by Louise Clark
“They’re holding it here, right downtown.” Isabelle leaned forward. “It’s not a state funeral, but I hear it’s pretty close. The Premier wants to attend so they had to make the timing fit with his schedule. That’s why it’s next week, not this.”
Great. A high-profile funeral. Crushing security. People she didn’t know. What a way to initiate her position as the Jamieson representative. The idea of it made her want to turn tail and run.
She wouldn’t run, of course, but that didn’t mean she had to endure this alone. “Isabelle, I’m sure that Ellen would like to pay her respects to Mr. Jarvis as well. Arrange for both of us to attend.”
Isabelle nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Jamieson.”
Chapter 10
Quinn glared at his father, who glared back.
“It’s not a good idea,” Roy said.
“There’s no other option,” Quinn retorted. There was a snap to his voice that was perilously close to a snarl. He knew he was reacting badly, but he was desperate.
“There are always other options.” That was Trevor, using his most soothing tone of voice. Beside him, Sledge sprawled on the sofa, one arm flung over the back, his ankle resting on his knee. He looked relaxed, but his eyes glittered with interest as he watched and listened.
Quinn knew that look. He hadn’t seen it in a while. It told him that Sledge was bored. The search for a new manager for his band, SledgeHammer, had stalled. Hammer, the other permanent member of the band, had taken off to China with his girlfriend, Jahlina Wong, to search for her roots. Before this whole mess with Fred Jarvis had started, Sledge had admitted that he hadn’t written words or music in weeks. His creativity was being sucked out of him by the emotional aftermath of their manager, Vince’s, murder, and the grinding frustration of the manager search. He needed an outlet. Quinn suspected he’d found it in the current craziness.
Quinn refocused on Trevor. “In this case there aren’t,” he said crisply. “Tamara is besieged by legitimate media as well as the paparazzi. She can’t go outside without causing a sensation so she’s stuck in her room. All day. All night. It’s like a prison.” He thought about telling them that she was having flashbacks to her captivity, but decided that was her business … and his.
“If you bring her here you’ll only draw the media to our front door.” Roy shot him a baleful look. “Think of what that means to everybody around here.”
He was talking about Christy, though he wasn’t using her name. Quinn knew how much she valued her privacy. If the media descended on his house because he’d brought Tamara here, they’d inevitably find out that Christy Jamieson, the wife of the late Frank Jamieson whose murder had created a sensation and whose body had not yet been found, lived two doors down. Once that secret was out she’d never have any peace.
He swallowed hard. He hated the idea of bringing trouble to Christy, but Tamara’s situation was desperate. “The hotel is getting complaints from their other guests. They want Tamara gone. I’ve phoned around, tried to book her another room, but as soon as they find out who will be registering, they are suddenly full. I’m out of options.”
Sledge stirred. “What about my place? I have plenty of room.” He lived in a sprawling house on the shoulders of Cypress Mountain in West Vancouver. The house had both space and privacy. It was the perfect option.
On the surface. “Tamara doesn’t know you.”
Sledge raised his brows. “Sure she does. We met at your barbeque, remember? What’s the problem?”
“She’s—” Quinn hesitated, still reluctant to be specific about the reason for her current state of high anxiety. “Everything that’s happened since she came to Vancouver is freaking her out. She’s frightened.”
“Not surprising,” Sledge said. His gaze was steady on Quinn’s. He had a point to make and Quinn knew he wasn’t going to let it go.
“A murder tends to be a pretty emotional situation,” Sledge said, and suddenly his expression hardened and his jaw tensed. “I’ve got experience, I know.”
“She’s insecure. She wants people she knows around her,” Quinn countered. It sounded lame, because Sledge had a point. He had emotional context Quinn didn’t have. He’d dealt with the devastating shock of having a murder committed on his own property, with the victim being a trusted ally and friend.
