Tease Me: A Stark International Security Novel

by J. Kenner

  Beyond that is another connecting room of the more standard variety. One living area with a king-size bed, one bathroom, and one stunning view of London.

  “So this is your room,” Ryan tells Gabby, indicating the bed. “And Baxter’s going to camp in the middle area on the sofa bed. He’ll keep you safe, I promise. And you know where Jamie and I will be.”

  She shoots Baxter a shy smile and murmurs thanks.

  “Happy to help,” he says, and it’s probably my imagination, but I think he might actually be blushing.

  I don’t have time to explore that possibility, however, because he and Ryan are heading out to make sure that things are progressing smoothly on the Stark International side of things.

  While Gabby unpacks, I take the opportunity to go upstairs. I’ve hardly been there at all, and it’s seriously impressive. With a grand piano, an incredible bar, and a huge dining table that I imagine doubles as an elegant conference center. There’s also a sunken living area with a seriously impressive media center. So impressive that I have to talk myself out of chilling with a movie.

  Instead, I remember my own Hollywood goals, set myself up at the yacht-sized table, and shoot off a quick email to Carson Donnelly, the director who’s been making noises about casting me. Not an opportunity I want to screw up, but there is also no way I’m going home until I know that Gabby is safe and this whole mess has been cleaned up.

  Since explaining this to him would take about as long as writing the based on a true story screenplay, I just tell him it’s a family emergency, but that I’m ready to talk by email or phone whenever he is.

  Then I cross my fingers.

  I also call Nikki and leave a quick update for her. After Ryan and Baxter talked to Damien, Ryan told me it was okay to fill Nikki in. Though I’m sure Damien’s probably already done most of that. Still, I want to give her my take on the whole thing. And I promise that I’ll get Gabby to call her as well.

  Those niceties attended to, I settle into real work and pull up the rough cut of my most recent celebrity interview. I’d already texted Matthew to let him know in a wholly vague way that things had gotten crazy in London. As a result, rather than look at the footage together, we’re working separately and then comparing notes.

  I go through frame by frame, making a zillion detailed notes that are probably going to drive the editing team crazy, but that I think will step the production up a notch. I’m deep in it when Gabby joins me with her own laptop.

  “I prefer paper research,” she comments as she gets settled. “But since I left the States in a rush, I didn’t have time to gather anything. Fortunately, I’ve scanned or photographed almost all my research, but now I have to read it on my tiny screen.” She points to the tablet that she’s set up next to her laptop.

  “Knock yourself out,” I say, pointing to the monster TV. “Project all your documents up there.”

  “Oh, good idea.” She glances behind her to the bar, then turns back to me with a grin. “I bet it’s well stocked.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And don’t you think it would be a shame to project my crappy j-peg files and blurry PDFs onto such a nice screen?”

  “It certainly would.”

  Which explains how we end up camped out in front of the television with wine, popcorn, candy, and Magic Mike when Baxter finds us.

  “Working hard or hardly working?”

  “Funny man,” I say, then toss a box of Junior Mints at him.

  “I give this hotel five stars,” Gabby announces. “There’s a movie-style candy tray under the TV. It’s fabulous.”

  Baxter chuckles, then takes a seat on the couch and opens the candy. “Pause for a sec and I’ll update you.”

  We do, though not as eagerly as we should—it’s an awesome scene, and neither one of us wants to return to reality. Still, best to know the score.

  “No hit yet on the facial recognition,” he says. “But the program’s projecting the run will be complete by morning. Fingers crossed.”

  “And you put in William and his family, right?”

  “Right,” Baxter says. “We used several images we found online just to be dead certain. But nothing.”

  I meet Gabby’s eyes. “Bad news for solving this, but hopefully it means your biological family isn’t trying to kill you.”

  She clinks her wine glass against mine. “Cheers to that.”

  “Glad you two are taking things in stride,” Baxter says to me. “But instead of eliminating, I want to find the fucker that did that to you.”

  “Wait,” Gabby says. “Did what?” She looks between me and Baxter. “And now that I think about it, whose face are you trying to match?”

  I wince, realizing that she didn’t know about the man who’d come into my room.

  “We don’t know.” Ryan’s voice rises from behind me as he climbs the last few stairs. “But when we find him, it’s going to take a hell of a lot of self-restraint for me not to kill him.”

  Gabby turns to look at Ryan. She studies him for a moment, then shifts her attention to me beside her. “Okay. Tell me.”

  I don’t want to say anything. I’m freaked enough by what happened to me. If it had been Gabby in that bed, I don’t doubt he would have increased the dosage to a lethal amount. Or just wrung her neck.

  Now, though, she’s looking at me with such trust and hope that I can’t justify keeping anything back. Forewarned is forearmed and all that jazz. And if nothing else, she deserves to know what she’s up against.

  “She can handle it,” Ryan says, obviously knowing exactly where my mind has wandered. He focuses on Gabby. “If you’re anything like your sister, I promise you can handle more than you think.”

  “It’s nice hearing that,” Gabby says.

