by Shayla Black
“Do you have a phone? I can call David and—”
“Tell him where to find you? He knew where to find you thirty minutes ago. How did that work out?”
“That’s not fair. He couldn’t possibly have known some crackpot would shoot at me.”
“Are you willing to risk your life on that?”
She opens her mouth to argue, then pauses. “Why should I trust you over him? We just met.”
It’s entirely possible Sophie will slap me for what I’m about to do, but if it makes my point, I don’t care.
I wrap my fingers around her nape and pull her face inches from mine. I have to fight not to kiss her again. “Honey, if I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead. And I sure as fuck wouldn’t have wasted my time and risked my skin to get you away from that parade safely.”
She blinks at me, and it’s difficult as fuck not to be hypnotized by those eyes that celebrity gossip rags have gushed about since she first hit the scene. I didn’t see what the big deal was—until now. Pictures do not do Sophie justice.
“I see your point,” she says finally.
Reluctantly, I release her and ease away—before I do something stupid like slide her under me and seize her lips again. “Good. The way I look at it, someone who knew when and where you’d be took shots at you.”
“But I doubt David wants to hurt me. He hired you.”
“Not exactly. When Rob got sick, he called me and asked me to step in. He didn’t like this whole parade setup. He told David that. Your agent said he was overreacting. Clearly not.”
“Still, that doesn’t mean…” She sighs. “But I get what you’re saying. As long as no one knows where to find me, it buys me time to figure out what’s going on.”
“Yeah.”
“So we need to figure that out.”
I nod. “I have an idea where we can lie low. Sit back. We’ll be in the car for a while.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah. Think hard and honestly about who might want you dead.”
Sophie
I’m trying to keep myself together as we speed west on I-20, past the south side of Ft. Worth, then connect with Highway 377. We pass a lake and seem to disappear into the country.
“Where are we going?” I ask finally.
“Someplace safe. Think of anyone who might want you dead?”
I’ve been pondering that while Rand drives, fast and steady, down the road. But between the trauma of being shot at and our narrow escape, the uncertainty ahead, the hyperawareness of being basically naked under his shirt, and the unshakable memory of his passionate kiss, my brain is mush.
“Nothing yet,” I murmur.
“It’ll come. It’s barely noon and it’s been a terrible day. You hungry?” he asks as the freeway turns into a two-lane road while we enter a little town that’s probably a speck on a map.
It’s crazy to me this place is less than an hour from the city where I grew up, and yet this is nothing like my former neighborhood. It’s a hodgepodge of mom-and-pop businesses with a regional grocery store and a few fast-food restaurants. That’s it. But people live their entire lives in close-knit towns like this. They’re born here. They work and live and fall in love and have children before they die here. I’ve had such an urban, nomadic life for the past dozen years. It seems so crazy to me—in a good way—to spend your life in one place. I’m almost jealous of people who have a sense of permanence and belonging.
“Not really.”
He nods. “Let me know.”
“You from around here?”
“No, just been here a few times.”
End of conversation. He’s really not a talker.
But he’s an amazing kisser. I bet he’d be fantastic at plenty of other things, too.
I stare out the window at the last of the little town sliding by. If I don’t, I’ll just stare at him and silently wish he would touch me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“I’ve got to make a phone call.” He slides the device from his pocket and scrolls through his contacts while there are no other cars in sight. The person on the other end of the connection answers quickly. “Hey, Joe. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
The reply is short and muffled. I hear nothing but a deep voice.
“That little place you had by the lake available for a few days?”
This time a longer, more animated reply.
“Perfect. Key still in the same spot?”
Another answer, even shorter, followed by a laugh.
“You’re a lifesaver, man. I’ll explain when I can. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve heard from me. I’ll call my brothers so they don’t freak and you won’t have to deal.”
The voice on the other end replies once more, this time sounding final.
“Thanks. Hey, I owe you a beer next time I see you,” he says just before he ends the call.
“A friend?” I ask.
“Of my brother, yeah. Joe is a good guy. He hooked us up.”
Rand falls quiet again, and it’s not much longer before we roll into another town, this one bigger than the last. I’ve heard of Granbury, but I’ve never been.
All the old buildings around the square have been converted into quaint little shops and restaurants. In the middle stands the county courthouse. It’s French style, made of white bricks, with a clocktower, circa 1890.
The town is charming. I’m immediately enthralled. “Wow.”
“You like this place? I didn’t think it would be your speed.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I pegged you for more of a Paris-London-Milan type.”
“It was cool…the first few times. Now I just prefer home.” Well, I did. I don’t really have one now. I own a house in LA, but it’s never really felt like home to me.
He nods like he’s mildly surprised by my answer. “Do you have any family who’s going to panic if you don’t surface for a few days?”
I used to, but… “No.”
Rand stops at another light and whips his stare my way. “No one?”
“My parents divorced about a year after my first top-ten single. My mom remarried and had more kids. My dad…” I shrug. “I haven’t heard from him in about five years.”
Something crosses his face. It’s not exactly pity. Compassion? Definitely. Still, I see more. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m over it.”