But Sledge had not known Tamara before she was kidnapped, before her birth father had been murdered, before she became a suspect in his murder. Quinn had. He knew the real Tamara, the one who dove into danger with a careless joie de vivre that was intoxicating. That Tamara was in hiding. It was Quinn’s job to coax her back to the light.
If it took bringing her to this townhouse in Burnaby, then so be it.
Roy sat up. He’d been glowering through the whole conversation to this moment. Now he brightened. “Why doesn’t she stay with that Olivia Waters woman? She’s snotty enough to make mincemeat out of the paparazzi, so Tamara would be safe with her. Added bonus, they could get to know each other.”
Though his father’s suggestion was also a good one, he’d already discussed the idea with Tamara when she told him that the hotel was evicting her. She hadn’t ruled out the possibility, but was hesitant. Her relationship with Olivia was only beginning. She didn’t want to put the fragile bond they’d formed to the test. “Long-term, staying with Olivia would be the best option, but I thought Tamara could stay here for a couple of days while we worked out something with Olivia.”
“You mean Tamara refuses to stay with Olivia and you’re buying into it,” Roy said, glaring.
Quinn drew a deep breath to keep from saying something he’d regret. “I mean that Olivia is going to Jarvis’ funeral. That will result in a lot of media attention on her. Tamara will be as much a prisoner at Olivia’s home as she is in the hotel.”
“So?” said Roy, his chin jutting out aggressively. “When the paparazzi find her here, the same thing will happen, only other people will be hurt in the process.”
Quinn set his jaw and glared back at his father. “I talked to Christy. She’s okay with it.”
“Really?” said Trevor, frowning.
“Yes, really.” He’d caught her as she was returning from some kind of business meeting. She was wearing a simple dress, whose elegant lines shouted expensive sophistication. She’d topped it with a short jacket that gave the garment an added edge of authority. Shoes with four-inch heels did great things for her long legs and she carried a leather clutch purse under her arm. In that outfit, she was all Jamieson. Then she’d smiled at him and she was his Christy again.
Well, not his, precisely. He’d told her about Tamara, the media scrum she had to face every time she left her room, and her feelings of claustrophobia and fear. Christy had understood immediately and told him he should bring Tamara out to Burnaby.
He’d known she would react that way. She was generous and caring. He hadn’t expected her to act any differently.
Sledge shifted in his seat again. “When’s the funeral?”
“Wednesday, next week,” Roy said.
Quinn frowned at his father. Roy had answered awfully quickly. He wouldn’t put it past him to be planning something.
Sledge rubbed his chin. “So, you want to stash Tamara here until it’s over then send her to Olivia’s place? That’s it?”
“That’s the plan.” Plans could go awry, of course, but he really did think that moving Tamara to Olivia’s after the funeral would be the best option.
“I still don’t like it,” Roy said.
The house was as much his father’s as it was Quinn’s. If Roy refused to have Tamara stay, then he would have to take Sledge up on his suggestion that she hide out with him. Quinn wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that.
There was no option but to tell his father the whole. “Tamara has PTSD,” he said, feeling grim. “She’s been having flashbacks. During her captivity, she was kept in a room, alone, for long periods of time. Her only visitors would be her captors and the visits weren’t �
� ” He hesitated, uncomfortably aware that this was Tamara’s private hell and sure she wouldn’t want the others to know all the details. “Pleasant. She needs people around her. People she can trust. People she’s comfortable with.”
“You,” Sledge said.
Quinn nodded. “Me.”
“Hell,” Roy muttered.
Sledge sat up. He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. The gleam was back in his eyes and the smile on his face was full of daredevil mischief. “So, we need to extract Tamara without the media noticing.”
Trevor looked at his son. The expression on his face was wary, as was the tone of his voice. “A good suggestion. How?”
“Fortunately, I’m an expert in attracting the media as well as avoiding it. What we need is a diversion.” Sledge’s grin widened. “This is what I suggest.”
