Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Sloane

  “Wake up, sleepy head.” Marina leans over the partition between our first-class seats, a wide smile on her face. “We’re landing in half an hour!”

  I wince as the ice blue contacts stick to the insides of my eyelids. Digging into the little toiletry bag next to me, I blindly fish out a tiny bottle of eye drops. “I hate overnight flights.”

  “We’re in first class!” Marina whispers, glancing around like she’s not sure we’re supposed to be here. In truth, despite all my success modeling, I’ve never been on a plane this nice. Ever.

  As soon as I can see the tiny button on the divider between our seats, I tap it, and the narrow bed transforms back into a plush recliner. “It’s not fair,” I mutter, then turn to thank the flight attendant for the cup of strong tea and hot towel that magically appear in front of me. “You look like you just got out of the spa.”

  “Because I can sleep anywhere, any time. Seriously, Sloane. You fly every month. And you never learned how to sleep on a plane?”

  “No.” I don’t tell her that the reason I don’t sleep on planes is because every time I’m on one, I remember my very first flight. The one that should have been the start of a new life, not the beginning of my own personal hell.

  A sip of tea helps chase away the pounding headache from tossing and turning all night, and I pop one of my anxiety pills to prepare for landing.

  Marina squeezes into the seat with me and touches up my makeup so no one will notice my bruise or the bags under my eyes. As she works, I stare out the window and almost stop breathing. It’s so beautiful. Lake Zurich—our hotel is right on its shores—shimmers like liquid metal and snow dots the countryside. If I weren’t so worried about Dimitri, I’d have my nose pressed to the glass.

  “Promise me,” Marina says when she finishes with the concealer and powder. “You’ll talk to Max first thing.”

  “I promise. We’re free until the cocktail party tonight, so there should be plenty of time. I sent the payment before we took off, so Dimitri will have no reason to worry for another week.” Linking our fingers, I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I can’t believe you’re not mad at me. For not telling you…”

  “I am.” She gives me an air kiss, and my stomach ties itself into a knot as she heads back to her own seat. But after she sinks down, she meets my gaze. “If I’d been in your shoes, Sloane, I don’t know that I’d have survived at all. I wish you’d trusted me, but I understand why you couldn’t.”

  “I don’t deserve a friend like you,” I whisper, blinking hard to stop the tears threatening to fall and ruin everything she just did to my face.

  “Sure you do. Plus, you’re going to get me into all those fancy parties this week—the ones only the models and patrons are allowed to go to. As long as you promise not to keep any more secrets, consider us even.”

  “I promise.”

  The Baur au Lac hotel shines in the mid-afternoon sun. It took almost three hours to get through customs, and by the time we were done, the town car waiting for us had left, so we had to wait in a long line for a taxi.

  It’s well after two, and the first cocktail party begins at seven. I wanted a nap, but I’ll have to settle for one of Marina’s quick eye treatments and a lot of makeup instead.

  “Max!” I call, raising my arm to flag him down from across the opulent lobby. He waves back, the light from the crystal chandelier glinting off his watch. Reception is mobbed, but Max weaves his way among the white and blue velvet sofas, and once he’s at my side, guides me to the VIP counter.

  “Layla, take care of Sloane for me, will you? She should be in one of the deluxe corner suites—along with Ms. Marsh.” He nods toward Marina, who’s so excited, she’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  “Of course, Mr. Snood.” In seconds, our bags are whisked away and two keys—actual keys with heavy golden fobs—are pressed into my hand. “Take the elevator to the top floor. Last suite on the right.”

  “I’ll see you at the Patron’s Soiree tonight, Sloane. I have some calls to make now that it’s a reasonable hour in New York.”

  “No, wait!” He’s five steps away before Marina prods me in the back to free my feet—which feel like they’re glued to the fine marble. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Tonight,” he promises. “Meet me at the bar half an hour before the ballroom opens. Then, I’m all yours.” He pats my back—an almost fatherly gesture—but before I can protest, his phone rings.

