by LJ Garland
The sound of Jackson’s chair squeaking as he sat filtered across the line. “I’m not surprised. What does surprise me is it took this long for your first stalker to take notice.”
She gulped. “First stalker?”
“Yep. And you’re damn lucky he’s sending roses. Two years ago before you came onboard, Sheridan got a box here, and inside there was a—”
“Okay, okay! I get the point.” She clenched the blanket, her mind whirring with unbidden images of what could’ve inside the box.
“Anyway, since you told me about the mysterious disappearing PicTalk video, I’ve been thinking.”
Dawson reappeared from the back of the house. As he strode past her, she waved at him, and he returned the gesture then headed to the kitchen.
She burrowed deeper into the couch cushions. “I’m not liking the sound of this,” she groused.
“Hey, at Deep Insights we dig deep, right? So, since you have a stalker, I want you to do a piece on—”
“Whoa. I’m already working on a story.” She sat up. “The Perfect Wedding piece.”
“When I hired you, O’Neill, I thought you were a multi-tasker and a top-notch reporter. You can’t work on more than one story at a time?”
“Well, yeah, I can do two stories at—”
“And this story?” He pushed on. “With the unique perspective of the person on the receiving end while being stalked? It hasn’t been done.”
“But…isn’t this kind of dangerous?” She snorted. “It’s not like I can call the police for protection.”
“Are you backing out on me, O’Neill?”
“What? No, I’m not backing out.”
“And let’s get real here.” His chair squeaked, and she imagined him leaning back in it like he often did. “What has this stalker been sending you anyway?”
“Roses. He’s been sending me roses.”
“Exactly. If it had been anything like what Sheridan got, I wouldn’t even be suggesting this. But roses? It’s clear this guy thinks he’s in love with you. So, we play that angle.” He talked faster, seeming to like his idea better and better. “We could do a segmented piece, milk it for the advertisers. Maybe get picked up by a national magazine or primetime news. This is huge. Unprecedented.”
“Wait, Jackson.” Someone needed to talk sense into this guy. “What if something goes wrong. Like someone gets hurt…or he tries to kidnap me or something?” The thought made her queasy.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he growled. “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, go to one of those spy shops.”
“A spy shop?”
“Yeah. Pick up a tracking device or something.”
“O-okay.” She glanced toward the kitchen. Dawson was nowhere in sight, but the scent of fresh-brewing coffee wafted to her. No doubt he could hear every word she said. What would he think of her conversation with her boss? He certainly hadn’t signed on for anything like this. She really should leave. Do these wedding/stalking stories on her own. “What about my stuff? My purse and clothes?”
“I’ll have Hugh bring your belongings to you.”
“I’ll need a new phone. Make sure the sim card has been pulled on the one I left in the bridal boutique. And the battery. The stalker threatened Hugh, too. I don’t want anything happening to him.”
He gave a rough chuckle. “Already done.”
A bit of relief trickled through her. “What about the wedding dress?”
“Already paid for. You keep it.”
“Keep it?” Gawd. Why in the world would he think I’d want that white monstrosity?
“Sure. Besides, I won a bet with Hugh that helped cover the cost.” He laughed. “So, think you can make it without your purse till tomorrow?”
She glanced toward the kitchen again. “He can’t meet till then?”
“I’ve got him on a couple stories.”
“I don’t know….”
Dawson came out of the kitchen, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand, and sat next to her on the couch. “Ask him if he’s heard of Pat’s Irish Pub.”
Guilt pinched her. She really should leave him out of this mess.
He handed her a cup of coffee then set his large, warm hand on her knee. She stared down to where he touched her. Tingles raced over her skin. How could a simple gesture make her feel so many different things at one time—desirable and sexy, yet supported and safe?
“Ask him.” His gravelly tone drew her focus, and she looked up, meeting his blue gaze. Serious. Sincere. Reassuring. And so incredibly hot.
She spoke into the phone while she stared into Dawson’s eyes. “Jackson, do you know Pat’s Irish Pub?”
“Of course.”
She angled the phone away from her mouth and spoke to Dawson. “He knows the place.”
“We’ll be there tomorrow by seven.”
She relayed the information then ended the call. “He says Hugh will be there.”
He took a deep drink of his coffee then pushed to his feet. “I’d say we need to get going. We need to buy you some clothes.”
She glanced down at the T-shirt he’d given her. “I like the team logo.”
“You can keep the shirt. I have plenty of others.” He gestured toward her with his mug. “But my clothes are a little baggy on you. I think we can find something that fits you better.
Chapter Seven
Dawson tucked the half dozen assorted shopping bags into the back of his MINI Cooper. I thought women were supposed to be indecisive when it comes to shopping. How did Sophie pick out so much stuff in a little over an hour and a half at the mall? Must be some type of record. Not that he’d minded following her around from store to store and bending his credit card a little for her.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he glanced at her. She must have picked up a push-up bra, too, because her breasts look even more enticing. Or is it that tight dark-green sweater that makes her look so hot?
