Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series)

by Beauman, Cate

  She turned again, and her gaze locked with his. Pure heat sizzled between them, then she looked away as a man sidled up next to her carrying a glass of champagne. JT Cartwright. JT touched the small of her back, and she smiled, locking her arm with his as they strolled further into the room.

  What was she doing here with him? Tucker didn’t have anything against the guy personally—or maybe he did now that his childhood friend had his hands all over the woman he wanted. Clenching his jaw, he conceded that below the torrents of jealousy, JT was a good person. He’d been there for him during the darkest hours of his life. And that was part of the problem. He didn’t like revisiting the summer of 1999. The pain still consumed him if he let it. Staci was dead, her killer was free, and life had carried on, despite the injustice. He’d cut himself off from memories of Park City, including anyone and anything that triggered thoughts of his sister.

  Minutes ticked by, and one hour turned into two while Tucker watched Wren dance, laugh, and converse with Hollywood’s A-list. He wanted to hold her against him while sexy notes poured from the live band’s saxophones, the way JT did now. JT stopped suddenly, said something to Wren, then answered his phone. He signaled to the hallway and walked quickly from the room, disappearing down the hall.

  Wren glanced in Tucker’s direction as she had several times throughout the evening, but this time she started toward him through the crowd. She stopped in front of him, smiling. “Hi.”

  He fisted his hands at his side as he breathed in her exotic scent. “Hi.”

  “Are you having fun standing in your corner?”

  “Best time ever.”

  She smiled again. “I thought I would come say hello before I leave. How are you?”

  She was different without her sassy shield. He’d never had a conversation with her without it. “Good.”

  “Are you—are you okay?”

  He knew she was asking about his abrupt departure from the Cartwright mansion the other day. “Never been better.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you. Monday… You were upset.”

  He shrugged. He wasn’t bringing up his past among a crowd of strangers, especially not when her eyes were all soft and gorgeous and full of concern.

  “I wanted to be—”

  “You look good, Cooke.” Unable to fight it any longer, he reached out and touched the diamond dangle at her ear, effectively changing the subject. “Damn good.”

  “Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

  “No. It’s my way of saying I think you’re a beautiful woman.” Holding her gaze, he took a step closer and slid a teasing finger down the silky skin of her arm, testing them both.

  She shudder as her eyes darted to his mouth, then met his again.

  “Have dinner with me,” he murmured as he played with her fingers.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? Because you don’t date cops, or because of JT?”

  “Because I’m going out of town tomorrow for most of next week and because I don’t date cops. I’m not getting mixed up with you, Tucker.”

  He grinned as her fingers clung just as tightly to his.

  “Why are you smiling?” She pulled her hand free. “Why is that amusing?”

  “Because we’re already mixed up.”

  “For a guy who keeps getting shot down, you’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  “You just said you’ve been thinking of me.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” She shook her head and took a step back. “I was concerned, which was clearly foolish and misplaced.”

  He grabbed her arm before she could walk away. “No, it’s sweet.”

  “Let’s get something straight, right here and now.” She stepped closer. “You don’t interest me—not in the least. I don’t want to go out with you now or ever. If you were the last man on earth, I still wouldn’t choose you.” Her gaze darted to his lips as she spoke.

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, I know so, buddy.”

  If he wasn’t on duty, he’d have proved her wrong right then and there. Under the layers of cool disdain was an inferno ready to burn, and he sure as hell planned to ignite it. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “You’ll be waiting a long time. Of all the—”

  “You’re date’s back.” Tucker spotted JT staring in their direction as he stood by the ballroom entrance.

  “Huh?” She shook her head as he cut her off mid-rant.

  “JT’s back.”

  “I can’t—I can’t keep up with you.”

  And that’s exactly the way he wanted it—Wren off balance. She was too used to calling the shots. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  She held his gaze another moment, then turned and walked away.

  Chapter 5

  Wren cruised north on the 405 after a miserable flight home from Oregon. Her stomach still churned and her jaw ached after two hours and forty minutes of uninterrupted turbulence. The quick jerks and deep dips had tossed her and a hundred other passengers about mercilessly. The jet had touched down smoothly half an hour ago, sending up a cheer, but her relief was short-lived. She was home—thank the Lord—but she was behind, a good three hours at least, and that was being optimistic. Catching up on e-mails and the million other things she needed to do wasn’t possible on the plane. She’d been too busy clutching her seat, concentrating on keeping the banana she’d snacked on in her stomach, where it belonged.

  She had to get to work on the Cartwright project, ASAP. Lenora had called countless times in the six days Wren had been away dealing with the complete redesign of one of the more affluent law firms in downtown Portland.

  She’d planned to create the virtual mockup for the Cartwright’s pool house and surrounding area while she coasted at thirty thousand feet, but that didn’t happen. Her cell rang, and she tipped the phone forward, glancing at the readout. “Oh my god. You’re the client from hell.” She let it ring twice more, then reluctantly pressed “talk.” “Wren Cooke.”

