by Zoe York
“And it’s not an easy flight to make on the way to Washington, either.” He stood up and paced back a few steps. “Which brings us to option three. A variation on the truth.”
Had he stepped back so she wouldn’t freeze him with her chilly response? Because no. No, no, no. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“It wasn’t mine,” he said, his brows knitting together. “But Zander made some convincing arguments. And I’m not sure he’s wrong. Obviously, you don’t name Track as the source of your anxiety. Shift it to paparazzi, performance anxiety, a minor medical diagnosis, something else. Anything else, really. Something benign enough to not be a real threat, but understandable to the average person as anxiety-inducing for someone under a lot of stress.”
“To the average person, maybe.” She stood up, too, even though it didn’t give her any advantage for going toe-to-toe with Dean. Not that he was pushing her into a fight, but her skin prickled defensively anyway. “But Track will see right through that, because he knows. And I’ve got an album waiting for his approval.”
“Then maybe he’s going to see through whatever we do anyway. And this way, you’re not lying to him. The truth is always a good place to be.”
“I might be declaring war.”
“I know a thing or two about winning wars, too.” What was with this guy’s eyes? Once he locked his gaze on hers, he had her trapped in a sea of promised understanding.
But what if he couldn’t deliver?
What if this blew up in her face?
“I need to think about it,” she whispered.
He nodded, and his eyes got even softer. “I know. We can move on.”
* * *
— —
* * *
They worked straight through lunch, Liana entertaining him with thorough, maybe even exaggerated biographies of her band and the tour crew. They covered drugs, alcohol, and all other vices she thought he ought to know about. The list was surprisingly short.
He asked if she wanted him to be aware of all her comings and goings.
“Is that really necessary?”
“That would depend on the cover story.”
Which brought them full circle back to the explanation for Dean’s appearance on the tour. After discussing the pros and cons of each option, she reluctantly agreed that the third one made the most sense, although the light in her eyes dimmed as she gave in, and he hated that it was necessary.
By the time Ryan and Hope returned with the kids, Dean was feeling good about all the ground they’d covered, and he wanted to leave her with a little emotional reserve left in the tank. He’d booked flights for the next day that required leaving in the middle of the night, and he wanted her to have some down time, too. Bonding with Hope.
But when that bonding turned out to be a run, he changed his mind. “Can I join you?”
“Do you…” She looked him up and down. “We’re pretty fast.”
He laughed. They were both fit women, but Foster men chewed miles for fun. “Yeah. I run. I’ve got stuff in my truck.”
Forty-five minutes later, he was eating that laugh—right along with Liana’s dust.
It wasn’t that she was faster than him, exactly. It was that she was relentless. The woman didn’t flag, at all. Dean would pick up the speed and get alongside her, but there was an ebb and flow to his comfort with running, even after twenty-five years of racing his brothers. He would have sworn everyone had that point in a run that bugged them. Early on, while everything was getting warmed up. Or later, maybe a stitch in the side or a twinge in the shin. Even needing a bit of water because it was suddenly hot as balls.
Nope, not Liana. Her tight little body just bounced ahead of him, steady as a metronome. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Step, step, step, step. Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce.
When he stumbled because his eyes had gotten tangled up in the general vicinity of her ass, he thought about crying uncle, but he gritted his teeth and stuck it out. If for no other reason than he’d needed this private warning about how good she looked in Lycra, he was glad he’d come out with them.
Now he needed them to turn around and head back to the house.
Any second, ladies.
Tick, tick, tick.
As if they weren’t completely drenched in sweat, Hope casually glanced at her watch. “Turn around?” she asked Liana.
“Sure,” his client said, hardly out of breath at all. “Keep it nice and quick today.”
He managed to rearrange his facial features into something neutral by the time they’d spun around and sped past him back down the trail that snaked behind Hope’s house.
Nice and quick.
So maybe by the end of this gig he’d be able to kick his brother Sean’s ass in a race, just in time to send the little shit off to Iraq.
He pulled up to Liana and she flashed him the first completely carefree smile he’d seen from her. “Someone’s found his stride.”
“I was thinking of my brother. If you run like this often, by the time I get back from your tour I’ll be able to kick his ass. And he races semi-professionally.”
“Does he?” She raised her eyebrows. “What kind of races?”
“Marathons, Ironman, ultra-endurance. He’s not the fastest guy—he’s built like me, so we’re carrying a lot of weight on us. But he can do twenty, fifty, even trains up to a hundred kilometres. Just keeps going as others drop off.”
“Awesome.” She puffed a breath at a loose strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. “I’ve never tried anything longer than a marathon.”
He was distantly aware of the fact that they’d sped up a bit, and Hope had fallen back, but he didn’t care that he was running faster than his usual nine-minute-mile. He’d hit his stride, finally. “Neither have I. Honestly, a half-marathon is really my comfort zone.”
