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

by Patricia D. Eddy

  As he walks away, still with that slightly uneven gait, I realize I never asked him his name. Because Captain Foot-In-Mouth? That doesn’t fit him at all.

  Griff

  What the fuck were you thinking?

  I should have introduced myself. Or pretended to ignore Sloane completely. Right before I walked into the bar, my watch buzzed with an incoming text.

  Clive: Sloane doesn’t know you’re coming.

  Griff: What? Don’t tell me I flew to Zurich for nothing.

  Clive: The threat’s real. You read the file on Volkov. But Sloane made Marina promise not to call me until after she talked to her manager.

  I’d intended to just keep an eye on her. Clenching my right hand hard enough two of my knuckles crack, I slip behind a pillar and wait for Sloane to emerge from the Lac bar. With how she was dressed, she’s clearly on her way to the Beauty and Style welcome party, and I’m not letting her out of my sight for more than a few minutes until she’s safely back in her room.

  The room right next to mine.

  With the adjoining door she probably hasn’t even noticed.

  She’s going to be fucking pissed when she finds out Clive—with Wren’s help—hacked the Baur au Lac’s reservation system and bumped another model from the top floor to the smallest room in the entire hotel.

  Retrieving my phone, I send Clive another message.

  I need everything Wren can find out about Sloane’s manager. He seems like a Grade A asshole, but she doesn’t see it that way.

  Wren—Second Sight’s hacker and tech genius—moved out to Seattle with Dax’s brother-in-arms, Ryker McCabe, more than a year ago, but since the two men merged their companies, she works almost non-stop. If Austin wants to make this international black ops thing he’s running work long term, he’s going to need to find his own tech resources. Pretty sure Wren’s not going to be available this much once she has the baby.

  From my position, I have a clear view of Sloane as she exits the bar. The photos Clive and Wren included in my intel packet didn’t do her justice. They were mostly professional shots. The ad campaigns she’s been a part of, the head shots on file with the Harvey Ulstrum agency, a handful of social media posts.

  In person, she’s every bit as beautiful, but a thousand percent more…real. And hiding a bruise on her cheek. The swelling is subtle—almost gone—but there’s a lingering puffiness underneath her right eye that didn’t come from her tears.

  As she reaches the stairs to the third floor—and the cocktail party, she touches the corner of my handkerchief to her nose once before sliding it into her tiny purse.

  Her lips are in almost constant motion, much like they were after Max-hole left her alone in that big booth in the corner of the bar. The fingers of her left hand too. Like an anxious tic. With one foot on the first step, she pauses, gripping the railing tightly and pressing her lips together.

  “You can do this. Just like any other shoot.”

  I don’t need my glasses when I’m this close. Sloane speaks with a precision I assume comes from learning English as a second language—and hiding that fact from the entire world.

  Clive’s cousin better tell her about me soon because she’s spooked, and the longer I watch her, the stronger my need is to protect her.

  Sloane

  By the time I reach the Pavilion, my jaw is locked tight, my lips pulled firmly into a smile, and my breathing steady. Everything will be fine. Max has been protecting me for fifteen years. He won’t stop now.

  Then why didn’t he listen?

  Because the Ulstrum Agency has three other models here and Max has been campaigning to get you on this cover for years. You’re being ridiculous. He’s busy and you surprised him. He’ll fix it. Fix everything. Just like he always does.

  If only the emotional side of my brain listened to the rational side more often. Or…ever.

  The tuxedoed attendant stands up a little straighter when I approach. “Ms. Sanders! Welcome! Do you have a coat to check? Or your bag?”

  “No, thank you. Is there a powder room inside or…?”

  “Oh, yes. All the way to the back on the right. Enjoy the evening, Ms. Sanders.”

  “Sloane, please.” I flash him a practiced smile, and he steps aside so I can enter the brightly lit space.

  Through the windows lining every wall, garden lights twinkle, and the white tulle-wrapped tables, the sparkling chandeliers, and the music lend an air of magic to the night. Maybe it’ll be enough for me to forget my problems—at least for a few hours.