  “Hello, Wren. It’s Lenora.”

  “Hi, Lenora. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering how the mockup came out. I’m hoping you can send a copy of the file over so I can take a look. I know you said you were going to work on it today.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. Why, why did she tell Lenora she was ready to start on the next phase of the design? “Actually, we hit turbulence on my flight home, so I wasn’t able to get started.”

  “Oh. Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I hope I can still count on you to complete this job… You did say our needs were your first priority.”

  It was tempting to roll down the window and toss her cellphone out. “They certainly are. I’ll have the mockup ready by nine tomorrow when we meet.” She could create the preliminary designs tonight, but she needed to stop by Abby Harris’s Fall Fashion reveal at Sarah’s mother’s boutique, then come home and sleep off the grinding nausea and brewing headache left behind from her flight.

  “I had some time to think about the renovations while you’ve been in Portland, and I’ve come up with an idea or two of my own.”

  No! Anything but that. They’d gone through this with the library. After three weeks of Lenora changing her mind over every little thing, Wren had been ready to throw in the towel. Out of self-preservation, Wren yanked the Mercedes over two lanes and took the next off-ramp. “Lenora, I’m going to stop by. I’m about twenty minutes from your house. I have a couple of sketches ready to go and several swatches for you to look at. I also have three or four color pallets I want you to consider for the walls. They’ll all work well with what I have in mind. You can start playing around with those and give me your thoughts when I come by tomorrow.” The sheer volume of sample fabrics would keep Lenora busy for
hours. Hopefully she’d just bought herself an evening of silence. “And I’ll leave a couple of catalogs with different selections of the furnishings I was thinking about. The pages are marked.”

  Lenora squealed on the other end. “What an excellent idea.”

  Yes. Yes, it was. “I’ll be by shortly.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, after maneuvering through the stop-and-go traffic on Wilshire, then Santa Monica Boulevard, Wren finally turned on the Cartwright’s street and pulled up to the security gate. She pressed the button and was buzzed in.

  Wren circled around the drive, not bothering to park in her typical spot by the garage. This was going to be a quick in-and-out, by god. She needed two Tylenol and oblivion…after she went to support Abby.

  Sighing, Wren gathered the catalogs and two thick books of swatches to occupy her nightmare client. She walked toward the front entrance in the lamplight and smiled when JT opened the door, dressed relaxed in blue jeans and a gray sweater that accentuated his sturdy boxers build.

  “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks. All finished with work for today?”

  “Yeah. Dad and I took a couple of clients out for a late lunch, and now we’re catching up on a few details upstairs.” He studied her face. “You look a little green.”

  “I feel a little green. Bad, bad turbulence on the flight back.”

  “Sorry to hear that. You must’ve caught one of storms heading in off the Pacific. They’re saying the fronts are wreaking havoc in the mountains—lots of snow. Utah and Colorado are catching the worst of it.”

  “That’s why we live in Los Angeles. I’ll stick with the rain—when we actually get it.”

  He reached for the items in her hands. “Let me take those.”

  She handed over her heavy load. “Thank you.”

  “We’re about to eat—pan seared scallops and tiger shrimp, if you want to join us.”

  She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re very sweet, but my stomach’s a little raw, and I have to go to my friend’s show this evening.”

  “Why don’t you head out? I’ll give these to my mother.”

  “I should probably—”

  “Wren, go home. Let me save you tonight. If she sees you, she won’t let you leave for hours.”

  He had a point—a very good point. “I hate to do that, but I will this time. I owe you one.”

  “How about lunch sometime next week?”

  “Oh…” She didn’t want to send mixed signals.

  “Friends.”

  She smiled. “Okay. Pick a day, and I’ll make sure Patrick works it into my schedule.”

  “Tuesday good for you?”

  “It will be. I’ll be here for a couple hours in the morning. I can stop off and get us a muffin and coffee if you think you’ll be here.”

  He shook his head. “I wish, but I have a huge case coming up. The State of California versus… Well, I can’t tell you that—attorney-client privilege.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I won’t be around much for the next month or two. I’ll actually have to work at the office downtown. No more bumming meals off my parents.”

  “I’ll miss seeing you.”

  JT stood up straighter. “She’s coming,” he whispered. “I can hear her heels down the hall. Go. Run.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice. “Okay. Bye.” She hurried to her car and waved as she got in.

  He gave her a salute, smiled, and closed the door.

  Wren pulled out of the gate and started the long drive to the Palisades through Thursday night rush hour. JT saved her butt—big time. He was a sweetheart, the type of man a woman could settle down with and depend on. It was too damn bad she wasn’t interested. He was certainly intelligent and attractive; he just wasn’t her type—not that she actually had a type, per se. “A type” was meant for those looking to find a perfect partner to spend their life with. “Perfect” didn’t exist, and rarely did a lifetime with one person. Marriage was a crapshoot, a contractual joke that worked until someone got itchy. Then it turned into a nightmare where said “perfect partners” fought over who got to keep the potted fern in divorce court, or worse, they stayed together and cheated and lied year after year. She wanted nothing to do with the bondage of marriage—never had.

