The redhead comes to her knees and scoots toward me. Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt, and she leans in to place a kiss on the center of my chest once it's bared to her.
My cock comes back to life, and I disconnect the call.
Jocelyn is forgotten.
For the time being.
Jocelyn
“Kynan's done well for himself,” I murmur to Rachel as we pull into the driveway of a monstrous Spanish Colonial-style mansion. It's bigger than my house, and mine sits at just over seven thousand square feet of space that I never use.
"That he has," she replies as she puts her Maserati Quattroporte in park and cuts the engine.
I don't make any move to open the door and neither does Rachel. My heart is pounding at the prospect of seeing Kynan again after all these years, but this isn't as scary as what happened in my house last night. Unconsciously, my fingers come to my throat where they skim the purple bruises there.
"How old is your kid?" I ask Rachel as I turn slightly to look at her. She blinks at me in surprise, but I throw a thumb over my shoulder to the child safety seat in the back.
"He'll be six months old on the twenty-third."
I smile as I do a quick calculation in my head. "He was almost a Christmas baby then."
"Yup," she says with a laugh. "My husband Bodie insisted his middle name be Kris in honor of the holidays."
Kris Kringle. Cute. "What's his first name?"
"Anthony, but we call him Tony," she replies.
Traditional sounding. "Family name?"
She shakes her head with a laugh. "No. We named him after Tony Stark."
"You're kidding me?"
"I never kid about the Avengers." She grins for a moment before her expression turns reassuring. "Ready to get this over with?"
I nod back at her, but what I really want to do is tell her to just start the car again, take me to the nearest airport, and let me take a flight somewhere that no one will know about. I can melt away into obscurity, and the psychopath who is after me will be left far behind.
Except . . . he's managed to find me time and time again over the last few years. I've moved four times, purchasing my homes under fake aliases, but always, he still finds me. Threatening notes followed by long, flowing love letters. Bouquets of flowers at the gated entry to my house or decapitated squirrels, depending on his mood. It was sporadic enough that I'd sometimes get a false sense of security that he'd gotten bored and moved on, but then something else would happen.
But he had never come into my home before.
And I knew it was him.
My stalker.
He managed to cut the power, which alerted me that something might be wrong. When I heard glass break near the back patio, I dialed 9-1-1 and raced toward the panic room. Even though he cut the power, my security system had a battery backup, and I knew a silent alarm would be ringing somewhere, hopefully notifying the police.
It was a good thing too, because the man took me down in the hallway just mere feet from the door to the panic room and before 9-1-1 could even answer my call. My only saving grace was the security company alerting the police and a cruiser just blocks from my house. The wailing sirens as they pulled up in front of my house caused him to run. Which was good, because I was very close to losing consciousness from his hands locked around my throat.
My fingers drop away from the bruising, but Rachel's gaze lingers on it, surveying the marks he left behind. When she looks back at me, her eyes harden. "Kynan will protect you. We'll figure out who this shit head is, and he won't bother you anymore when we're done with him."
I manage a tremulous smile. "That's the most reassuring thing I've heard in a long time. The police haven't been able to do much with what they've had over the last few years."
Her eyes go soft and almost apologetic. "I don't know the details of what happened between you and Kynan, but I know the general gist of things."
Heat flushes through me, and I drop my gaze to my lap. "He hates me."
"I have no clue as to that," she remarks simply. "But don't expect him to be nice. If you want him for this job, just be ready to deal with that."
I nod in acknowledgment of something I was pretty sure she didn't need to explain. Kynan and I split ways twelve years ago, and it wasn't pretty at all. It's one of my greatest regrets in life, but that doesn't make things any better for either of us.
My gaze rises and locks with Rachel's. "I know exactly how Kynan feels about me, and yet, I'm still here. He's the one for this job."
"Why?" she asks with a head tilt. "There are a lot of other great security firms out there."
She’s right, and I researched them back when the stalking started. I've even used some of them for personal security services and could easily use the same ones again, but something tells me they wouldn’t be enough.
My lips curve into a sardonic smile. "No matter his feelings toward me, Kynan is a man of integrity. And I know he'll take this far more serious than anyone else would. I trust him."
"All right then," she says as she grabs the handle to her door and opens it up. "Let's go on in."
I follow Rachel up the walkway, which is lined with cacti and tropical-looking plants. Even though it's June in Vegas, I pull the sides of my zip hoodie around me for protection. I'm not looking my best, that's for sure. After I refused an ambulance to the hospital, I gladly accepted a police officer's ride straight to the airport. I'd thrown on some yoga pants, a tank top, and grabbed my hoodie from the closet. I didn't bring anything else other than my purse. I have no makeup on, my hair is a rat's nest, and I don't even have a brush because I don't keep one in my purse. No, I wouldn't do something as common sense as that. I had to have the huge cosmetic/vanity bag in addition to my purse, which held all the essentials I needed to stay looking glamorous at all times. I never even thought to bring that with me because my only thought was getting out of Los Angeles and getting to Kynan for help.
