by Desiree Holt
“Great. My publisher will be pleased.”
She laughed. “Oh, I’d say they’re already pretty happy with you.”
He placed his messenger bag against the wall behind him, pulled out the chair, and sat down. When he took another look around he thought it was a good thing he didn’t get claustrophobia. People were jammed together so tightly they were a solid wall behind the ropes and stanchions.
“This is…amazing.” He looked back at Margaret. “They don’t bite, do they?”
She laughed. “We haven’t had that happen yet, although I suppose there’s always a first time. Your publisher was quick to let us know you still hadn’t gotten used to your celebrity. It’s nice to meet someone who isn’t way over the top.”
“Thank you. I think.”
She waved a hand at the table. “The confirming email told us to be sure and have bottled water for you, and a supply of the pens you like to use. Jocelyn will be your guardian. If you need anything else, just let her know.”
“Thank you again.”
He picked up a pen and got ready to greet the first person in line. After that there was no time for conversation except with the people waiting so patiently. He lost track of time, as the readers kept on coming. Each one had a smile and a compliment and he tried to think of something special to say to each of them. And then, finally, he was done. He looked around and saw most of the crowd had cleared out. A few souls were still browsing but the mob had dispersed.
“You’re a hardy soul, Mr. Morgan.” Jocelyn smiled at him. “Thank you again for this.”
“No, thank you. For having me.” He leaned back in his chair, wound his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.
“You have to stop doing that, Blake. It drives people crazy.”
He could hear Annemarie’s chiding voice in his ear. In the past few weeks he’d come to realize exactly how much of his life she was involved in, and how much he’d come to depend on her. Another item high on his list during the break was finding her replacement. He hoped to hell there was someone out there as good as she was.
“Mr. Morgan?” Margaret Breakstone interrupted his mental wanderings.
“Yes.” He dug out his professional smile. “Presolds, right?”
“Before that a reporter is here and would like an interview for the newspaper. He said his photographer got some great shots with you and the crowd.”
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
“We have a conversation area set aside for it,” Margaret told him. “Come on.”
He rose from the chair, turned to pick up the messenger bag…and froze. On the flap of the bag someone had affixed a sticky note.
I know what you did.
What the hell?
Blake closed his fist around the note, the little icy finger stroking his spine again. He looked around, but all he saw was the end of the crowd still wandering around the store. Did he expect whoever this was to be standing there waiting to be recognized? He wanted to ask if someone had seen anything, but he was pretty sure it was hopeless. With people jammed against the velvet ropes and everyone focused on him, placing the note had to be easy.
He hated the fact that his pulse ratcheted up and his nerves were getting the best of him. Someone was playing a joke, was all. And not a very funny one. If he caught them—when he caught them—he’d find out what the fuck was going on. Then he’d beat the shit out of them.
“Mr. Morgan? Blake? Is everything alright?”
He turned to see Jocelyn standing by the table.
“Yes. Sorry.” He dredged up a smile. “Just lost in thought for a moment. Reporter’s waiting, right?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He’d labored for too long in anonymity to blow off publicity. “Let’s do it.”
By the time he finished with the interview, signing the presolds, and autographing special books for the store employees, the afternoon was long gone. He shook hands with everyone again and headed outside right into the dark. He gave thanks for the lights in the parking lot. He tossed his messenger bag in the car, climbed in, and started to back out of the parking space when he realized the car was bumping along.
Sighing, he put it in park and climbed out. He’d missed the flat tire because he’d only seen one side of the car when he came out of the store.
Fuck.
He turned off the engine, tossed his sport jacket in the back seat of the car and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He thought about calling road service, but he could easily change the tire in the time it would take for someone to show up. Swallowing a sigh, he opened the trunk to pull out the jack and the spare.
And froze.
Neatly stuck to the spare was yet another note.
I’m watching you. I know what you did.
I know what you did and I’m going to make you pay.
Okay, now his nerves kicked in full force. Blake had heard of the little electronic gizmos you could buy cheap online that opened any car lock. He just never thought it would play into his life. Enough was enough. He didn’t rattle easily but if some maniac was stalking him, even going so far as to use electronic devices to access his vehicle, how much longer would it be before there was a physical attack?
He looked around the parking lot, trying to spot someone, even as he realized how stupid that was. What did he expect? A man popping up wearing a T-shirt that said Hey! I’m your stalker? Whoever left it was probably long gone. Or not. He wanted to scream or throw something but that wouldn’t be very productive. He had to figure out what was going on here.
He crumpled the note and stuck it in his pocket. He’d finally stopped throwing them away and now he had quite a collection, if he ever found the fucker doing this. Then he sighed and went to work changing the tire. Thank the Lord he was turning the rental in tomorrow at the airport.
Goddamnit.
No one left the store through the back entrance the entire time it took him to change the tire. By the time he finished a light rain was falling, the dampness and chill in the air only adding to his foul mood. He tossed the jack in the trunk and wiped his hands on his handkerchief, then slammed the trunk closed.