  He nods. “I’d help you even if she wasn’t, but knowing what I do about Felicia, I’m sure that this is what she’d want, too.”

  And it’s a way to atone.

  He doesn’t say the last, but I’m certain it’s what he’s thinking. And while I hate that he thinks that he needs atonement, I’m weirdly glad that this chance—this woman—dropped into our lives.

  Gabby nods slowly. “I wish I’d known her. I mean, we’re identical, so maybe I do, but…” She trails off, then wipes her damp eyes. “Anyway, this isn’t the point. Whose face are you matching? The person who’s after me?”

  “He was here,” I tell her bluntly. “Or someone was. And it was probably him.”

  “Here?” She gestures around the room.

  “In the hotel,” I say, then draw in a breath. “And, well, yeah. He was in here, too. Our bedroom. Today. Earlier.” I hug myself, because it’s still all very fresh and fucked up. And was it just today? How is that even possible?

  “Oh my God. How?”

  “He—well, Ryan was out and I was dozing, and he got in and drugged me.” I’m not sure when Ryan joined us on the couch or when I moved, but I’m curled up in Ryan’s lap now, his arms tight around me.

  “How did he get in?”

  “He cloned a maid’s key. And I can assure you that will never happen again at a Stark property.”

  “Oh.” She exhales loudly. “Wow. I’m glad you told me. And not glad all at the same time. But I’m definitely glad that you’re helping me. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ryan says. “But it’s not just you. It’s not even just Felicia. The son-of-a-bitch violated my wife. This is ours now as much as yours. Which means you have our help whether you want it or not.”

  “Believe me, I do. Can you show me the face? Maybe I know it.”

  “Of course,” Ryan says.

  “I’ve got it on my phone,” Baxter says. “Hang on.”

  Ryan shakes his head, obviously annoyed. “Things are moving fast. We should have done that already.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago that you had me slammed against the wall with your arm against my neck. Cut yourself some slack.”

  He winces, then holds out the phone
that Baxter passes him. “Familiar?”

  She studies it but shakes her head. “Not at all. And I’m betting the ball cap isn’t helping the program.”

  “It slows it down,” Baxter says. “But we’ll get there.”

  Gabby meets his eyes, then looks back to me. “I like his confidence,” she says, and I swear I see Baxter blush again. “Is it okay if I leave my computer stuff up here? I’ll get back to it in the morning.”

  “Of course,” Ryan says. “Are you crashing?”

  She nods. “I doubt I’ll sleep.”

  Baxter clears his throat and tells her that they can watch a movie if she needs a distraction, and because my mind always goes there, I have to look down at my feet and press my lips together tight in order to keep from sharing with the class the kind of distraction I think he’s hoping for.

  “Naughty,” Ryan whispers to me as we all head downstairs moments later.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say primly.

  We tell them goodnight, and when the connecting door closes behind him, I take my husband’s hands in mine. “You think she’ll be okay?” I ask. “Really?”

  “We’ll see that she is.” He lets go of my hand to cup my cheek. “And as for tonight, Baxter has a great bedside manner. She’ll be fine. Right now I want to know how you are.”

  I sigh as I tilt my head into the warmth of his palm. “Well, I’m better than she is. At least there’s no target on my back.” I frown, then look into Hunter’s icy blue eyes. “Is there?”

  His expression is grim. “As long as I’m helping her, you may have a bull’s-eye. That sedative was just a warning.”

  “Oh. Great.” I draw in a long breath. “Well, fortunately I look good in black and white and red. Because you can’t not help her.”

  “And that’s why I love you.” His soft voice is like a caress. “You pretend like you’re tough.”

  “Pretend.” I bite my lower lip as if considering. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  He shakes his head, a smile dancing at the corner of his mouth. “Nope. You pretend to the world, but it’s a double-blind. The truth is you are tough. A tough shell around a sweet marshmallow of a woman.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Marshmallow? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  He laughs. “It’s been a long day. You choose your metaphors.”

  I raise a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just feel bad about everything that’s happened to her. And it’s all the worse because I like her. I always have.”

  “I do, too. And it is horrible. And,” he adds, lifting my chin so that I’m looking him straight in the eye, “I don’t like you being in the crossfire.”

  Warning bells clang in my ears, and I shake my head. “Oh, no. I am not leaving you now. No way.”

  “Jamie…”

  “No,” I say. “I’m safe with you. And I’m not leaving Gabby.” I move closer, easing my arms around his waist. “I’m sticking, Hunter. Deal with it. Besides,” I add, “I have my uses.”

  I press against him, feeling the way his chuckle reverberates in his chest. “Do you…?”

  “Oh, most definitely. For example, you look stressed. That’s not good.” I slide my hands down, then cup his ass as I press my hips forward, relishing the way he hardens against me. “I’m very good at helping you relax.”

  “You definitely are.” His hands move to cup my rear, pulling me tighter against him.

  I shift, then get my hands on the button of his pants. “I think it’s time for a little de-stressing.”

  “Kitten,” he says, as I start to tug his zipper down, “I do love the way you think.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ryan’s dressed and almost out the door by the time I wake up.