Once she’d completed her purchases, Sophie went into the mall bathroom to change. She’d gone in with that sexy-cute look, wearing his college T-shirt and shorts, but holy crap…when she re-emerged? All the blood in his head had shot south—instant hard-on. The green sweater and navy pants accentuated her lush curves. And he’d always loved women in high heels, but those stilettos? Instant fan. Each step she took in those five-inch heels made her hips sway and his mouth water.
You are in deep, bro. He pushed the key into the ignition and started the car.
“Thank you, Dawson.” Her sweet voice drew his focus. “I’ll pay you back.”
“No worries.”
She faced forward. “You really shouldn’t have to deal with my crazy life issues.”
“Everybody has issues. Baggage. Stuff.” Reaching over, he set his hand on her thigh. “You didn’t ask to be harassed.”
“No, I didn’t.” She faced him. “And you didn’t ask to be thrown into the middle of this, either.”
“Maybe not.” He stared into her eyes as the sunlight illuminated the tiny gold flecks sprinkled among the green. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
A soft smile curved her lips. “I appreciate that.”
“So where do we go first?”
“Brickhouse Spy Supply.”
He arched a brow. “A spy shop. Awesome.”
Thirty minutes later, he followed her once again as she strolled from one rack of items to the next then perused the shelves. She picked up several items, looked each over then set it down again. She may have been decisive at the mall, but here she seemed unsure.
He picked up a box with a pen inside. “What are you looking for exactly?”
“A location device.” She set a tiny camera on the shelf. “Something that can track me in case….”
“Hey, nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“I know.” She lifted her chin. “But, you know, Jackson wanted me to get something. I wouldn’t even bother if he hadn’t told me he’d feel better if I got something.”
&nb
sp; A guy in a black T-shirt with the Brickhouse Spy Supply logo plastered across the front approached them. “Are you finding everything you need?”
Dawson stepped forward, not about to let Sophie go through this alone. “We’re looking for a wearable GPS tracker.” He gestured toward her. “Something that would go with her wardrobe and wouldn’t stand out.”
The guy nodded. “That would be up at the counter.”
They trailed behind him, stopping at a set of glass cases that ran almost the length of the wall. The guy reached into one and pulled out a display set.
“Here we have necklaces, watches, bracelets, rings.” He told them the price range.
Sophie’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? That’s kinda expensive, don’t you think?”
“Can you put a price on your safety?” the guy deadpanned.
He’s probably used that line a million times. “What about that watch?”
She shook her head. “I have a watch.”
“Okay. A necklace, then?” Dawson reached toward one with a gold pendant holding a simulated ruby.
She leaned toward him. “I can’t let you spend that much money,” she whispered.
“Jackson’s going to reimburse you, right?”
“Yes, but still.” She faced the spy guy. “Do you have anything on sale?”
“We do have a few items.” He gaze shifted from her to Dawson and back. “And one might just work for you guys. It’s down here.” He went to the end of the cases, pulled out yet another display, and set it on the countertop. He sorted through the box—a couple of men’s watches, a tie pin, a ballpoint pen, a tiny camera, a set of cufflinks in a small bag….
“What’s that?” Dawson pointed at the tie pin, thinking she could wear it on her sweater.
“That’s a camera. Not what you’re looking for.” He dug around some more. “Most of these are cameras or recording devices, but I thought I remembered…. Here it is.”
He held up a ring. A diamond solitaire.
Holy crap.
Sophie gulped.
The guy set it in his beefy palm. “This ring is water resistant to thirty feet, so you pretty much never have to take it off. You download the app, bind the ring to your phone, and voila, your girl will be safe twenty-four/seven.”
My girl? Uhh….
“It uses Google Maps to show you her location.” The spy guy handed the ring to her. “Check it out. See if it fits.”
The simulated diamond sparkled in the light as she took the ring.
Breathe, Dawson. It’s just a device to keep Sophie safe. Not an engagement ring.
She examined the ring.
Sure as hell looks like an engagement ring to me.
She slipped the tracking device onto the ring finger of her left hand. Holy hell, it fit. She held her hand out, turning it this way and that. He peeked at her face, her expression unreadable. What was going on in her head? For a woman who proclaimed she never wanted to get married, she sure as hell was looking at that diamond a long time.
“What’s the price?” Her voice held a calm, businesslike tone.
The spy guy told her. She nodded then turned to Dawson.
“It’s reasonable. Jackson won’t have a conniption over reimbursement. Goes with everything.” She took a step away from the counter and tilted her head toward his. “I’m not thrilled about the ring, but he doesn’t have anything else in this price range,” she murmured, then pressed her lips together into a thin line as she stared at the ring.
“It kinda looks like an engagement ring.” He eyed the spy device on her finger. “Can you wear it? I mean, the wedding dress freaked you out. This doesn’t?”
“I’m not happy, but I can deal.” She shrugged. “And seriously, who would think twice about a diamond ring on a girl’s hand?”
No one. He turned to the spy guy. “We’ll take it.”
