by Desiree Holt
“You know,” she said slowly, “this may not even be connected to Blake Morgan the author, but Blake Morgan the person. It could be something that happened a long time ago. That’s why going over and over everything is important.”
“Swell.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “Maybe I hit someone’s kid in kindergarten.”
Avery’s lips curved in a tired smile. “Believe it or not, people have been killed for less. Just shake your brain and see what else falls out.”
“We’ll do it,” Sam assured her. “Listen, tomorrow’s a full day. Blake’s got a spot on the local morning show, then an interview with a reporter and then in the evening the book signing. Plus he’s going to show me how to deal with his emails, now that I have his login information.”
“Be sure to keep the ones that make you itch in a separate folder and email them back to me.”
“Will do. I’ll of course have my phone on if you need me.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
The screen went blank.
“We need to call the bookstore,” he told Sam. “Annemarie always called the day we got into town, checking the arrangements and asking if there was anything more they needed from me.”
“Let’s do that next, then. You have the number?”
He nodded, pulling it up on his cell. “And here’s the manager’s name. Ask her if they’re all set. If there are presolds I need to sign and should I come early for those. If there is anyone special I need to meet with first.”
“Like who?”
“If it’s a chain bookstore, sometimes the regional manager is there. That’s good because it can open the door to his other facilities.”
“I would think by this time they’d be standing in line to host you.”
He laughed. “Maybe if I was Tom Clancy. Anyway, if she asks you something you can’t answer, just tell me.”
“Okay. Here goes.”
She dialed the number, got the manager on the line, and went through the routine. While she listened to the woman she made notes on her tablet. Finally she hung up and looked at Blake, showing him what she’d written. “She said everything’s fine and they’re looking forward to it,” she relayed. “They’ve had a lot of calls from people checking the time and also a lot of hits on the Facebook page. They’re expecting a big crowd.”
“Good. That’s why I write books, so a lot of people will read them.”
“So, this is all okay?”
He nodded. “Routine. But I always need to check.”
“What else would you usually be doing in the afternoon now? We got here a day ahead because of your interviews so what would you be doing with your time?”
“Research.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Research?”
He nodded. “Like we discussed. Annemarie used to help me. I’d give her a list of topics and she’d start digging for information.”
“Do you still have any of the folders where she bookmarked pages? Copied stuff? How did she do that?”
He actually found himself smiling. “Yes, Mom. I still have them. She saved it all on her hard drive in the appropriate folders, then copied the folders to a Dropbox we share. Shared,” he corrected himself.
“Show me the Dropbox. I want to see what’s in there.”
She sat down at the round table by the window. “Bring your laptop over here and let’s see.”
It took him less than a minute to boot up and get to the Dropbox account he’d shared with Annemarie.
“See? Just like I said.” He opened one folder, then another. “Everything’s there. I can go back to it any time I need to.”
Sam peered at the screen. “Okay. Email me the link and the password now, so I’ll have them.”
They spent the afternoon dealing with that and some other business he had to take care of.
Sam spoke to Henry and reconfirmed the appointments for the next day, then handed the phone to Blake. He assured the man that yes, he’d be on time and on his best behavior.
“Aren’t I always?”
“I just want to be sure this whole business with the stalker isn’t throwing you off your game,” his agent told him.
“Maybe I’ll use it as part of the plot for my next book,” he joked.
But he forgot that Henry seldom joked.
“You know, that’s a damn good idea. Be sure to take plenty of notes, will you?”
Sam gave him a strange look when he disconnected the call. “I thought he was supposed to be your friend.”
“He’s my agent,” Blake corrected. “He sees the possibility of sales in everything.”
She gave a mock shiver. “I’m not sure Henry and I would get along too well. Listen. It’s almost seven o’clock. I—”
He looked at his watch. “So it is. Damn! I must have bored you to death for hours.”
He was glad when she smiled and shook her head. “Not at all. I actually find this all fascinating. So much of what we do at Vigilance is reflected in your plots. When this is over let’s get Avery to give you the full tour of the agency—the techno stuff, how we plan missions, how she hands out assignments. All that good stuff.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot she can’t share with me,” he pointed out.
“True. But I’m sure she’ll tell you what she can. Anyway, as I started to say, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Blake wasn’t all that hungry but he knew he had to eat.
“I should warn you. That happens when I’m into a project. I write and forget about everything else.”
Her smile made him think of her naked body beneath his, the feel of her skin and her delicious scent. It seemed that every minute he spent with her, he became more and more connected to her, more emotionally attached. He wanted her to trust their relationship. Trust him.
Too soon. Take it slow and easy.
“Then I guess I’ll have to be your watchdog as well as your guard dog. Want to go downstairs and get a bite?”