  At the moment, all I want is five minutes alone to check my makeup and tell Marina to get down here so I don’t have to socialize alone.

  Even the bathrooms are over the top. Taking a seat on what looks like a literal fainting couch from the 18th century, I flick open my evening bag and retrieve a small tube of concealer and the pocket square from the handsome man at the bar.

  In the fifteen years since Max saved me, I’ve had exactly zero romantic relationships. Real ones, anyway. When you have to hide everything about who you are, it’s damn hard to trust anyone enough to get close to them.

  Shit. The mirror behind the couch reveals a hint of the yellowing bruise just under my right eye. Carefully dabbing at the exposed skin, I do my best to cover the damage, then pull out my phone to text Marina.

  Get down here! The party’s started and I’m hiding in the bathroom.

  After a minute, Marina’s response pops up.

  On my way, sweetie. I hope I don’t break my neck in these heels.

  As if. Marina’s been in this business longer than I have, and though she’s almost always behind the scenes, her stint at Vogue required her to schmooze at more than one party.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, I apply a fresh coat of lip dye, tuck everything back in my evening bag and try for another pep talk.

  You can do this. Put on a show. Smile, laugh at every joke—good and bad—air kiss everyone. This trip, this cover? They’re everything you ever wanted.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Chapter Nine

  Griff

  At the doors to the Baur au Lac Pavilion, two guys in tuxes try—unsuccessfully—not to look like bodyguards. “Harry Griffin,” I say, producing an embossed ticket from my jacket pocket. “With Beauty and Style Magazine.”

  One of them looks it over carefully, then checks his tablet. “Welcome, Mr. Griffin. Coat check is right inside the doors. Enjoy your evening.”

  I’d feel better if they’d asked to see my ID, but knowing there’s at least some security at this event is reassuring. The crowd inside the room? That bothers me.

  Four ways in and out. The main entrance, two sets of French doors that lead to a covered patio, and one fire exit.

  My glasses are largely useless with the crowd and the music playing, so I tap the temple to turn the voice-to-text functionality off. In this mode, it’ll alert me if it hears any variations on my name as well as loud, recognizable sounds like sirens, alarms, or shots, but I won’t be bothered by endless unintelligible banter that means nothing scrolling across the lenses.

  I put the crowd at close to eighty people, and tonight’s party is only for the VIPs and investors. Sloane’s at the center of the room, surrounded by men in suits and tuxes. A petite, dark-haired woman stands at her side, and though I can’t see the other woman’s face, I think that’s Clive’s cousin, Marina.

  Max is nowhere to be found, and I check my watch, hoping for a message from Clive.

  Calm down, idiot. It’s been all of ten minutes. Wren’s amazing, but she’s not a machine.

  Staff circulate with plates of appetizers, and after I snag a small cheese-stuffed pastry on a toothpick, I weave through the crowd to reach one of the four bars in the room. “Club soda and lime,” I say, hating that I have to take my eyes off of Sloane to hear the bartender’s reply.

  “Coming right up, sir. We also have a selection of mocktails for the evening if you’d care to perus
e the menu.”

  “Maybe later.”

  The man’s eyes widen at the overly generous tip I drop into the silver carafe on the corner of the bar. “Thank you, sir. If there’s anything else I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Much obliged.” After raising the rocks glass in a quick air toast to him, I retreat to the side of the room, close to a long row of floor-to-ceiling windows. A post wrapped in fancy silver netting stands between me and Sloane, but it’s narrow enough I can keep an eye on her without her noticing my stare.

  If I still had my hearing, I’d have asked Dax for a parabolic mic—or gotten here early enough to bug the room. But as great as his software is, it maxes out at four voices.

  Instead, I study body language. While I can’t detect subtle changes in a person’s voice any longer, the rest of my training—micro-expressions, fidgeting, sweat and breathing patterns?—those I can still read.

