by Tara Wyatt
She glanced down at his card, still clutched in one hand, now slightly crumpled. “I’ve heard of Virtus,” she said, referring to the security company he ran with his father. The blue-and-gray logo was emblazoned across the top of the card he’d given her. She extended her hand across to him. “I’m Sierra, by the way.”
He nodded. In the back of his brain, he’d recognized her almost immediately, but his concern for her had taken precedence over everything else. “I know. I’m Sean.” He enveloped her small, delicate hand in his, and a warm, electrical tingle worked its way up his arm. Slowly she pulled her hand back, and damn, the friction of her skin against his felt good.
“I know.” She held up the card.
He rubbed a hand over his cheek, his closely cropped beard bristling against his fingers. “Right. So, any idea who might’ve attacked you?” He scanned the quiet parking lot again. No way in hell was anyone getting close to her right now.
She blew out a slow breath and shook her head. “Not a clue.” Some of the color dropped out of her face again, and he knew he needed to keep her talking. The urge to comfort her was nearly overwhelming. He couldn’t change what had happened to her, but he could try to make the present suck a little less. He wanted to ask her about her own security, if she had anyone working for her, but thought that might come off like too much of a sales pitch, and that wasn’t what she needed right now. So he headed in another direction.
“Were you on a panel?” he asked, tipping his head toward the convention center.
She nodded. “Yeah. Family Tree reunion. We do it every year for 90’s Con.”
“I remember that show. You were cute.”
She smiled, fully and genuinely this time, and that smile aimed in his direction felt just as good as the slide of her hand against his. “Thanks. It was a long time ago. I’m surprised people are still interested in it twenty years after the fact, to be honest. Surprised, but glad.”
He tilted his head, considering. “People grew up watching that show. I know I did.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she leaned toward him slightly. “You did?”
“Sure.”
“I guess I thought…I don’t know. That it was mostly dweebs who watched it. It was kind of a goody-goody show.” She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. Fuck, she was cute. His chest tightened again, but this time there was something else there along with the protectiveness.
He arched an eyebrow. “Who’s to say I wasn’t a dweeb?”
She laughed. “I seriously doubt that.” Her eyes skimmed down over his body again, this time leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
“And why’s that?” His eyes met hers, and a flush crawled up her neck and to her cheeks. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, just for a second, and something hot and thick pulsed in the air between them. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and his fingers itched to repeat the motion.
Damn. She wasn’t just cute. She was gorgeous.
“You don’t look like a dweeb,” she said softly.
Several feet away the door swung open again, and Sean leaped to his feet, putting himself between whoever had emerged and Sierra. She stepped out from around him and into the arms of Rory Evans, her former costar and…what, exactly?
“I’ve been looking for you. Are you OK?” he asked as he held her.
She nodded, and Sean was surprised at the jealousy swirling through him at the sight of this woman—who was pretty much a stranger—in someone else’s arms.
“I’m OK. I just needed some air.”
Rory smoothed a hand over her hair, completely ignoring Sean. “The police are here, and they want to get a statement from you about what happened.”
She nodded again, and started to walk back toward the convention center. Turning suddenly, she laid a hand on Sean’s arm, giving it a squeeze. She smiled up at him and it was as if someone were squeezing his heart with a fist.
“Thank you, Sean.” Her hand lingered on his arm for a second, the air between them once again thickening.
How good would it feel to pull her into his arms the way Rory had just done? At least there she’d be safe. “You’re welcome. Listen, if you ever…need anything, give me a call.” He pointed at the card still in her hand, reluctant to let her go, but knowing he needed to get back to the office. Trying to reassure himself she’d be all right, with her friend, or whatever the hell Rory was to her, and the police. “You sure you’re OK?” he asked, wishing he could go back inside with her to keep an eye on her. Not wanting to let her go. It felt…wrong.
Another fierce tug yanked at his chest.
“Yeah. I am.” Her eyes held his for a second, and then she turned, slipping her arm into Rory’s.
Sean pushed a hand through his hair as he watched Sierra walk away, his heart punching against his ribs as she glanced back over her shoulder at him one last time before disappearing back into the convention center. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then he walked back to his SUV. He looked back over his shoulder, contemplating going inside, just for a few minutes, just to make sure everything was under control…yeah. It couldn’t hurt. He’d taken a few steps back toward the convention center when his phone rang, vibrating in his pocket.
“Owens.”
“Who are you sending on the Robinson job?” his father asked, no greeting, just a barking question. Typical.
“Davis and Anderson. Why?” Sean’s jaw tightened, tension seeping down his neck.
“You don’t think it needs a third?”
Sean shook his head, irritated but not surprised that as usual, his dad was questioning his judgment. “It’s a pretty standard job, so no. I think Davis and Anderson can handle it just fine, and keeping it to two keeps it within Robinson’s budget.”
“Uh-huh,” said his father, sounding unconvinced. “This goes wrong, it’s on you.”
“It’ll be fine. They’ve got it, and I’ll check in with them regularly,” said Sean, yanking open the door to his SUV and dropping into the driver’s seat. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, used to his dad’s blaming him for everything that went wrong. But just because he was used to it didn’t mean it went down any easier.