There was never any doubt of where I'd go once I approached the ticketing agent at the airport. The police officer kindly came in with me and stayed by my side until I made it to the security line. Still, I didn't stop looking over my shoulder until I was on the plane to Vegas and every last passenger had boarded. My life is now one that is led by fear and survival instinct, and I know I can’t survive it alone.
We get to Kynan's front door, and to my surprise, Rachel punches in a security code and walks in without knocking.
The splendor of his house is lost on me, not because I'm immune to opulence but because it isn’t important to me. Over the years, many things I thought were important have become trivial.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I look around with minimal curiosity and mostly nervousness over seeing the man that I once loved and who now hates me.
Rachel shuts the door and walks into the open living room that has wide, glass doors that look out over a spacious veranda. It's filled with potted plants, a huge grill, and high-end furniture, but I barely take it in.
I hear a door open from above and my gaze sweeps up the massive, curved staircase that sits between the foyer and living area. There's laughter—both male and female—and then Kynan walks down the staircase with a ravishingly beautiful woman wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. He has his arm around her and is whispering something in her ear that causes her to giggle again. Kynan wearing a pair of track pants and a T-shirt. His dark blond hair is mussy, and it's clear they just spent some time in bed together.
My face flushes with embarrassment over being in Kynan's home unannounced and clearly ruining an evening with his girlfriend.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, his eyes come to me, but linger only briefly and without a flicker of emotion. Then they slide to Rachel. "I don't need anything else tonight, Rach. Get home to Bodie and Tony."
Rachel inclines her head and gives me a last reassuring smile that misses the mark with me. "See you later, Jocelyn."
"Bye," I whisper, my thro
at feeling extremely parched from nerves and still raw from last night's attack.
When the door closes behind her, Kynan's hand drops to the woman's ass and he squeezes it. "Be a love and get me a club soda from the bar."
"Not another scotch?" she purrs with her hand to his chest as she leans into him.
He shakes his head and looks at me. "Want something to drink?"
"I'm good."
Kynan's eyes drop briefly to my throat, but I don't see so much as see a facial tick from him. His expression is as bland as unbuttered grits.
The red-headed woman sashays off without an introduction to me. I watch her swaying hips briefly as she walks over to a recessed wet bar built into one wall before turning to Kynan. I swallow to wet my throat and say, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be barging in like this and interrupting time with you and your girlfriend. I can go to a hotel, and we can meet in your office tomorrow."
Both Kynan and the woman give simultaneous snorts of amusement, but she's the one who responds to me. "Oh, I'm not his girlfriend."
My eyes move back and forth between the two.
Kynan just shrugs. "We just met this afternoon."
"Oh," I say softly, the implication hitting me. I mean, I'm not shocked because there's nothing wrong with one-night stands or anything like that, but why in the world did he have Rachel bring me here if he was in the middle of one?
"We met at The Wicked Horse," the woman adds on conversationally. "I was getting flogged in the stocks, and Kynan rescued me. Whisked me off to this luxurious mansion for an evening of fun."
I blink stupidly, trying to process. "I'm sorry. The Wicked Horse?"
"It's a sex club I belong to," Kynan replies and walks over to a sumptuous-looking armchair. He drops down with elegant grace and motions with his hand toward the couch, indicating I should take a seat.
Now I'm shocked. So much so that I'm rooted to the spot. "Sex club?"
"Oh, don't sound so boorish, Jocelyn," Kynan chastises me in that sexy British accent. "You should give kink a try sometime. You would have no shortage of movie stars and rock gods lining up for you."
I can feel the heat creeping up my neck as the woman walks over to Kynan with a glass of club soda in her hand. She settles down right onto his lap, and I'm stunned when his hand goes between her legs.
Not to squeeze her thigh or give her a caress.
Goes right to her core, and while the hem of her robe covers what he does to her, I know it must feel good because her eyes roll into the back of her head, which then lolls on his shoulder. Her legs start to fall open to give him better access, and I get just a glimpse of a smirk on Kynan's face as he watches me closely for a reaction.
I spin away, mortified and equally pissed off. I start for the door, unwilling to stand for whatever it is he's trying to prove here.
"Stay," he commands, and for a heartbeat, I almost obey him. That voice of his . . . all cultured sounding but incredibly arrogant and demanding almost ensnares me. I used to obey him a lot when it came to sex, but I chalk that up to the fact I was just oh so young when we were together.
I'm not young and naïve anymore, so I keep walking.
I make it to the foyer before he calls out again, "Walk out that door, Jocelyn, and you know your life is in danger. Your psychopath could be out there right now."
They are the right words.
I freeze in place, feeling my shoulders slump in resignation.
I'm pretty much in a no win situation, and I had known when I walked through his door that Kynan’s help would cost me more than just money. It's clear that as a means to repent for what I did to him, he's going to humiliate me first by making me stay while he gets the woman in his lap off.
But to my surprise, I hear him say, "We're going to need to call it a night, love. Go get your clothes on and call yourself a cab. I've got some money in my wallet on the dresser to pay for it."