  By the time I’ve polished off the club soda, I’ve eliminated a third of the room as potential threats. Most are in the industry. They’re easy to spot. They put on a show, strutting around like they own the room, but there’s no deception beneath the surface.

  Others? They’re here to gawk. Stare. Ogle. Three different men have been hanging on Sloane’s every word for half an hour, and while they seem harmless, she’s not comfortable with the attention. If someone had told her why I was here, I’d have rescued her by now.

  Marina gives Sloane’s hand a squeeze, then heads for one of the bars, and I follow, keeping to the fringes of the room.

  By the time I come up behind her, she’s chatting up the bartender I overtipped. I can’t see what she’s saying, but his response is easy to read. “One glass of champagne, and one glass of sparkling water.” Sparing me a quick glance as he sets the two drinks on the bar, he adds, “Another club soda and lime, sir?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Marina reaches for the drinks, but I stop her by brushing my hand to her upper arm. “Clive sent me.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she says once she turns around and gets a look at me, but her relief quickly turns to panic. “Crap. Sloane doesn’t know… … … … pissed.”

  “Slow down. I’m mostly deaf, Marina. I read lips. And I’m well aware Sloane doesn’t know anything about me.” Accepting the club soda from the young man behind the bar, I pop another ten franc bill in his tip jar before leaning closer to him. “Can you pour fresh drinks for this lovely woman when she returns in just a couple of minutes? I need to steal her away, and warm champagne is—”

  “A travesty,” the bartender says, then smiles. “Of course, sir.”

  Leading Marina just out of Sloane’s eye line, I almost lose half my drink when she slaps my arm. But since she hit my left arm, she’s the one flinching. “What the hell?”

  Great. I wasn’t planning to admit all my damage less than two minutes after introducing myself, but there’s no way around it now. “Might not want to do that a second time. Titanium’s nearly indestructible.”

  “Wait. Clive sent a deaf man with only one arm to protect Sloane? I’m going to murder him. Slowly. Or better yet, tell his mother what he did.” The petite woman in front of me looks like she could go full nuclear any moment, and I freeze, torn between intense anger and shame. Until I remember Austin’s words.

  “If all I needed was muscle—two good arms, two good ears—I could find that anywhere. This job needs more. It needs your instincts. Your training.”

  “Go ahead. Call Clive. I don’t give a shit. His boss and my boss sent me here because I know what the fuck I’m doing.” Transferring my drink to my left hand, I take a sip, the fingers steady and smooth—like they always are when I’m angry. “I lost my hearing and my arm. Not my mind. Not my skills. See that guy standing at the windows directly across from us?”

  Marina turns her head briefly, then meets my gaze again. “Yes.”

  “He’s former military. Israeli if I had to guess. Loaded. Also, completely uninterested in the female models. The guys on the other hand… He’d like to bang at least two of them. The six-foot-four blond in the white suit and the even taller blond wearing a bowtie who hasn’t stopped staring back at him all night.”

  Marina gapes at me.

  “Want me to go on? Sloane wants nothing more right now than for you to come back and find a way to get her the hell out of the conversation she’s been having with those three assholes for a full—” I check my watch, “—thirty-seven minutes. The guys are harmless—Beauty and Style execs. I memorized their photos on the plane. I don’t know why Sloane’s uncomfortable, but she is. So get those fresh drinks and make excuses for her. She has to mingle, needs to use the powder room. Anything. And figure out how and when you’re going to tell her about me so I can stop hiding in the fucking shadows and do my job.”

  I know I’m being harsh. Too harsh. But Marina knows what Clive and Second Sight do. And while I’d probably be just as concerned if our positions were reversed, I’m the guy who’s here, and I’m not leaving until the threat against Sloane is neutralized.

  “Meet us at our suite in an hour,” Marina says, though she doesn’t look me in the eyes. “I’ll tell her as soon as we can make our excuses and leave the party.”

  Nodding, I watch the woman sashay back to the bar, wait for fresh drinks, and return to her friend’s side. The relief on Sloane’s face is almost immediate, and she links her arm with Marina’s before the two make their way to another one of the cocktail tables halfway across the room.