Chapter 11
They critiqued his idea, of course. Sledge had expected that, given who he was plotting with. Roy Armstrong had never met an idea that couldn’t be tweaked and his father—well, Trevor McCullagh was in the business of looking for the weakness in any argument and designing a successful media hoodwink was no exception.
And Quinn? He was getting squeamish in his old age, that’s all Sledge could think. Either that or he wasn’t as over Christy Jamieson as he pretended to be.
Sledge guided the scarlet Lamborghini down the quiet side street. Despite Quinn’s objections, Christy Jamieson was sitting on the passenger seat beside him.
She was currently staring at her phone, reviewing texts. “They’re not ready yet.”
“Idiots,” Sledge muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “We’re coming up on the hotel. Look sharp. We’re supposed to be arguing.” He took his eyes off the road, which only had light traffic at this early Saturday morning hour—thankfully—and lifted both hands off the wheel as if gesturing in an impassioned way. Christy shrieked out his name, as he hoped she would, and lifted her own hands emotionally.
They passed the hotel. Sledge grasped the wheel again and looked out his rearview mirror. “Excellent. They noticed us.”
“For God’s sake, Sledge! Of course they noticed us. You almost drove a red muscle car into a pedestrian. How could they not notice?”
While it was true there were lots of people wandering the sidewalks in this part of downtown, the sidewalk had been free of stray pedestrians when he’d released the wheel. “I wasn’t going fast enough to hit anything,” he said cheerfully. Another glance out the rearview just before they reached the intersection showed him that there was now a little cluster of interested media members peering down the street at the flashy red car. “How are Quinn and Roy doing? Are they in place yet?”
“Not yet,” Christy said, scanning the messages.
“Shit. I can only circle the block so many times in this beast.” The Lamborghini was a showoff car, from the ever-present grumble of the powerful engine through the sleek lines and bright flashy color. He drove it when he was Sledge, making appearances, doing interviews. It was part of his rocker image, wild, racy, untamable. When he was Rob McCullagh and wanted to get from place-to-place without fanfare he drove an easy-on-the-gas serviceable Ford subcompact that kept him under the radar.
“I know, I know,” Christy muttered, typing vigorously into her cell. They were halfway through the circle when she said, “At last! Quinn’s at the entrance to the alley, so they’re in place.”
“Showtime.” Sledge was surprised to feel butterflies take flight in his stomach. Ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he was about to go on stage before thousands in a packed arena.
No. He was about to put on a show for a couple of dozen cynical media types so his best friend could rescue his girlfriend—or whatever Tamara Ahern was to Quinn Armstrong. He suspected this was a much tougher audience. Not only that, but the consequences were inestimably higher.
Beside him, Christy drew a deep breath as they turned back onto the quiet street Tamara’s hotel was located on. She typed out another text, sent it, then typed in a second.
The first, Sledge knew, would let Roy, who was riding shotgun for Quinn, know that they were almost at the hotel. Christy would hold the one not sent until the reporters guarding the rear of the hotel had joined their brethren at the front, leaving the back free of observers when Quinn and Roy drove by.
Sledge shot a quick look at Christy. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Let’s argue.” He revved the engine, then pulled the powerful car into the breezeway that divided the hotel into two distinct buildings and stopped with a squeal of tires.
The lobby was located in the south side of the complex, while the hotel’s well-known restaurant was in the northern building. Both were on ground level with the breezeway separating them. A cluster of media types—reporters, TV camera crews, paparazzi—were huddled in front of the double glass doors that opened into the lobby. Sledge’s theatrical entrance had drawn all eyes and now he was parked in the middle of the hotel’s drop off, blocking the only vehicle access to the parking garage entrance located in the alley beyond.
Most of the reporters and paparazzi trying to catch Tamara for an interview or a photo were hanging out in front of the lobby area, but an earlier reconnaissance had shown that some were staked out in the alley, lurking around the dumpster there and watching the garage entry for vehicles attempting to smuggle Tamara out of the hotel. For their plan to work, Sledge and Christy were going to have to capture the attention of not just the lobby lurkers, but also the alley observers.