  Max is addicted to his phone in ways that are truly unhealthy. There’s no way he’ll hang up that call for me unless I want to yell my secrets across the lobby.

  “Max! Dimitri Volkov is blackmailing me and he’ll kill me—and you—if you breathe one word of this to anyone!”

  That little stunt would probably get me kicked off the cover—and out of the hotel. Not to mention get both of us killed. The press is everywhere. A dozen different paparazzi have already snapped photos of me and Marina. The hotel, to its credit, is keeping them behind velvet ropes, but they’d hear every word.

  Linking my arm with Marina’s, I plaster on a smile. “Come on. Let’s go up to the room and relax. I’ll talk to Max before the party.”

  The worry in Marina’s eyes makes my heart ache, but until I can get Max alone to tell him how well and truly fucked I am, maybe I can have a small bit of fun with my friend.

  “This suite is huge!” Marina says once we’re safely inside. She’s not wrong. My bedroom has its own lavish bathroom with a smaller half-bath off the sitting area. One corner holds a Murphy bed, and two sets of balcony doors offer views of the lake.

  We spend the afternoon sitting out on the main patio, wrapped in blankets, with a platter of fresh fruit and a pot of herbal tea between us.

  Beauty and Style sent a complete wardrobe for me—separate from the outfits I have to wear for the runway shows—all hanging from a garment rack in the suite’s bedroom.

  “Thank God tonight’s dress isn’t skin-tight,” I say as I pop another strawberry. “Flying always makes me feel like I gained ten pounds.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze.” Marina rolls her eyes. “You’re the size of a pencil. Well, a pencil with perfect B-cups and an ass that’s the envy of half the universe. You’re going to look fabulous in that dress, and I’m going to be your frumpy older sister.”

  Flashing her a wicked grin, I take one last strawberry and practically skip into the bedroom. “No. You are not. Come see!”

  When she joins me, I’m holding a green, strapless gown in one hand and a pair of wedge heels dangling from the other. “I may have needed something frivolous and fun to take my mind off of…well…everything that’s happened the past week.”

  Marina’s mouth forms a little o, and she cradles the dress in her arms like it’s a newborn baby. “Sloane! You shouldn’t have spent all that money—”

  “Before you get too excited, it’s off the rack and I just had it altered. Your afterparty dress…that one took a little negotiation with Beauty and Style. It’ll be here on Friday along with a seamstress. There was no way I was going to come here and let you be trapped in the room the whole time I’m out there mingling. If I have to suffer, you’re going to suffer with me.”

  “It won’t be suffering if I’m wearing this.” She twirls around, the flared skirt a green blur against the room’s mostly white and beige interior. “It’s about time to get you ready so you can meet Max before the party,” she says with a pointed glance at the clock. “Hop in the shower and I’ll unpack my box of makeup magic.”

  Griff

  Zurich is equal parts big city and ritzy vacation getaway. Rather than rent a car at the airport, I found an eager taxi driver who was thrilled to take three hundred francs to give me a very thorough tour of the streets within ten kilometers of the Baur au Lac hotel.

  Only takes me ten minutes to get him to understand I can’t hear shit but have a speech-to-text program on my phone that works if he doesn’t talk too quickly. Plus, I p
romise him another hundred if I don’t have to ask him to repeat himself more than a couple times.

  “Can you show me the fastest way to get from the hotel to the city center?” I ask after half an hour.

  “Is there somewhere specific you want to go?” He looks over at me from the driver’s seat, brows drawn together.

  Checking the screen, I shake my head. “No. Somewhere crowded. Lots of people.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “If I’m in a big crowd, it doesn’t matter that I can’t hear. Because no one else can either.”

  The best lies have a kernel of truth to them. If I have to get the woman I’m protecting out of harm’s way quickly, getting lost in a crowd is the easiest way to do it. But when I’m at my lowest, the dull hum of conversation—even without being able to understand the words—is actually comforting.

  When it’s not terrifying.

  Get a grip and pay attention.