  Sloane’s tired. Her shoulders hunch inward for a quick moment until the mask of the woman of the hour slides back into place. Then, she laughs at something Marina says, and I start to relax. Time to find another shadowy hiding spot.

  Sloane

  “I hate this part of the job,” I whisper, leaning down so I’m close to Marina’s ear. “At least on the runway or during shoots, I get a few breaks from being ‘always on.’ Here? It’s nonstop.”

  “I know, sweetie. But we can probably get away with leaving in half an hour or so. After all, we flew all night, and they certainly don’t want you looking like a zombie for the press tomorrow.” Marina smooths a lock of my hair, twirling it around her finger to reset the curl before she scans the room. “Who else do you need to talk to?”

  “Besides Max?” I check my phone, trying to hide my disappointment that he still hasn’t texted me. Or shown up here. “Just the Beauty and Style photo selection committee. I think I saw the chairwoman head for the patio.”

  “Then let’s get some fresh air and find her.” Marina takes a sip of her champagne, then sets the drink down before taking my hand. “Ugh. I remember why I so rarely have champagne. I can feel the headache starting already.”

  Searching her face, I’m shocked at the weariness in her eyes.

  “If you want to go back to the room, I’ll be fine alone. You should have eaten more earlier. Just because I have to watch my calories all weekend doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”

  She clenches her jaw to fight off a yawn but isn’t completely successful. “I’ve got another hour in me. And don’t worry. When you’re posing for the press tomorrow, I’m going to have the biggest Swiss breakfast womankind has ever seen. That’s the plan, at least. Assuming a traditional breakfast here isn’t something like blood sausage and haggis.”

  “Well, that would be Ireland and Scotland, I think, so you should be safe,” I say, chuckling. “And I expect you to tell me all about it. Because the morning after the gala? I plan to eat everything in sight.”

  The crisp, autumn air sends goosebumps racing down my arms, but given how little I’ve slept in the past twenty-four hours, I’ll suffer a little chill to stay awake.

  “Sloane! Over here!” Donna Mills, one of the three women responsible for putting my photo on the Christmas Book cover stubs out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray and waves us over to one of the outdoor tables. Radiant heat warms us from above, and string lights woven around the
greenery provide a romantic glow to the entire space.

  “Donna, you remember Marina?” I step aside so the two women can embrace and set my half-full glass of sparkling water down on the far edge of the table. Within seconds, a uniformed server whisks it away. He’s back inside before I can call out to him. It’s a good thing I was only carrying it for show. Parties like this where everyone wants a piece of me? If I spend any time without a drink in my hand, someone will take it upon themselves to “fix” the situation. Or try to.

  “I need to get some rest before tomorrow’s press conference,” I say, a hint of contrition to my voice. “Long flight and all. But I couldn’t let tonight go by without thanking you—and the rest of the committee—for selecting me as your cover model this year.”

  We embrace, air kisses all around, and Donna’s laugh, despite being raspy from her cigarette, warms me with how very genuine it is. “My dear, Sloane, I have wanted you on our cover every year for the last five. But you know how things are. The politics of this industry. Sometimes…what we want and what we must do are very different things.”

  Her admission shocks me, though I catch the strong scent of scotch or bourbon on her breath. “That’s…so nice of you to say.”

  “It’s the truth. You’re more than just your looks, Sloane.” Donna reaches out and lightly skims her fingers along my jaw. “You have depth. Wisdom.”

  Whether she isn’t fully aware of what she’s saying or my poker face is failing me this late at night, she quickly claps her hand over her mouth, her cheeks darkening in the dim light.

  “Oh, my God. I did not mean to imply that you look old. Not in the least. You could pass for twenty-five, twenty-seven easily! No. I meant that you’re real. If we shot you with no makeup, wearing a pair of baggy yoga pants and a bulky sweatshirt, you’d be every bit as beautiful. It’s how you carry yourself. Your presence. That’s what we want on our cover. That’s what I’ve always wanted on our cover.”