  He bends over and kisses me, and I make a sound that’s not quite human. I don’t do well with mornings.

  “I’m going to go talk with William again,” he says. “Maybe he’ll be clearer today.”

  I force myself more awake and sit up, wishing I had an intravenous coffee drip. “Fingers crossed.”

  He stands in front of the full-length mirror and adjusts the tie of his slate gray suit. He looks seriously hot, and he meets my eyes in the glass and subtly shakes his head. “It’s pressed. We’re not wrinkling my suit.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Of course, William might be our bad guy,” he continues without missing a beat. “Not personally—he’s not doing well physically—”

  “But he could be the evil mastermind,” I finish.

  “It’s possible.”

  I nod. “It makes sense. Whoever spoofed her phone knew about Felicia. Enough to mention a train.”

  “True, but that doesn’t mean much. I wasn’t a secret and neither was the mission. Randall told people he was sending someone in to rescue his daughter, and I heard later that he even shared what happened to her. It wouldn’t surprise me if the story went through the entire family as well as his business.”

  I make a face and call on the gods of sarcasm. “Well, that narrows down the suspects.”

  “If we just knew the endgame. Who benefits by killing her?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. The problem, of course, is neither does Gabby.

  He sips his coffee as he scrolls through emails on his phone, presumably making sure there are no work crises before heading out on what I’m calling The Gabby Project.

  “Baxter’s confirmed that William’s renting the house, but it looks like he’s renting it from a trust called the Inheritance Trust.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He doesn’t own the house personally, but that doesn’t tell us much. There are a lot of reasons to put assets into trusts. We own a few pieces of real estate that are in a trust, actually.”

  “We do?”

  “Well, technically I do, since I bought them before we got married.” He flashes me a grin. “But I’ll share if you’re very, very nice to me.”

  I laugh. “Deal. How do you find out the reason for this trust?”

  “Baxter’s going to—shit.”

  The word comes not long after a text ping.

  “What is it?”

  “Marjorie Smythe. She’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “The attorney who handled the probate of Randall’s will. Baxter says she was hit by a car yesterday. Hit and run. Her assistant told Baxter she’d try to find the specifics about the will, but it may take a while. Apparently she’s new and they were moving offices. Things are chaotic.”

  “Oh. So…?”

  “So we’ll have to wait for details of the trust. Damn.”

  “How could a trust have anything to do with the attack on Gabby? It’s all done, right? The estate is closed, or whatever they call it after everything the dead person owned is distributed. Right?”

  “That’s what I thought, and that’s what the press about Randall’s death suggests. But I was hoping Ms. Smythe could confirm.”

  “Maybe that private attorney you’re trying to track down knows something. Or William, for that matter. If you’re sure enough that he’s not our bad guy that you can ask him outright.”

  “My gut says he’s not,” Ryan tells me. “He seemed to really love Felicia. Said he still imagines seeing her. That—wait.”

  “What?”

  He starts to pace and I scoot to the foot of the bed, wanting badly to interrupt, but not wanting to disturb whatever’s going on in that head of his.

  “William said he adored Felicia. That he even imagined seeing her when he saw women who looked like her. And that more recently he wasn’t projecting her face on other women, but actually seeing her. Right outside his house on the sidewalk across the street.”

  “Where Gabby told us she’d been.”

  He nods. “His wife told him that he was imagining things. She looked, too, and said that there was nobody there. And the truth is, William’s a little muddled.”

  “But what—”

  Ryan holds up a f
inger, silencing me. “And he said he couldn’t have loved her any more if there’d been two of her.”

  It takes a massive effort not to say anything, but I can tell he’s going somewhere with this.

  Except he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he goes to the closet and flips through his suit jackets. He finds the one he wore yesterday and rummages in the pockets, coming out with a folded piece of paper. “He gave me this. A phone number for an estate agent in Somerset.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. He’s a little muddled.” He meets my eyes. “Or maybe he isn’t.”

  I make a motion for him to hurry the hell up.

  “At first, I thought maybe he was giving me the private attorney’s number. But when I realized it was a dead line, I dismissed that thought and figured he was just a befuddled old man. But now I’m wondering…” He’s been unfolding the paper as he talks, and I watch as his eyes go wide. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “How the hell did I miss this?”

  He hands me the paper, and as he starts to do something on his phone, I glance down. There’s a phone number scribbled at the top—the dead one, presumably. But other than that, it’s just a completed puzzle. Except, I realize, it’s not.

  Words fill the boxes, but don’t seem to match the clues. I skim them, trying to figure out what got Ryan so juiced. Maybe a clue in the letters?

  And then I see it, too. Most of the boxes are full of random words, but two answers are names. Martin in six-down. And Meeks in twenty-one across.

  “The clever bastard,” I whisper, and Ryan meets my eyes, then points at his phone. It’s on speaker, and I hear it start to ring.

  “Martin Meeks.”

  Oh my God, I mouth, and Ryan nods, then says, “Mr. Meeks. My name is Ryan Hunter. I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Hunter. Randall very much appreciated everything you did for him.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. I’m calling about his daughter.”