedroom door. He’d expected spoiled. He’d expected demanding. And he’d expected to be disgusted—regardless of the package she came wrapped in.

  Instead of spoiled, demanding, and disgusting, he’d seen the grace and strength with which she’d handled her mother’s death. She’d been steady under some pretty heavy fire, there. And she didn’t obsess or boo-hoo or “poor me” about Grimm—even though she had good reason to. The creep had to be a constant source of concern for her.

  Jase had watched her after several concert dates now, kept expecting her to join in on the decadence. But she always left the booze alone, opting for water instead. Now and then he caught a whiff of weed at one of those gatherings, but she never smoked any of it. And she never disappeared to the head for a hit of something to keep her high.

  He’d seen dope-induced skinnies before. She was slim, but she wasn’t wasted. She was fit and fine. And she worked hard at it—the proof was in the way she’d laid out that trainer the other day.

  So yeah, so far she was a huge surprise. And every surprise so far was going to make his job easier. He’d been envisioning tailing her from club to club during the next six months, fighting off crowds, keeping her out of trouble. He’d also figured he’d have to put up with Derek McCoy sniffing around, but Jase was beginning to wonder if the tabloids had missed the mark on that one. Oh, McCoy had the hots for her all right—but Janey never gave him much more than a cursory glance.

  So, unless she was on her good behavior for Jase’s sake—which he highly doubted—they both just might live through this without too many complications. Well, except the obvious ones he’d been hired to handle.

  When fifteen minutes had passed and she still hadn’t shown, he walked back to her bedroom door and knocked again.

  “Miss Perkins. You wanted to get up early so you could get a run in this morning.” She’d decided that instead of working out—which she did five days a week, even on the road—at the local gym, she wanted to jog on the beach this morning.

  “Miss Perkins?”

  Nothing.

  Jase stared at the door, drew a deep breath, and bit the bullet he’d been trying to dodge. He was going to have to go in there.

  He inched open the door.

  “Miss Perkins?”

  Nothing.

  On a heavy breath, he poked his head inside.

  And damn near swallowed his tongue.

  She
was still asleep all right . . . and the tabloids had missed a particular juicy tidbit. Sweet Baby Jane slept in the nude. And apparently, she was a restless sleeper.

  She’d kicked off the covers. Left nothing to the imagination. She lay on her back, all slim curves and small, fine breasts bare to the world, berry-pink nipples puckered tight. Her left leg was bent, knee elevated, her heel dug into the bedding.

  The right leg—sweet Christ—the right leg was positioned to give him a clear view that answered another popular tabloid question. Sweet Baby Jane was a natural blonde.

  And that wasn’t all. He swallowed thickly, then glanced up to make certain she was asleep. Her eyes were closed, her hair splayed wildly on the pillow, one hand flung up over her head.

  The other hand—sweet, sweet, sweet Christ—the other lay low over her abdomen where a tattoo of a clef note tucked low toward that spot where her fingertips, wet and glistening, curved into that silky nest of pale blond curls.

  Lord Jesus God, give me strength.

  His brain finally engaged, and he backed out of the room. Shut the door behind him.

  Heart hammering, he leaned back against it. Wiped an unsteady hand over his face. Let out a serrated breath that had been stuck in his chest since he’d opened that damn door.

  It couldn’t have been more than a second, maybe two, that he’d stood there. Hell, it had taken that long to bumble past the shock.

  Never should have opened that door.

  Never should have looked.

  He wasn’t a voyeur. Wasn’t a freaking Peeping Tom. And he could have lived forever without the image of all that sultry, sexy woman heat lying there, obviously drifting on the downside of a little self-gratification, indelibly burned into his brain.

  But he had opened it. And he had looked.

  And he would never forget what he had seen.

  He was in some deep shit here.

  Okay. Deep breath. Get a grip. It never happened.

  He spun around. Pounded hard on the door.