As he reached to open the car door, the light in the parking lot made it possible for him to see himself reflected in the window. His thick dark hair was disheveled where he’d run his fingers through it staring at the flat. He had a smidge of dirt on one cheek and the late day scruff of beard was beginning to show. His beard was so dark he probably should have shaved again early afternoon before leaving for the signing. Hardly the image of a polished, successful author.
Right now, all he wanted was a hot shower and a stiff drink. And food. He’d eaten very little for lunch and he was suddenly hungry. Room service sounded very good to him.
He tried to watch the traffic around him as he drove back to the hotel. Then realized how stupid that was. He had no idea how he’d spot someone following him. He could write about it with no problem but doing it in real life was a whole lot different. Maybe he could write his next book about this when it was all over. Whatever it was.
He was damn glad to get back to the hotel. He found a parking spot in the garage close to the elevator and he hurried to it. A nervous ninny, for God’s sake.
He had just returned to his room when his cell rang. He looked at the readout.
His agent.
“Yeah, Henry.” He closed the door, put his messenger bag down and dropped into a chair.
“So how did it go?”
“Great. It was great. Big crowd, lots of enthusiasm.” He chuckled. “Lots of pictures for Facebook. You should like that.”
“Social media works,” Henry agreed. “So, anything else happen?”
“If you want to know about any more notes, then yes, something else happened. Two somethings.”
He related the
details, biting down on the anger at the unknown stalker.
Henry was silent for a moment.
“Listen, I know you aren’t going to like this, but I think we need to get you a bodyguard.”
“Are you kidding me?” Blake bit off the words. “Because some joker is sending me some notes?”
“This joker,” Henry pointed out, “is persistent. He may be no more harmless than leaving these notes for you. Maybe he gets his jollies thinking he’s frightening you. But then again, maybe he’s not. And you’re too valuable a commodity to ignore this.”
“Fuck.”
Even as he said the word, Blake saw the wisdom of Henry’s position. Attacks on celebrities in all venues were far from uncommon. Having his trunk broken into wasn’t all that unusual, either. Obsessed fans did a lot of crazy things.
“Let me make a couple of calls,” Henry told him. “Some of my other clients have needed bodyguards, and either agency they used will work just fine. Depends on who has someone free right now.”
But the word bodyguard pinged something in Blake’s brain.
“Never mind. I’ve got an agency I can call.”
“Blake, you can’t just hire anyone off the street,” Henry protested.
“Depends on the street. You familiar with Vigilance?”
“Are you shitting me? Of course I am. I’ve tried to hire them a couple of times but they’re very selective about the contracts they take. And while I love you, buddy, you aren’t quite up there in the Vigilance stratosphere yet.”
Blake snorted a laugh. “Shows you what you know. Do you happen to remember where they’re located?”
“Well, they were in New York, but I heard they relocated.”
“Uh-huh. To Arrowhead Bay, Florida. The place where I grew up.”
“Huh. Well, then, I’d say it might just be time for you to go home for a visit.”
Blake nodded, even though Henry couldn’t see him. “My thoughts exactly.”
Chapter 2
Blake was glad he hadn’t driven his car to the airport at the beginning of the tour, making it one less place the stalker could leave his nasty little notes. Instead he’d used Uber. Still, when he got home he carefully searched the area around the entrance to his condo. Even checked his car in the residential parking garage, sighing in relief when he didn’t find anything.
He’d only been living in the condo for about six months. Before that he was living in New York, renting a townhouse. Then when his first best seller hit, he decided to move back to Florida. Tampa had as much big city as he wanted; he had a lot of friends there, including several from his home town of Arrowhead Bay, which was only a two-hour trip away. One of those friends introduced him to a real estate agent who was addicted to his books. Two weeks after his search began he was the owner of a three-bedroom condo on Tampa’s Harbor Island, overlooking the water.
Too bad he was in no mood to enjoy it.
I know what you did.
It played in a loop in his mind. What the hell had he done? No matter how many times he went over things in his mind, even going back to the release of his first book, nothing stood out that would generate something like this.
He slept uneasily, and in the morning checked again for notes of any kind. As he made his way through downtown Tampa, he found himself constantly checking in his rearview and side mirrors. Did the car behind him look familiar? Was the one driving beside him familiar?
He had specifically told his agent and publisher he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going on this short break. Better for the public—and whoever was after him—to believe he was staying in Tampa as he usually did. Still, he continued to check any traffic around him. Just in case, he told himself. Even when he finally hit the Interstate he remained alert, although he had to admit to himself how farfetched it sounded to think someone would actually be following him.
His call to Vigilance had gone better than he’d hoped. He had never met Avery March, but he knew about the agency. Everyone in the small, southern town of Arrowhead Bay knew about them. But the agency had taken up residence long after he moved away. Avery’s sister, Sheridan March, was the Arrowhead Bay chief of police. When Avery had been looking to relocate the agency to a smaller environment than New York, she’d come down for a visit and fallen in love with the town.