Fifteen minutes later, they sat huddled together in his MINI Cooper. He’d successfully connected the ring’s GPS to the app on his cell phone.
In an attempt to lighten the severity of the situation, he held the ring out to her, in his fingers, like a groom to a bride. “With this ring, I GPS locate.”
She giggled—a sound he found himself wanting to hear more—and held out her hand. He slipped the diamond on her finger. Man, that was easy. Shouldn’t putting a ring on a girl’s finger be more difficult than that?
It wasn’t a real engagement ring, doofus.
Sophie held her hand out, staring at the glittering bauble. “I’ve never felt safer.”
“Let’s test this baby out.” He held up his phone. “Go to that clothing shop over there and hide behind a rack or something.”
She hopped out of the car and jogged across the lot. After she disappeared inside the shop, he counted to twenty then checked the app on his phone. It showed her inside the store. Following the map, he wound through the women’s sale section. It showed her somewhere in this area, so he checked around the racks, finding her hiding behind a curtain in a display.
“Gotcha.”
She laughed. “I guess that proves it works.”
He glanced down at the ring then up at her flashing green eyes and soft auburn curls framing her beautiful face. Yeah, I guess it did.
Chapter Eight
Having proved the GPS spy diamond ring worked, they’d headed out to the car. He started the MINI’s engine. “So, where to next?”
“Cake Creations.”
“Cake?” He glanced at his watch. “Won’t it spoil our lunch?”
She giggled, and the need to pull her to him and kiss her lips slammed through him.
“Maybe. But it’s for my story.”
“Oh, right. The wedding piece.” He shifted the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space. “Well, lunch be damned, then. Let us eat cake!”
Thirty minutes later, they entered an upscale specialty bake shop. He sat next to Sophie at a small, oval granite-top table while a woman poured them each a glass of champagne.
“Enjoy.” The woman set the bottle on the table, the fancy gold-foil label facing them. “I’ll be back in a moment with the samples of cakes we make.”
Dawson took a swig of his bubbly wine. “Not bad.”
Sophie lifted hers, emptied the glass, and reached for the bottle.
Taking the magnum from her, he refilled her flute then topped his off as well. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a midday lush. And I work at a pub, so I’ve seen my fair share.”
She rolled her eyes then took another healthy swallow.
He made a show of glancing around. “Okay, so this is a high-end bakery. Lots of flowers, festive stuff. But I don’t see a single wedding dress anywhere. No veil. No garter. Nothing. So, what’s got you wound up so tight?”
She covered her mouth with her fingertips, releasing what he imagined was the most ladylike belch he’d ever witnessed. No vibrating tonsils. No rattle of windows. Just a petite sigh of air. Impressive. She moved her glass in a circle, indicating the shop. “This.”
“I thought it was just wedding dresses.”
“No. I mean, yes, they do. But….” Her shoulders lifted and fell.
“What?”
“I’ve done a lot of stories for Deep Insights. I’ve talked to convicted murderers, interviewed a contract killer, and, once, I even followed a SWAT team on a meth lab bust. But this piece about the so-called ‘perfect wedding’? It was messed up from the word go.” She drummed her fingers on her knee. “And now I’m wearing this.” She flashed the ring at him. “I don’t know. The whole assignment seems…cursed.” She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “Silly, right?”
“I can see how you might think that.”
“And here I am, drinking champagne”—she lifted her glass, tilted it toward him—“about to eat cake with a gorgeous guy, and I’m jumping at shadows.”
He grinned. “You think I’m gorgeous?”
“Pft. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? With your perpetu
al five o’clock shadow on that square jaw. And those icy-blue eyes. Oh my God, women would literally kill to have long dark lashes like yours.” She shook her head, her cheeks pinkening. “Okay. Shutting up now.”
“Oh, don’t stop now.” He leaned toward her, enjoying her unexpected compliments—and how she looked at him. Like he was some forbidden treat she couldn’t have. If she only knew. “You were saying something about my eyes?”
She snorted and shifted away from him. “You know what you look like.” Her words held a hint of accusation, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. “And why do I always find myself confessing stuff to you? My mom’s string of unhealthy matrimonies, my deep-seated phobia of wedding dresses, what I think of”—she waved her hand at him—“you. Where I work, the stories I write, that some stranger is sending me roses—”
“Roses?” He’d heard her mention the word while talking to her boss on the phone this morning.
“Yes. At work for the last several weeks. No name or note.” She brushed her hand through the air. “Honestly? Half of me thought it might be from some weirdo. But the other half? Well, the roses were so nice. A dozen high-quality long stems each time. I kinda thought maybe….”
“A billionaire Prince Charming?”
She smirked. “See? When you say it out loud like that, it sounds totally ridiculous. Why would some rich guy be interested in me?”
I may not be a billionaire, but I’m interested in you. The sentiment stayed lodged on the back of his tongue.
“Honestly, this wedding story has kept me so jittery I haven’t really thought about the roses until Jackson mentioned another dozen arrived this morning.”
“Another dozen and still no note?”