  The assignment—pretending to be in a relationship with Sloane Sanders so no one questions my constant presence—should be low risk, but that doesn’t mean I can walk into that hotel with my thumb up my ass. Even if said thumb is made of titanium.

  “There is no fastest way to the Bahnhofstrasse,” the driver says.

  “Why? It’s that far away?”

  “No.” My new best friend—his taxi license says his name is Elias—pulls the car over to the side of the road. Pointing only a couple hundred meters behind us, he says, “See? The hotel is there.”

  “Yeah. Kind of hard to miss.” While the fancy resort is only four or five stories tall, it shines so brightly, all the other buildings around it are dingy in comparison. The thought is so ridiculous, it almost makes me laugh. All of Zurich—all I’ve seen today at least—is clean, safe, and orderly. Not surprising for one of the biggest financial centers in the world.

  Elias gestures ahead. “The Bahnhofstrasse is only two blocks away. Turn right on Barengasse, left on Talaker, and right on St. Peterstrasse. But since the Bahnhofstrasse is closed to vehicles, you can walk there faster than you can drive.”

  “Noted. Thank you for the tour, Elias.” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out another hundred francs. Never hurts to make friends in a city where someone wants your protectee dead. “Do you have a card? Can I call you directly if I need assistance again?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Griffin. You can call any time of day or night. I live twenty minutes away, but I will be there. No problem. To the hotel now?”

  I accept Elias’s card and shake his hand. “Nah. I’ll walk from here. Long flight. Need to stretch my legs.”

  Slinging my bag over my right shoulder, I give him an awkward wave, and I’m almost surprised when he doesn’t stare at my prosthetic hand. Instead, he waves back and speeds away.

  Chapter Eight

  Sloane

  After an hour of Marina’s fussing, I kiss her on the cheek before picking up the small evening bag in the same cobalt blue as my dress. “I’ll be in the Lac bar until the party starts,” I say, swallowing hard, then pressing my lips together so I don’t—yet again—chew off all my lip dye.

  She’s still working on her hair, pinning the black curls away from her face, and meets my gaze in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Talking to Max? No. But if he doesn’t have a plan, he just needs to keep this all quiet and he’ll be safe.” I hate the tremble in my voice, but no matter how many internal pep talks I give myself, it’s been there all afternoon. “Hopefully, everyone staying at the hotel is getting ready for the party and we’ll have the bar to ourselves.”

  Marina arches a brow. “Or they’re all pre-funking and it’ll be packed.”

  Only one way to find out.

  I grimace and my lower lip finds its way between my teeth until I catch sight of myself in the mirror. “Shit. Not helping. Think empty bar thoughts for me. I’m leaving before I lose my nerve.”

  She calls my name as my hand touches the door knob. “Sloane? You’ve got this, sweetie. If you need me to come down earlier, just call the room. No one’s going to care if my makeup and hair aren’t perfect.”

  Flashing her a tight smile, I nod, even though I have no intention of disrupting a second of her prep time. She deserves to feel like a princess—a hell of a lot more than I do—and she was so happy when she saw her dress for tonight, there’s no way I’ll take this away from her.

  The elevator is just as posh as the rest of the hotel with gleaming mirrors, polished brass and silver everywhere.

  The woman staring back at me is full of poise and confidence—to anyone not looking too closely. My fingers tremble as I clutch the evening bag, my nails making soft ticking sounds over the beads. A dull ache throbs in my temples from clenching my jaw.

  The ding as the car slides to an otherwise silent stop makes me flinch, but I plaster a serene smile on my face and step out onto the polished marble. The bar is hidden at the back of the second floor, and thank God, it’s almost completely empty. Quiet jazz plays in the background, and Max waits for me in one of the booths, a thin, frosty glass in front of him.

  He stands as I approach, his hand going to the small of my back as he leans in to almost kiss my cheek. The scent of vodka clings to his breath, and for a split second, I’m not here. I’m somewhere dark and terrifying where everything hurts. Until I hear his voice. “You look stunning.”