“How many fulls have you done?”
“Three.” And hated each of them.
“Well, that’s why!” She laughed, and he wanted to groan, because how did she have any spare oxygen for laughing? “The first five sucked for me.”
“And you kept doing them.” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.
“Of course. I had a goal.”
Right. Of course. He nodded. “I do get it, intellectually. I see that same fire in my brother. But I can’t get that focused in my training. I prefer to be the cop on the motorcycle ensuring the route is safe.”
“It’s not for everyone.” She leapt over a thick exposed root, her legs flashing in a splash of sunlight that poured in through a break in the leafy canopy.
“It’s not that running’s bad. I mean, I like it.”
“I meant the hard training.”
“I like that, too.” Although he preferred running for the competitive push. He was more of a hit-the-gym guy for training hard.
“Yeah?” She gave him a look he didn’t decipher until it was too late. “Then race you back to the house.”
And like a shot, she was off. Hope pulled up to him and together they watched her sprint like she hadn’t already been going for more than an hour.
“Better catch her,” Hope said as their feet churned.
“Not sure I can,” he said, not giving a crap that his voice was full of awe.
Chapter Eight
DEAN picked her up the next morning at three a.m.—dark o’clock, according to him.
He said it like a joke, but also like he knew what an early call time was and she obviously didn’t.
Ha. Joke was on him. She’d done more morning talk shows than almost anyone in Nashville. She worked hard for every inch of success she gained. Plus first-thing flights weren’t an uncommon thing, either.
And she knew how to do that, not just without whining, but in something that approached style. She was waiting for him with her bags packed, dressed and ready to go. Her hair was braided into a thick rope that curled around her neck and over her shoulder. The odds weren’t high that she’d have her picture taken, but just in
case, she liked to dress in such a way that she still looked halfway decent at the end of a long trip. This morning that meant a black t-shirt which she wore over black leggings. On her feet were black slip-on flats.
She had traveling down to a science, a fact Dean commented on as she slid into his SUV.
“Don’t be so surprised,” she muttered.
Instead of responding, he pointed to a travel mug in the centre console.
“Coffee?”
He smirked.
She lifted the mug and took a tentative sniff. Jasmine tea. She smiled despite herself. “You’re full of surprises.”
He just laughed. “I took a wild guess you might be one of those people who prefer green tea.”
“Bag in or out?” she asked just to be difficult.
He punished her by waiting until he’d steered them onto the highway before responding.
“Out,” he finally answered. “But there’s another tea bag in the console if it’s not strong enough, princess.”
She gave him a genuine smile. “Awesome. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He drove quickly and confidently, and before long they were leaving the dense tree line of the peninsula behind, his headlights showing her more farm country and small towns as they sped toward the city.
She sipped her tea, then closed her eyes. Repeated that a few times. But she was too keyed up to rest, and the car was oddly quiet.
He glanced over at her, as if he was thinking the same thing. Before she could suggest turning on the radio, he beat her to the punch. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
She laughed. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you don’t like country all the time.”
“Born and raised in Tennessee. It’s in my blood.”
He turned on the radio and found a station, but it was on a commercial, so he turned it down again. “Ever lived anywhere else?”
“Not for any length of time. I’ve traveled all over the world, though.”
“Favourite place?”
“Nashville.”
He laughed. “Outside of your job.”
“No such thing.”
“Ah.”
She gave him a weird look. “What are you doing?”
“We have a five hour drive to the airport. I’m making conversation.”
“Oh.”
He laughed. “For a celebrity, your social skills are a bit rusty.”
“My social skills are just fine.”
“Nobody pushes you to really talk, do they?”
“Are you nominating yourself to be my therapist, too?”
“Do you have one of those?”
“Hell no.”
He didn’t say anything, just gave an appraising nod and turned his attention back to the road.
“Do you think I need one?”
“Far be it from me to say,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not.
“Is that a northern equivalent of Bless Your Heart?”
He laughed. “That’s how you southern girls say fuck you, right?”
She fluttered her eyelashes and lifted her shoulders delicately. “Perhaps. It can mean a lot of things.”
This time his nod was slower, more appreciative, and it took him longer to glance back to the road. “Ah. I see it now.”
“What?”
“This is how you charm people.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“I think you’re something.” He turned up the volume again, finding a reasonable level where conversation would still be possible—just no longer necessary.
“And that’s how you charm people, isn’t it?”
His eyebrows lifted, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. She turned in her seat and studied his profile.
“It is. This no-nonsense persona…this is your shtick.”
“I don’t have a shtick.”