“Not really. Our unknown friend might be hanging around. Let’s order room service.”
They ate a leisurely dinner, deliberately staying away from any conversation about what was happening between them. Still, neither of them could ignore the electricity that crackled between them. Then he coaxed Sam into watching one of his favorite action movies with him. And finally it was close to midnight and time for bed.
“Let me just say this,” he said, “so all my cards are on the table. Avery reserved a suite with two rooms. Great. I can use the living room to work. If you think I’m asking or expecting too much too soon, I won’t be happy, but I understand how you feel. You can’t trust this yet. But I won’t be able to sleep unless you’re next to me, so only one of those bedrooms is going to get slept in.”
And only one of them was.
Chapter 8
Despite the intensity of the night before, they were up very early in the morning. Sam was pleasantly sore in a number of places, and she’d discovered something besides the fact that Blake was an incredible, giving lover. Keeping him at an emotional distance was going to be a lot harder than she thought. She was uncovering the many layers of Blake Morgan, and each one pulled her emotions more than the other. If she wasn’t careful those emotions would blow up and she’d find herself in a bad place. But how did she learn to trust him after all this time, when her memories flashed a warning to her brain and her heart?
Carefully, very carefully.
She’d expected the shallow teenager to be the same as an adult, but things were exactly the opposite. The adult had little in common with the teenager except his good looks. She worried that her heart might be in real danger here.
First things first. We have a big day ahead of us.
They opted for room service again for breakfast. Sam wanted to keep Blake as relaxed as po
ssible, and sitting in the open where their stalker might be right next to them was not the way to do it. Blake was edgy and jumpy, going through an entire small carafe of coffee himself, and Sam didn’t think it was because of the stalker. She was shocked to discover that he had a mild case of stage fright.
“Not with the readers,” he told her. “Not in bookstores. I love my readers, even in big crowds.” He chuckled. “Especially in big crowds. But the media scares the shit out of me.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Why? You’re so confident about everything else. What can some poor reporter do to you?”
“Some poor reporter who’s looking for a scandalous hook to make his story rise above all the others. Like some of the research I use is nothing but lies, or my publisher inflates my sales. Or, hell, I don’t know. I beat my dog.”
She chuckled. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
He gave her a weak grin. “I don’t. But you know what I mean.”
She straightened the knot on his tie and rubbed her hand against his smooth-shaven cheek. God. He always smelled so very good. She was in such big trouble here. How did she distinguish between the fulfillment of a teenage wish and something much more mature? How could she make herself trust this? It wasn’t like they were teenagers anymore, and Blake was doing his best to show her in every way how he felt.
Worry about that after you save his ass.
“Okay.” He drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Lead on, Macduff.”
“Why don’t you wait for me in front of the hotel?” she suggested. “I’ll go and collect the car and pick you up. You should be safe inside.”
“You think there’ll be another message on the windshield,” he guessed. “If there is I want to see it.”
“You don’t need—”
“To see them all? But I do. I want to keep seeing everything this asshole sends.”
“But Blake—” she started again.
He shook his head. “It won’t be any worse that what I’ve already seen.”
“You don’t think you’ve been upset enough by them?”
He shook his head. “I know you think you’re helping me by keeping this shit away from me, but the cat’s out of the bag with the message shit, so let’s just go get the damn car.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a hint of a grin. “Anyway, maybe if I focus on him I won’t have such a bad case of stage fright.”
She gave up. He was, in fact, right. Hiding the messages from him wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all him. Better for him to see them and be aware.
“Okay. But if there is one, do not look around. Leave that to me. I can do it without being quite so obvious. And if he’s watching, we don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you react.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
She threw everything she’d need in her tote, including her small purse. Blake hefted his messenger bag and they headed out of the suite. In the parking garage, they took the elevator to the third level and walked to the car. She spotted the folded sheet of paper under the wiper blade at once.
“Don’t touch it,” she warned Blake and drew a pair of latex gloves from her tote.
“He’ll see you doing this,” Blake warned.
“Good. And while there’s slim to no chance we’ll get any prints, if he is watching I want him to see we have procedures in place.”
She unfolded the sheet of paper and held it so they both could read it.
I know what you did. Deny it all you want, but before long you’ll pay for your sins.
“I’m getting sick of this fucking shit,” Blake spat. “He’s knows what I’ve done? Why the hell doesn’t he tell me? Am I supposed to be a mind reader?”
Sam was beginning to think about squashing this guy herself. She didn’t know how Blake was holding it together, especially with the public appearances he was making. And in that moment she saw him as more than the high school hot jock, the teenage sex god, the man who had fractured her heart. He became a man suffering unnecessarily but holding his shit together. A man who seemed to have unbelievable inner strength.