  She rolled to a stop at the light, and her mind wandered to Tucker and their last conversation at the gala. Conceited jerk. Even as she shook her head in disdain, he consumed her thoughts. He was there—almost always—distracting her. She had hoped the chaos of her six-day trip would lessen his affect on her, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Those eyes and that slow grin of his were lodged in her brain like a thorn. Tucker Campbell definitely wasn’t her type. Despite what he thought, they were not mixed up.

  Desperate for a distraction, she lifted her phone from the passenger seat and pressed Patrick’s number on her speed dial.

  “Patrick Stone.”

  “Hi.”

  “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did Lenora Cartwright get a hold of you?”

  She groaned. “Which time?”

  “Do you think we can bring her up on harassment charges? I mean really, Wren. The woman’s impossible.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I told her I don’t have her mockup ready for the pool house.” She chuckled at Patrick’s quick intake of breath. “I’m pacifying her with pallets, swatches, and furniture magazines. I have to believe that’s bought me some time. My plan is to punch it out first thing in the morning.”

  “The mockup or her?”

  “Tough call. What’s my schedule looking like for tomorrow?”

  “Jammed full as usual, darling.”

  She closed her eyes for a second as she stopped at another red light. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “I have you down for a consult with Lenora at nine. The furniture and accents are ready for the Fowler Estate. Delivery’s at eleven. You’re booked over there from ten-thirty to two o’clock. Don’t forget your tools for the window treatments this time. I can’t be flying all over Beverly Hills saving your fabulous ass.”

  “One little mistake…” She accelerated and turned on the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “Until the next one,” he teased. “Anywho, you have back-to-back new client consults booked until five, then you’re free. I blocked out the rest of the evening for paperwork and whatever else you need to do.”

  “That’s not too bad.” She needed a couple of easy days. Her relentless schedule was starting to take a toll. “I’m having lunch with JT Cartwright on Tuesday. Can you set something up?”

  “Lenora’s defense attorney son?”

  “One and the same. He’s nothing like his mother.”

  “Let me look.” He tsked. “Oh, that’s going to make Tuesday messy, honey, real messy.”

  “That’s why I have you, Super Assistant.”

  “Hold that compliment. Someone’s here.” Patrick gasped. “Oh, look at these—stunning. You got flowers, girl. Big beautiful roses.”

  She clutched the steering wheel. “Roses?”

  “Mmhmm. A dozen blood-reds. They smell fabulous.”

  Her already-queasy stomach shuddered. “Is there—is there a note?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Let me open it up.” She heard the sound of paper ripping, then Patrick cleared his throat for affect. “It says ‘Welcome Home.’ Then there’s a twenty-five. Not sure what that means.”

  But she did. Today was the twenty-fifth day since her disastrous date with Rex Richardson. He’d texted her from a different number at some random ti
me every day since the night he left flowers on her doorstep. Six days in Oregon hadn’t stopped his harassment as she’d hoped it would. And now he knew she was home. She snapped on the heat as her blood ran cold. “Throw them away.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want them,” her voice shook. “Throw them out.” How did Rex know she was back? Better yet, how did he know she’d been gone? “Did anyone out of the ordinary call looking for me while I was away?”

  “No, not that I can think of. All current clients were patched through to your phone. New clientele set up appointments with me.”

  “Did you give anyone my travel itinerary?”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear your question.”

  She sighed. “Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry.” For the first time since this all began she was truly afraid. The daily texts and even the blue roses were more annoying than anything, but Rex seemed to know her every move. Texts could be sent from anywhere and flowers delivered to a doorstep, but now she realized he was actively watching her. She glanced in her rearview mirror at the row of headlights behind her and wondered if Rex was following her now.

  “Wren, are you all right?”

  No. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. It’s been a long week, and the plane ride sucked. I just need to get some rest.”

  “I can cancel your nine o’clock. You can sleep in.”

  Lenora would have a heart attack if she had to wait another day for her damn mockup, and she needed to stay busy. Fear would be keeping her up no matter how her body craved rest, so it was better to carry on as planned. “No, I’m already behind. We need to keep my schedule.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positively. I’m just about home. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.” She pulled in her drive, dropped her phone, and gripped the wheel with trembling hands as heat from the vents rushed over her. She stared at her darkened front steps in the shadows cast about from the neighbors’ tall trees. What if he was here? His texts weren’t threatening, and technically neither were the flowers, but Rex wasn’t healthy. In the two years she’d owned her home, she’d never been terrified to get out of her car and go inside like she was now.