They’d made themselves a low-key part of the community, guarding their privacy. What he did know about them was that they were a high-risk security agency and bodyguard work was one of their specialties, with some hostage rescue thrown in now and then. Rumor was they did black work for the government, too. Their clients ranged from international corporations to political figures and rock stars.
He hated that having a bodyguard would mean an invasion of his privacy, but as his agent said, “Better than being dead.”
He didn’t want to broadcast the fact that someone was after his ass, but he wanted to make sure Vigilance was what he wanted and needed. He’d hoped Avery had at least heard of him and his books, so he could get a foot in the door. He’d smiled at her response when he asked her.
“Damn straight I’ve heard of you,” were her exact words. “As a matter of fact, I have every one of your books.”
“That’s great, because I think I need your help.”
When he explained his situation, she set an appointment for the next morning.
“Come on down. I can’t let anything happen to one of my favorite authors. Right?”
“Thank you. See you tomorrow around eleven.”
“She reads your books?” Henry was astounded when Blake called to tell him the meeting was set up. “How lucky can you get? Okay, then. Call me afterward and give me the details. I’m sure she’ll want to get all the information about your tour and I want to be comfortable with the arrangements.”
Fueled by a go cup of coffee, he tried to sort out in his head what he wanted to say to Avery. He’d given her a brief overview, but he knew she would probe for as many details as he could remember. He had saved all the rest of the notes in a large envelope along with a list of where and when he’d received them. Henry had advised him to save the texts, which he had, but he had nothing on the phone calls, only a list of where and when. He hoped that at least gave Vigilance something to start with.
When he left the Interstate to follow the two-lane highway into Arrowhead Bay, he rolled down the driver’s side window in his car and inhaled the air. Fresh and clean, a little windswept and tinged with salt from the bay, it was headier than any other scent. Maybe the memories it brought helped a little, too. Growing up in the small town had been great. In fact, he had used Arrowhead Bay and its lifestyle as a model for the town in his fourth book.
The minute he hit the town limits and headed down Main Street, the past came flooding back. Grabbing rides on anyone’s boat at the marina and begging fishing time. High school football games, especially the one after the homecoming parade. Serial dating, because at that age he wasn’t interested in anything that lasted longer than six hours. Being part of the crowd that everyone envied. The jocks and cheerleaders and leaders of the class. Looking back on it, he realized how shallow it all was, but when you were a teenager those things were important.
There was one memory, however, that had taken root in his mind and intensified over the years. Whoever said teenage love disappears had never met Samantha Quenel. Two years younger than he was, she’d drawn him to her the first time he got a really good look at her. Tall, slender and graceful, with her long blond hair that swayed when she walked, she’d captured both his heart and his cock at first sight. Every time he saw her he felt as if a fist had struck him. And her smile was pure sunshine.
He’d found himself looking for opportunities to bump into her. Maybe chat with her. Every time he looked into her eyes he got lost in them. One time he found himself in line with her at Fresh from the Oven, where he’d g
one to get their special chocolate chunk muffins for his mother. He’d coaxed her into letting him buy her an iced tea and his fifteen-minute run to the bakery turned into one of the most memorable two hours of his life. He was so affected by it, he invited her to the upcoming Valentine’s dance.
Talk about a night to remember. He still felt the imprint of her body against his as they danced close together, her breasts soft against his chest and the faint perfume she wore tantalizing his senses. When he kissed her goodnight, one kiss wasn’t close to enough. She tasted like seven kinds of sin, her mouth soft and pliant. He still remembered every detail of that night, the sweet heat of her kisses when he took her home and the feel of her lips against his.
He’d gotten hard as steel thinking about those sweet lips wrapped around his cock. Horny teenager that he was, he’d wanted to take her someplace private, strip off all her clothes and make love to her all night. Only his respect for her kept him in check, and his message to himself that you didn’t grope girls like Samantha on the first date.
The last thing he said was, “I’ll call you about this weekend. Can we do something together?”
She’d smiled and nodded.
And then he’d made one of the worst mistakes in his life. One of the drawbacks of being part of the so-called in crowd was they dictated what you did and who you did it with. And Samantha Quenel was not part of their closed circle. Too bad his friends had acted like assholes, but shame on him for being swayed by them. After that he went out of his way to avoid her, even ignoring her or walking away when she tried to talk to him. Then he got caught up in graduation, the parties with his friends, plans for his last summer before college, and she just never appeared on his horizon.
His first few trips home after he started college he’d tried to look her up, but she gave him a shoulder colder than ice. Who could blame her? He’d been a total ass. To this day he regretted the way he’d handled the whole thing. He hadn’t met a woman since then that he enjoyed as much or wanted as badly. How was it that after just one date she was so firmly implanted in his brain? That all these years he’d measured every woman who came into his life against her?