So maybe he wasn’t that teenage asshole anymore. Maybe it really was time for her to give him a chance. Maybe the real Blake was someone she could depend on and…she choked…fall in love with.
Don’t jump in feet first. Remember your history.
But she might, in the end, have little choice in the matter.
“No,” she told him, “you’re supposed to be consumed with guilt about something and so not need an explanation.”
Sam refolded the paper and slid it into a pocket of her tote. As casual as her attitude was, she still scanned every bit of the area she could see. She was mostly trying to see if anyone was sitting in their car and watching—or pretending not to watch. She couldn’t spot anything, but the itch at the back of her neck told her the stalker was somewhere in the vicinity.
“Get in the car,” she told Blake. “Just nod your head at me. Don’t say anything or look irritated. Pretend it doesn’t bother you. Can you do that?”
“Of course. I’m a great actor. I was in the senior class play in high school. Remember?”
She actually smiled, which she hoped would irritate the crap out of the stalker.
“I sure do. Taffy McDaniels was the heroine.” She snorted. “Who names their daughter Taffy anyway?”
He tried to match her humor. “People who like candy?”
“I guess.”
As they drove out of the parking structure, circling from one floor to another, she kept a sharp eye out for anyone following them. But a car had pulled out in front of them and two joined the line in back of them as they reached street level, and it was hard to tell if any one of them was the stalker. She turned on the GPS on her phone, entered the address of the television station, and edged into traffic.
“I’m glad we left early enough to give us some leeway,” she said, trying to ease the tension radiating from him. “You never know how bad traffic in a city will be.”
“We’ll be there in plenty of time.” He sat looking straight ahead through the windshield, drumming his fingers on his thigh.
“I’m curious.” She moved over a lane to get away from slow-moving traffic. “If you hate this so much, why do you do it?”
He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “My agent and publicist say it’s good for my image. And when it airs the day of a signing, statistics show it increases the crowd.”
“The price of fame?”
“I guess.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asked after a minute.
“Just centering myself. Digging up the public version of Blake Morgan.”
She left him alone for the rest of the ride, only nudging him when they pulled into the station parking lot. The lot was gated and guarded, which pleased Sam.
“I guess he could always bluff his way in here,” she said, “but let’s hope the setup deters him.” She parked in one of the visitor spots close to the building. “Show time, kiddo.”
He sighed. “Yeah. Okay, let’s do this.”
Sam was fascinated watching the process once they got inside. She’d been security for a number of people, from politicians to rock stars to people of great wealth. Somehow, though, even with the rock stars, she’d never been part of a visit to a television station. Everything they’d done had always been on site of a performance.
When Sam gave their names, the girl at the reception desk smiled so wide Sam thought her cheeks would crack.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Morgan. We’re very excited about you being here today.” She looked at him shyly from beneath lowered lashes. “My boyfriend is a huge fan of yours. If you wouldn’t mind, I have one of your books here. Before you leave could you sign it to him?”
“Sure. Let’s do it now.
”
“Oh! Oh, thank you.” The girl lifted it from the shelf beneath the desk. “His name is Scott.”
Blake scrawled a message and signed his name, then handed the book back. “Did you want a picture?”
“Oh, my God!” Her eyes widened. “That would be so wonderful.”
By the time she’d used her cell phone to take two selfies, a man was heading out into the lobby.
“Bridget, you wouldn’t mind sharing Mr. Morgan with the rest of us, would you?”
“Oh!” Bridget blushed bright red. “Of course not. I am so sorry, Mr. Moretti.”
“That’s okay. But I need to claim him now.” He held out his hand. “Alan Moretti. I’m the station manager.”
Blake did the polite greeting thing, introducing Sam as his personal assistant. Then she and Blake followed the man out of the lobby into the bowels of the building. Sam did her best to look as if this was all routine to her while they herded Blake through makeup, introduced him to several people on the set, and made them comfortable in the guest waiting room.
“Fifteen minutes,” Moretti told them. “Someone will come and get you. Would you like coffee or anything in the meantime?”
They both refused politely.
“Okay, then.” He turned on the television set against one wall. “You can monitor us from here. We do some news items first, the weather, a rundown on what’s happening today. Then you’re up as our first guest.”
“Good enough.”
Sam watched Blake, admiring him. He looked so relaxed you’d never know he considered this one of the seven major kinds of torture. But when Moretti left the room, Blake’s posture immediately became rigid and he cracked his knuckles. He avoided looking at her and appeared for all the world as if he’d withdrawn into himself. He might have been going to an execution instead of an interview.
Then the television show came on, the opening graphics filling the screen with the theme music playing behind them. She reached over and touched Blake’s arm.
“They’ll be coming for us any minute,” she reminded him.
“I know. I’m ready.”