His glance says he doesn’t believe me. It feels as if this man can see through me when no one else can. I hate it. It’s unnerving. Yet it’s weirdly comforting to be even slightly understood.
“How often do you talk to your mom?” he asks.
“Once a month or so.” For the past couple of years, the “or so” has been the norm. I think I last spoke to her in February.
He shakes his head and accelerates through the now-green light. Traffic is congested in the town square. They’re kicking off their local Fourth of July festival. Through the windows, I can’t miss the savory scent of barbeque. Maybe I spoke too soon when I said I wasn’t hungry, but it’s not as if I can hop out of Rand’s truck wearing barely more than his shirt in a crowd full of people who will likely recognize me.
“Sorry.” He takes my hand.
I’m shocked, but I don’t try to pull free. “Why?”
“I’ve got a big-ass family. If I don’t check in soon, they’ll all start looking for me.”
“You said you have brothers?”
“Three of them. Ransom is the oldest. I’m second. Then Rush, followed by Ridge. We’re tight.”
I’m envious. My half siblings are all more than ten years younger than me. One of them, I’ve never even met. “That must be nice.”
“Mostly. Inconvenient at times, but I wouldn’t do life without them.”
Suddenly, Rand is even more mysterious. How old is he? Where did he grow up? What else is important to him? Who else?
Oh, shit. Is he married?
I release his hand. He plants it on the steering wheel and makes a left, heading into a residential neighborhood full of houses painted in soft colors with mature trees and well-manicured lawns.
He pulls up in front of a yellow cottage with a wraparound porch and a pair of rocking chairs. In the gravel driveway, he puts the truck in park and hops out, shoves aside some bushes, then punches in a code to unlock a wide iron gate. Moments later, he’s pulling through the opening and parking under a carport adjacent to the backyard. The big lake shimmers beyond the chain-link fence straight ahead.
“We’re here.” He hops out. “Hang tight.”
I do, watching as he jogs to the gate and closes it again, giving it a tug to ensure it’s locked. I can’t not notice how tall and broad he is. How strong the steely bulges of his shoulders and arms are. How utterly gorgeous he is when the Texas sun bounces off the slight waves of his blue-black hair. Then he turns and heads for me before offering me a hand out of the truck. As he leads me to the back door, flanked by a flagstone patio and a garden with colorful summery flowers, I try not to stare.
He stops beside the barbeque, opens the door around back, lifts the propane tank, then produces a key. “We’re in.”
Thank goodness. Now that we’ve reached relative safety, all I want is a shower, clean clothes, and I’m sad to say, a good cry.
But I buck up. “You lead. I’ll follow.”
His stare lingers on me for a disarmingly long moment before he inserts the key and turns the knob. Inside, the place is homey with what looks like original wide-plank pine floors. A comfortable brown sofa takes up the far corner of the room. There are a few other mismatched chairs, all facing a massive TV on the nearest wall. A ceiling fan spins lazily above us, and the midday sun pours in through a bay window.
“Come in. I’ll give you a tour. It’ll be quick because the place isn’t big.”
“Sure.”
“Half bath through that door.” He points beyond the sofa. “And the kitchen…”
I follow to find it situated behind the far wall. The white cabinets and matching tile counters are from another age, but the appliances are nice and new. I could cook here, for sure. Adjacent to that is a farm table in the nook space that seats six.
In the hallway, across from a pair of wide windows that show off the side yard, sits a state-of-the-art washer and dryer behind a pair of distressed doors that tell me the utility cubby was once a closet.
At the end of the hall is the first of the cottage’s two bedrooms. It’s inescapably romantic. The wall behind the bed is a floor-to-ceiling rustic wood detail with a wrought iron filagree design hanging just above the massive cherry-wood headboard. The bed itself looks like a queen-size cushion of white fluff, accompanied by a mountain of dreamy, lacy pillows. A chandelier completes the look, along with a petite table beside that serves as both a nightstand and a desk.
The attached bath is small and painted in soft shades of gray, reminding me that this house was probably built a hundred years ago, maybe more. Whoever owns it has spruced up the bathroom with a pedestal sink, a stylish framed mirror, and a big claw-foot tub with an old-fashioned faucet. But I also see a shower head jutting from the wall. A little shelf nearby holds a stack of clean white towels.
“Except for the bedroom at the other end of the house with a set of bunk beds, that’s it.” Rand shrugs.
I’m fascinated by the way his massive shoulders work and the rippling of his arms. Hell, I’m fascinated by him in general.
But he’s not why I’m here, and I need to start thinking about things that are more important, like who wants me dead.
“It’s cute.”
“Ransom’s friend sometimes rents it out to people he knows. During a holiday, he would usually be here, but he’s in the middle of a divorce…so it’s a no on the fun family getaways.”
I know how that goes. “I’m sorry to hear that. With bunk beds, I assume they have kids.”
“A girl and a boy, both almost teenagers now, I think.”
That makes the split even sadder. Or maybe just more familiar.
Rand takes my arm and leads me back down the hall, leaving me beside the sofa. “Let’s make a list of everything we need for now. I’m thinking we’ll be here a couple of days, maybe more.”