  “Thank you.” It’s an automatic response, nothing more, and I ease myself carefully into the booth across from him. A uniformed server appears at my elbow almost immediately with an eager smile that fades slightly when I order nothing but spring water.

  “I know the schedule’s a bit grueling,” Max says, “but you can opt out of the luncheons if you’d like.”

  “That’s not why I needed to talk to you.” As soon as the server delivers my water, I take a long sip, unable to look Max in the eyes. “There is no easy way to say this—” Across the room, a man ambles into the lounge, six feet of gorgeousness in a black tux, and I stop until he heads for the bar and starts chatting up the pretty blond mixologist.

  “Sloane?” Max asks, leaning closer. “No easy way to say what?”

  With a slight shake of my head, I force a deep breath, my hands wrapped around my water glass so tightly, my fingers start to ache. “The man who…who…”

  Shit. Why is this so hard?

  Because you and Max haven’t spoken a word about this in fifteen years.

  Max reaches across the table to touch my hand, and I jerk away. “Don’t!”

  My cheeks catch fire, and my gaze darts all around the Lac bar until it collides with the guy in the tux. “Sorry,” I mouth to him—not that I expect him to understand from twenty feet away—then turn back to Max. “Dimitri Volkov.”

  “Who?” Max’s brows pinch together, and I don’t think I’ve seen him this confused in years.

  My voice drops to a whisper. “The man who…owned me. He’s out of jail. And he…found me.”

  “How? What happened?” He’s genuinely shocked now, leaning closer, his voice low and raspy.

  Tears lend a shimmer to the room, and emotion tightens my throat. Every time I played out this conversation in my head, Max’s first question was always, “Are you okay?”

  “He sent me a letter. I…I’m the reason he went to prison. Or I helped, at least. And he blames me for losing his…empire. If I don’t pay him five hundred dollars every week, he’ll send all the photos he has of me—” I swallow my sob, “—along with my passport, to the media.”

  “Fuck.” Max pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously. “We have to get a handle on this.” Taking the cocktail napkin from under my glass, I dab at the corners of my eyes as Max mutters to himself. “Harvey’s taking a long weekend, but it’s only 1:00 p.m. in New York…”

  With a quick wave of his hand, he calls for the bill. “Once I figure a way out of this mess, I’ll tell you what you need to do. Until then, go to the party. Mingle. Do the job Beauty and Style hired you
for. If I don’t have a solution tonight, at least I’ll know how much trouble this is going to cause.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to reply, meeting the server halfway to our table and showing his room key before he rushes out of the bar, leaving me all alone and fighting off tears.

  How much trouble this is going to cause.

  Mingle.

  I’ll tell you what you need to do.

  He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him about the man who broke into my house. Or the money I’ve already paid. Does he realize what will happen to me if this gets out?

  “Breathe. Don’t cry. Marina can’t fix your face if you lose your shit.” My little pep talk doesn’t help, and I take a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  I sniffle and blink hard before I look into the deep blue eyes of the man from the bar. He offers me a handkerchief—such an old-fashioned gesture—and when I take it, our fingers brush. “Thank you. I’m…I’ll be fine.”

  He watches me closely while I dry the tears balanced on my lashes. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” My fingers start dancing over my thigh under the table, my fear mixing with a hint of outrage that someone I’ve never met before can judge me like this. Before I can form a reply, he rubs his left shoulder and shakes his head. “That came out wrong. You look perfect. To anyone who didn’t see you five minutes ago.”

  A weak chuckle escapes through my tears. “Nice save.”

  “Just call me Captain Foot-In-Mouth. Seriously, though. Are you sure you’re okay? Need me to go teach that guy some manners?”

  “That guy is my manager,” I admit. “He means well. I just surprised him with some bad news.” After I whisk away one last tear, I fold the handkerchief carefully and hold it out to him. “I can send this to the hotel laundry if you’re staying here—”

  “This tux came with five of the damn things. Keep it. Just in case.” His eyes darken and he takes a step back, his hands in his pockets. “Good intentions don’t make up for leaving a woman in tears. You’re worth more than that.”