Sledge cut the motor. In the sudden silence, Christy shouted, “You’re nuts!” and shook her fist at him.
He grinned at her, then leaned in, threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair, and kissed her.
She wasn’t prepared for that, which was exactly why he’d done it. She’d be furious when he released her, and all of her reactions would be natural and much more believable than a carefully staged argument. Besides, Christy Jamieson was a gorgeous woman; he wanted to know if there was any spark between them.
Though his eyes were closed, he could feel the flash of the cameras and he heard footsteps and the sound of voices coming near.
“That’s Sledge!”
“Who’s the broad with him?”
Clicks, whirs, and running footsteps now. Some of the guys from the back alley, Sledge thought. The plan was working. He drew back from the kiss and opened his eyes.
Christy’s were already open and they flashed with temper. “That was low!” she hissed. Then she shifted in a fluid way, opened her door and exited with way more grace than should have been possible from the low-slung car.
Sledge rolled out of his side and when he heard the door slam behind Christy, he turned to face her over the long, elegant hood. He shot her his I’m-a-cocky-rock-star grin and watched her eyes smolder with temper.
They’d attracted quite a little crowd. The media types had surrounded the front of the car in a semi-circle that looked out toward the street. Because he’d parked so the flashy car was pointed toward the alley, he and Christy were the only ones looking in that direction. As he watched, a couple of men bearing fancy DSLR cameras emerged from the alley into the breezeway and headed their way.
“I told you people would notice,” Christy said, loudly. She glared at him. “There’s no parking here. See the sign?” She waved her hand at the crowd. “We’re creating a scene. All for a stupid sandwich!”
“Montreal smoked meat isn’t stupid,” he said. “It’s Canadian ambrosia. And this is the best place in town to find it.”
Cameras clicked. Someone said, “Hey! It’s that actress from that TV show, the one with the creepy aliens. With Sledge. What a coup.” A camera clicked while another voice shouted, “Hey, Sledge! Look this way.”
Sledge did, while Christy half turned to keep her face in shadow, so she wouldn’t be easily identified if she was in the photographs. At the end of the breezeway he saw one of the reporters pause, step back into alley a
nd put a hand to his mouth. He heard the shout. “Sledge and his new girlfriend! Heading for the restaurant!” Having done his duty and alerted his fellows, the photographer loped down the breezeway to join the crowd. Behind him two more cameramen rolled into the breezeway, running hard, determined to get a picture.
Sledge guessed they were the last of the men guarding the garage entry. He winked at Christy, then softened his expression to one of his ‘come hither’ smiles. It should attract the focus of the photographers, and it did.
The wink and smile were also a pre-arranged signal. Christy hunched her shoulders as she shoved her hands into her pockets where she’d stashed the phone. Then she tossed her head, another signal that told him she’d sent the text alerting Quinn and Roy the way was clear. Moments later, he saw Quinn’s little car bolt past the breezeway.
He came round the hood until he was beside Christy. His position gave him a good view of the alley. He leaned against the fender and smiled at her. The cameras clicked, and the crowd of photographers were focused exactly where he wanted them to be. “Come on, beautiful. Let’s go eat.”
She looked up at him, a melting look from under her lashes. More clicks. Some obnoxious brutes shouted demands Christy and Sledge look their way. “What about the car?” she asked. She sounded sulky and sexy at the same time.
He shrugged. “What about it?”
The sexy look turned into a frown. “We can’t leave it here.”
He smiled down at her, putting on his best rock star swagger. The look that turned most of his female fans to mush. “Sure we can.”
Christy shook her head and she glared at him. For real. No mush here. “No, we cannot. You’ve parked the damn car in the middle of the breezeway. No one registering at the hotel can come in.”
He shrugged, silently indicating that the needs of unknown hotel guests were not his problem.
Christy made a little growl in her throat and all but stamped her foot. Cameras clicked. “Hey, Sledge,” someone shouted. “How’re you going to get out of this one?”