Until now, I haven’t given any thought about how long we’ll have to lie low. “You mean until we figure out who shot at me?”
“Or we can discern some other way to keep you safe long-term.”
Now that we’re here and I’m feeling calmer than I have in a few hours, one question pelts my brain. “Why are you doing this? Most bodyguards just get the client out of the dangerous situation and wash their hands.”
“It’s a fair question.” He lets out a breath. “Two reasons. First, I lost a client early in my career. A businessman on a trip to Mexico. It sucked, and I took a lot of heat for overlooking an angle of his protection. But I learned. Second, that’s where I met Rob, and it means the world to me that he trusted me, of all people, with you. I know he’s worked for you for a couple of years and I know he’s very fond of you.”
“He’s a good guy.” And it says a lot that he chose Rand to watch over me.
“How long before the press is in a frenzy that you’re ‘missing’?”
“They probably already are. Check Twitter and TMZ.”
Rand produces his phone, then thumbs and scrolls and scans the screen. He curses. “That didn’t take long.”
“It never does. Being famous is a bit like living in a fishbowl. Everything you do runs a risk of being highly visible, and everyone thinks they have the right to know every aspect of your life.”
“I can’t imagine.” He shakes his head. “We’ll get this figured out and get you back to your life as soon as possible, okay?”
He’s sweet for trying to reassure me, but… “I don’t need you to sugarcoat this. I know keeping me safe won’t be easy, especially since I don’t have any idea who wants me dead.”
“Let’s focus first on setting up here.” He looks me up and down with a wry smile. “You look great in my shirt, but I’m probably going to need it back since it’s my only one. And I’m assuming you want something more your size.”
“That might be nice.”
“I’ll see what I can do. For now, peek in the closet in the back bedroom. Joe’s daughter probably keeps some clothes here. You’re a little thing. Something might fit.”
“Sure.”
“Take a shower if you’d like. I’ll make a grocery list.” He pauses and pulls at the back of his neck. “Um…you cook?”
“Love to when I get the chance. You don’t?”
“I suck at it.”
Honestly, I can’t imagine this man being lousy at anything. He just seems so all-around capable. But his grousing makes me smile. “You won’t starve with me. And if you’re nice, I’ll even show you a thing or two.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize they sound more suggestive than I intended. My cheeks heat up, so I look away.
Rand grabs my arm and turns me back to face him. “I’d like that. I could repay the favor by showing you a thing or two.”
My heart stops. “What kind of things?”
“Self-defense. Marksmanship.” He shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
Great sex?
At the thought, my cheeks turn even hotter. “I’d like that. Thanks. Um…I’m going to get clean now.”
“I’ll order groceries. Anything you’re allergic to? Anything you really hate?”
“Beets and pickles. I’ll eat about anything else.”
“You don’t have a special celebrity diet? You’re not a raw vegan? Or a fruitarian?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a singer, not a model. Besides, I grew up in Texas, so I love a good barbequed side of cow. Do you actually know a fruitarian?”
“I dated one for about ten minutes.”
I hate the instant pinprick of jealousy. Of course Rand has had a lov
e life. I’ve had one, too. But hearing about his bothers me more than it should. “Why did you break up?”
He gives me a wry grin. “Because she didn’t like barbequed cow.”
I tsk at him and wriggle free, then head to the back of the house. My search through the kids’ closet doesn’t net much. I grab a few stretchy things I hope will fit, then hustle back to the master bath, passing Rand along the way, who’s taking stock of the refrigerator.
Once I’m alone, I go through the motions: grab a towel, wriggle out of everything I’m wearing, rip off the false lashes, wait for the hot spray, lather, rinse, and repeat. But every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots and screaming, I see people scattering—and I can’t escape the horror that someone was aiming for me.
When I was with Rand a few short minutes ago in the kitchen, I felt fine. Safe. We were even joking. Now that I’m alone, the terror of the day is catching up with me. I blow out a breath and try to calm myself, but there’s no denying the ball of anxiety tightening my belly.
Busying myself helps a little, so I scrub my body so clean I feel almost raw. Then I squeeze out a bit of honey-scented shampoo and suds up. I’m grateful I spied a halfway decent facial cleanser in the medicine cabinet, along with a basic conditioner in the shower caddy.
I’m still fighting tears during my final rinse, but I need to stop. I need to be strong. And I need to figure out who wants me dead. Crying solves none of that.
Finally, I climb out of the shower, wrap my hair in a towel, and reach for the clothes. They fit…but they’re like a second skin.
As soon as I’m dressed, I look in the mirror—and my eyes nearly bulge from my head. The white tank is two sizes too small. Its hem flirts with my navel and flashes a wide strip of my abdomen. Without a bra, the thin shirt is almost pointless. I might as well be naked because my nipples are completely visible.
Shit.
The shorts aren’t much better. They’re black and hip-hugging, but they’re so brief they settle into the groove at the top of my inner thigh and expose the bottom curve of my backside. Even standing in place, the tight spandex creeps between my cheeks and crawls up my vajayjay.