"Sure thing," I hear her reply and then there's nothing but the sound of kissing, some moaning, and a deep groan from Kynan. I can only imagine what she's doing to him, but I refuse to turn around and look.
Only when I hear the woman's soft steps on the staircase do I give my attention to Kynan again.
Kynan
It's another punch to my gut when Jocelyn turns to face me. Surprisingly, she's even more beautiful now than she was twelve years ago at the age of twenty. She's filled out in all the right places, and despite the haunted look in her blue eyes, her face is a work of art any man would be hard pressed to ignore. Her hair is more of a platinum blonde than when we were together, and I find the pale color looks even better on her. Though, it does make the bruising on her neck stand out in stark contrast against it.
Those marks, clearly from a man's hands around her throat, were the first thing I noticed when I laid eyes on her. I was battling a rage so intense that I almost stumbled down the last two steps of the staircase.
I've seen Jocelyn a lot over the years.
Usually on entertainment shows, giving interviews and such.
Accepting awards and signing autographs.
She's come a long way from her early days as the opening act for a Vegas singing legend.
It took one savvy talent scout to catch her crooning an Alannis Morrisette song, and her life changed in an instant.
So did mine, and not for the better.
"Take a seat," I tell her with a nod at the couch.
She listens, but her walk is slow, her steps measured. There's a slight limp there, and I'm guessing more bruising lurks somewhere under those clothes from whatever happened last night.
I try to ignore the cold chill that races up my spine as I realize that Jocelyn could have died last night and I would have heard about in on the news.
I can imagine the headlines now. Reigning Queen of Pop Murdered in Her House by Stalker.
Jocelyn sits stiffly and awkwardly with her hands clenched tight on her lap and her gaze focused there.
"Tell me everything," I say.
Her eyes come to me slowly. She licks her lips, and just that little action right there causes more of an erotic sense of pleasure within me than any of the dirty things that were just done to me less than twenty minutes ago. I hate that she can get a physical reaction from me when she isn’t even trying.
"A little over two years ago, I got a letter in the mail that was definitely different from the crazy sort of fan mail one can expect . . ."
I let her talk for almost a half hour, interrupting her sparingly with questions. In that time period, the redhead comes down the stairs as unobtrusively as she can and slips out the front door with a wink at me before it closes. I don't acknowledge her in any way and Jocelyn keeps talking.
When she's finished, I've heard enough to know that she's got one seriously twisted, but incredibly smart, psycho after her. The fact he's been able to track her down to new homes purchased through aliases tells me he's a hacker of some sort. If he's as good as I'm afraid to believe, I wouldn't be surprised if he knows she's in Vegas.
Possibly even at my house.
Not likely, but not impossible either. Just because someone is a nut job doesn't mean they're short on smarts, and all indications tell me that this guy is intelligent. I'll know more once I can get my hands on the mail he's been sending her that the police have. Jocelyn tells me she's saved it all and it's in police custody right now.
When she quiets and I know she's told me all she's capable of recounting at this point, I push up from my chair and set my empty glass on the coffee table. Without a word, I head to the wet bar and pour her a glass of cabernet. She was a white wine drinker twelve years ago, but she's matured since then. I peg her liking red now.
She blinks at me in surprise when I'm standing in front of her, holding the glass out. We stare at each other a moment before she takes the wine and whispers, "Thank you."
I return to my chair but don't sink into a relaxing position. Instead, I perch on the edge with my elbows to my knees and wait for her to
give me her undivided attention.
"He isn’t going to go away," I tell her with surety. I've dealt with a variety of stalkers over the years, and I know someone who has gone to the lengths he has is not going to rest until she's dead. There's a psychological component there that can't be overcome. He'll keep coming and coming at her until he satisfies his fantasy or gets arrested. Those are the only two outcomes.
Well, not the only two.
I could kill him.
"I know," she murmurs before taking another sip. "It's why I need your help."
"Why me?"
Her expression is shrewd and defiant. It's the first I've seen of her fiery spirit since she walked in here. "Because I trust you."
"That's an awful big gamble," I point out to her. "Especially how things ended between us."
"Kynan," she murmurs in a pained voice. "You know how sorry—"
"Don't," I cut her off with a palm raised toward her. "It's not relevant to this discussion. You're a potential client now, and I take my job seriously. It's enough to know you trust me."
"Potential client?" she asks with mild alarm in her expression.
"You haven't heard my price," I drawl.
"I'll pay whatever. You know money's not an option."
I nod. "I know that. But I have a plan, and you might not like it."
"What is it?" she asks curiously.
"We're going to bait him to come after you," I tell her and then brace for her reaction.
She stares at me a for very long moment before she tips the wine glass to her mouth. She chugs the remainder in four long swallows and then gasps, "You want him to come after me?"
"He won't get near you."
"Can you guarantee that?" she rasps.
"Yes. I promise you." I'm sure that won't be the only lie I tell Jocelyn in the days to come, but I need her calm and assured right now. She's had enough fear to last her for a while.
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