Especially the blame he deserved. After all, it was his fucking fault his mother wasn’t around anymore.
Phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, he pressed the ignition button and tugged his seat belt on.
“You check on De Luca?”
Sean grimaced. “Didn’t get the chance. Something else came up, but I’ll check in with him by phone. I’m sure he would’ve made contact if there were any issues. I’m on my way back to the office now. Did you get the proposal I sent about the revised marketing plan?”
His dad sighed heavily. “It’s a waste of fucking time. Not to mention money.”
Sean leaned his head back against the seat, his jaw clenched tight. Nothing was ever good enough. “Let’s talk about it back at the office.”
“Fine. But it’ll take a lot to convince me you can pull it off.”
Sean almost snorted. Story of his fucking life, right there.
Chapter 2
Sierra walked up the short path from her driveway to her front door, keys jingling in her hand, watching as the sleek black sedan from the car service backed out of the driveway. She shivered as an early-summer breeze ruffled the leaves of the massive sycamore tree in her front yard. It was early June, and the temperature had dipped into the sixties as soon as the sun had set. The soft, sepia-toned glow of dusk enveloped the house, painting the white exterior a muted pink. The house was small compared to most of the others on her street, but it was hers, and it had been home since she’d bought it five years ago. Cozy and warm, it was her sanctuary. Especially on days like today. All she wanted was a bath, a glass of wine, and to snuggle up in bed with a movie. She’d managed to get most of the dye off her skin with a makeup-removal wipe, but her dress was ruined.
She dumped her purse onto the table in the entryway, flipping on the light switch besi
de the door. Her purse, too heavy as always, tipped sideways, spewing its contents across the small table, her phone clattering noisily against the wood as a tube of lipstick made a break for it down the hall. Grumbling, she bent to collect the spilled items, pausing at the slightly crumpled business card.
Sean Owens.
Professional Bodyguard and Security Expert.
Blood rushed to her cheeks, even though she was alone, and she tapped the card against her lips, replaying the all-too-short interaction with Sean, who had to be one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen. The thick dark-brown hair, short on the sides and a bit longer on top. The short, neatly trimmed beard that covered his jaw and framed his full lips. The coffee-colored eyes, warm and rich, with little lines crinkling around the corners. The hint of a scar curving across his left cheekbone and toward his ear, intensifying his rugged appeal. He’d been wearing a navy blue suit, and her stomach did a slow turn as she remembered the way it had clung to his broad frame, emphasizing his wide shoulders. He was tall—very tall, well over six feet—and built, and she’d be willing to bet he had something very good going on underneath that suit.
And then there were his hands. Holy hell, those hands. Large and strong, all wide palms and long, thick fingers. Goose bumps danced up her arms as she remembered the heat that had radiated outward over her skin at his touch. Oh, God, and that smile. Crooked and confident, with straight white teeth.
She could sum up the entire package in one word: yummy.
The truth was, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since she’d walked back into the convention center. While talking to the police about the attack, she’d been thinking about Sean. While assuring Rory and Steven she was OK, she’d been thinking about Sean. While on her way home, speaking with her director at Choices on the phone and reassuring her she was fine, she’d been thinking about Sean. His name buzzed through her brain, over and over again.
She couldn’t explain it, and the fact that she couldn’t unnerved her a little. There’d been something so easy, so simple about sitting with him. He was a total stranger, yet she’d felt completely comfortable with him, and sure, it had something to do with the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, but there was more to it than that. He’d had a quiet confidence that was immensely appealing, and he’d projected—without even trying, it seemed—the ability to take on the world one-handed and win.
He’d earned her trust in under five minutes, which wouldn’t be weird, except for the fact that her trust wasn’t something she gave out freely. And certainly not so quickly.
Something about him had grabbed her and wasn’t letting go.
She stood, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, an eerie tingle running down her spine. She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried to place what was triggering the feeling that something was amiss.
Oh, shit.
Her alarm hadn’t chirped when she came in the door, reminding her to disarm it. She checked the display panel and pressed her fingertips against her mouth, heat prickling across her scalp. It had been disarmed over an hour ago. She distinctly remembered setting it before leaving.
And she lived alone.
Her pulse sped up and her lungs constricted, refusing to pull in enough oxygen. All the anxiety, all the fear, all the awful helplessness of that afternoon came roaring back, and any sense of calm she’d managed to restore vanished. With a trembling hand, she grabbed her phone from the table and cautiously made her way deeper into the house, dialing 9-1-1 and leaving her thumb poised over the call button. She took quiet, cautious steps, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Every single hair on her body stood at attention.
With each step, the muscles of her legs felt less like muscles and more like Jell-O, and her stomach churned uncomfortably. A creeping, prickling sensation teased along the base of her neck as she reached the semi-dark kitchen. Her phone clutched in one hand, she grabbed a kitchen knife from the block on the island with the other, her eyes darting into every corner. A car alarm went off outside and she shrieked, nearly jumping out of her skin and dropping the knife, sending it skittering across the tiled kitchen floor. Quickly she bent and scooped it up, her heart racing as she stepped into the dining room off the kitchen.