She blew a raspberry. “Everyone does. There’s your real self, deep down inside, that only you know. Then there’s your side that you show to your friends and family. Everyone else? Unless you’re completely gullible, you show everyone else a persona. Limited, carefully constructed…what you want them to see. And I doubt that a cop is gullible. Ergo…this is your persona.”
He glanced at her quickly, then back to the road. “So you’re a cynic as well as a fatalist.”
“And you’re very good at changing the subject.”
He shrugged. “Okay. I accept your hypothesis. We all have masks we wear. Tell me about yours?”
She snorted and leaned forward, turning up the radio another notch. “Maybe another time,” she muttered as Kenny Chesney started singing.
* * *
— —
* * *
Liana had this little habit Dean had already noticed—she made a conscious effort to relax her facial muscles. They were nearly at the airport now, and her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep.
She was way too tense to be asleep—everywhere except her face. She held her body stiffly, but every few minutes she lifted and then relaxed her facial muscles.
Eyebrows up, relax.
A delicate yawn that looked like a cover for stretching her cheeks, relax.
She even rolled her chin, and once when he was pretty sure her eyes were going to stay closed for a bit, he tried to mimic it.
Made himself laugh in the process.
God, she was so high-maintenance. What the hell was he getting himself into?
He navigated off the feeder highway onto the major expressway, cutting quickly across traffic to get to the exit he wanted. At least he had his car at the airport. When this whole thing was over, he was just a flight away from regaining his freedom.
Gunning the engine to overtake another car that was taking its sweet-ass time merging, he got them into the exit for the airport and followed the signs to the terminal they wanted.
“Nearly there,” he said quietly, in case she was actually resting.
“Pretty sure your maniac driving gave that away,” she said under her breath.
Definitely not resting.
Once he’d found a spot close to the exit stairwell in long-term parking, he gave her his full attention. “Want to go over any of it again?”
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
She wasn’t good. She was pale and the muscles around her mouth and eyes were suddenly tense. But she was also strong, and he wouldn’t undermine that by questioning her. “Hey.” He reached across and set his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I should, though. I should be able to.”
“Says who?”
She shrugged, and in that moment, she looked so small, and yet still so fierce, he wanted her to see what he saw.
He reached past her and flipped down the sunshade on her side. He pointed at the small mirror there. “Look at her.”
She smirked. “Dang, she looks tired.”
No, she looked beautiful, but that was beside the point. “What else do you see?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see a survivor. A star. Someone who works hard and keeps going, no matter what.”
“I ran away.”
“Hardly. Did you miss any shows?”
Worry rippled across her face. “I might have.”
“You know what I think? You went to Hope because you knew she’d let you lie low, and then she’d pick you up and kick your ass back onto the road.”
She laughed and turned toward him. “Is that what you think?”
“Am I wrong?” He held her gaze, not wanting her to duck again.
Her eyes got wide, but she didn’t look away. A flicker of something started, way deep, then it got stronger.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Look at you, tough girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Any time.”
* * *
— —
* * *
The flight was over too q
uickly, and they found a driver waiting for them at Dulles Airport. Dean gave the guy a friendly nod, handing over their bags, but he opened her door himself, keeping her blocked from possible onlookers as she buckled up. Only when the driver was ready to go did Dean hurry around to the other side and slide in beside her.
They didn’t talk at all on the way to the hotel.
She texted Jackie. We’ve landed. Heading to the hotel. Where are you guys?
It didn’t take long for her guitarist to pick up on the deliberate slip. We?
Doctor’s orders. A security specialist who has training in anxiety management.
She watched the dots start and stop on her screen as Jackie considered her response. Finally, she sent back, Anything I need to know about him? What’s the story?
Suddenly Liana was grateful that they’d gone with Zander’s idea. No cover story. I’ve developed performance anxiety and it’s manageable, but I need support. Dean is that support.
The truth. It might just set her free.
His name is Dean?
Liana glanced over at her bodyguard, who was watching the jam-packed Washington traffic with a frown. Yes. He’s very nice.
I bet.
Stop it.
You want me to tell the others not to stare at the sexy bodyguard?
He’s not… Stop it. Dean glanced over at her furiously typing fingers, then back out the window again. She tried and failed not to blush as she fired off a second rebuttal message. Really, he’s nice. He’s Canadian. Very polite. And nobody is allowed to think he’s sexy.
Jackie’s last response came in as they pulled up to the hotel. Got it. Nice and off-limits. Heads up, Track is in the lobby.
Liana groaned and slinked lower in her seat as Dean got out of the car and went around to open her door. Where are you?
Also in the lobby, waiting for you. Holy shit, is that him?
These were exactly the kind of text messages she’d rather not have on her phone. She turned it off and grabbed her sunglasses instead. Time to armour up.
Head down, she stepped out of the car and into the shadow of Dean’s body. “Track is in the lobby,” she said quietly. “Jackie just gave me the heads up.”