She froze at the sight of the message left for her, scrawled across the far wall of the dining room in bright-red paint.
BABY KILLER
Unable to contain the terror making it impossible to move, to breathe, to think, she screamed.
* * *
“Drink?” True to her rock-star reputation, Taylor Ross always had plenty of alcohol on hand, and tonight Sierra was beyond grateful for it.
Taylor didn’t wait for Sierra to answer but headed right for the fridge in her large open-concept kitchen. Overnight bag over her shoulder, Sierra followed her, watching Taylor’s slender six-foot frame as she opened the fridge, her long blond hair falling in messy golden waves down her back.
“God, yes.” Sierra tossed her bag onto the floor and swung herself onto one of the chrome-and-leather stools lined up in front of the stainless steel island in the kitchen. “Please.”
While Taylor opened a bottle of wine and retrieved glasses, Sierra dropped her head into her hands, bone-deep exhaustion weighing on her like lead. Her head throbbed, a hangover from the overdose of adrenaline she’d experienced. And yet she still had the energy to feel angry and violated.
Because feeling angry and violated was better, easier to handle, than feeling helpless and violated. Anger she could do something with. She could harvest strength from anger. But that sickening, crumbling feeling of powerlessness? There was nothing she could do with that except fall apart. And falling apart wasn’t an option.
Taylor folded herself onto the stool beside her and pushed a full glass of wine toward her. She looped an arm around Sierra’s shoulders and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“I’m sorry, babe. This sucks.”
The simple tenderness in Taylor’s words unknotted something deep in Sierra’s chest, and her throat thickened, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Unable to help it, she started to shake, and with a single blink broke the dam. Setting her own wine aside, Taylor wrapped her arms around Sierra, and for several long moments, she did nothing but hold her, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back as she sobbed.
“Yes. This does suck,” Sierra managed to rasp out between shuddering gasps, her face buried against Taylor’s shoulder. She allowed herself the luxury of a few more shaking sobs and then forced herself to take a deep breath, the air bursting into her aching lungs. Pulling back from Taylor, she wiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands, the peace of catharsis settling over her.
“Thank you,” she said, and then took a healthy gulp of her wine.
Taylor rubbed her arm. “I don’t even know how many times you’ve been there for me, Si. You’re my girl, and anything I can do to help, you just let me know.” She gave her arm a squeeze and Sierra shot her a weak smile, beyond grateful for Taylor’s friendship. For nearly ten years they’d been best friends, almost like sisters, and given everything that had happened, Sierra couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be. “So what did the cops say?” asked Taylor. “Beyond the fact that you shouldn’t stay in your house tonight?”
Sierra took another sip of her wine, and then blew out a long, slow breath. “Like I’d want to stay there after what happened.” She shook her head, anger tightening its grip once more. “They said that it looked like someone had tampered with the alarm, and they were still dusting for fingerprints when I left. But the cop said he wasn’t optimistic. Chances are if someone’s smart enough to disable an alarm, they’re smart enough to wear gloves.”
“Do they have any idea who might’ve done this?”
Sierra nodded, picking idly at a thumbnail. “They think it might be this wacked out pro-life activist group called Sacrosanct. In other cities they’ve attacked people associated with Choices, but it’s never hap
pened here in LA. The police are looking into if Sacrosanct has set up some kind of satellite branch here.”
“Fuckers.” Taylor shook her head, her lip curled in disgust.
“They also asked if I could think of anyone who has a grudge against me.”
Taylor tipped her head and held her hands out in front of her, palms up. “You told them about Jack, right?”
Sierra fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Just because we had a bad breakup doesn’t mean he’s out to get me.”
Taylor arched an eyebrow, her long slender fingers drumming against the stainless steel island. “He was pretty pissed when you dumped him, Si. And he never supported your work with Choices.”
“I know. That’s part of the reason I dumped him.”
“The rest of the reason being that he’s a manipulative, controlling asshole who never deserved you and treated you like a decoration?”
Sierra felt herself smile, just a little. “Pretty much, yeah. But still. Breaking into my house and writing ‘baby killer’ on my wall? Throwing a diaper at me in public? That’s not really his style. I know you were never his biggest fan, but you’ve got to admit that this doesn’t seem like something he’d do.” Sierra’s relationship with Jack had been one of those relationships that start out great, but then turn into a game of Jenga. Slowly and surely he’d pulled out brick after brick, each one a bit trickier than the last, and she’d let him, leaving the foundation shaky while shit piled on top. Eventually he’d pulled the wrong brick, and the whole thing had come crashing down. She’d left him, even though he was good-looking, charming, smart, and successful.
As Sierra had found out over time, he was also a bag of dicks.
Taylor pursed her lips, and after a second she half nodded, giving in. “I guess not. It all seems a bit beneath a state senator, doesn’t it?”
Sierra nodded. “And I haven’t even talked to Jack in months. The cops said this all fits with Sacrosanct’s activities in other cities. Jack might be a jerk, but he was never violent or threatening.”
