Lovely Little Liar (Blackwell-Lyon Book 1)

by J. Kenner

  I’m about to end the call, re-dial, and try again, when the clerk comes back on the line. “I’ll connect you now,” she says, before I can ask what happened.

  And then it’s Jez’s voice. “How did you find me? For that matter, why are you calling? Did I leave something at the bar?”

  “I’m about three minutes from your hotel. I’m going to pull in behind the hotel and park by the service entrance. A black Range Rover. Get your stuff. Get your sister, and meet me back there.”

  “In case it escaped your notice, you and I don’t work together.”

  “If you’re always this argumentative, I’ll take that as a good thing. But right now, you need to trust me. I’m moving you to a different location.”

  “Trust you? I don’t even know you. For that matter, I’m pretty sure I don’t like you.”

  “Only pretty sure? Glad to know there’s a small window I can crawl through.”

  “Pierce—”

  “And maybe you don’t like me, but you do trust me,” I continue. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have taken my call at all. So I’m betting you checked me out. Went to my website. Googled my company, my background.”

  She says nothing, which I take as confirmation.

  “Where’s Delilah?” I ask, careful to keep my victory smile out of my voice.

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about my sister?”

  “I’m a quick study. And I know that someone tweeted your hotel.”

  “Shit.”

  Her tone makes it clear that she didn’t know. “You should have some sort of set-up for alerts,” I say mildly.

  “I do—or I did.” She curses softly again. “It’s just that lately there’s been so much on the Internet about Delilah that my phone never stopped dinging. Now our publicist pulls it nightly and emails it to me every morning.”

  “Look, the Crown’s a great little hotel, but it’s not secure enough for you. Get your sister, meet me, and let me take you someplace safe.”

  “Why is this even your problem?”

  And that, I think, is a very good question. And one I’m not sure how to answer. Primarily because the real answer—that she’s filled my head, and not helping her is simply unacceptable—is something I don’t want to acknowledge. Much less share.

  So instead I go with an honest lie. Something true, but not my reason. “Because I think you and I have something in common,” I say.

  “I sincerely doubt it.”

  “I have a younger sister,” I say. “And I’d move heaven and earth to make sure nothing bad happened to her.”

  For a moment, she says nothing. Then she says very softly, “She’s not here. They had a late call tonight. One of the guys working set security is bringing her back. But she texted me a few minutes ago. They’re close.”

  I’ve reached the Crown now. It’s low and sprawling and shaped like a U, the interior of which sports a popular—and public—open-air bar that surrounds a pool.

  All of the rooms have patios that look out over either the pool or the greenbelt. A valet stand is at the apex of the circular drive, right at the access point to the bar area. I’m guessing that Delilah made the mistake of stepping onto her patio or in front of a window, and a fan snapped a picture from the bar area.

  The valet stand is also right by the main entrance to the hotel’s interior, which is accessed by a short covered walkway that runs in front of the bar area to a door at the end of one of the U’s prongs. Which means that anyone coming into the hotel has to walk past the bar. Which is great for generating business. But not great for privacy or security.

  As I drive slowly forward, I can see that the bar is teeming. It’s always been popular, but right now it’s so full of bodies it looks like Dante’s version of hell.

  I’m hoping that the place instituted a really amazing Wednesday night Happy Hour, and that accounts for the crowd. But I’m thinking that some of those people came not for the drinks, but for the entertainment. And Delilah, I’m afraid, is the star attraction.

  “Text your sister. Have the driver take her around back.”

  “Too late,” she says. “She says they just pulled up.”

  Sure enough, a black Lincoln Town Car has rolled to a stop right past the valet stand. The bellboy must recognize the car, because he scurries to open the back passenger side door. The driver gets out, and starts to circle around to the passenger side as well.

  I can’t see who’s in the car, but the crowd in the bar has a clear view, and as soon as the door opens, a throng of them stand. I’ve rolled down my windows, and the catcalls and cries of bitch and slut and Levyl deserves better ring loud and clear.

  I slam the car into gear and plow forward just as the crowd starts throwing rotten tomatoes. And half a dozen cameras flash intermittently, illuminating the scene.

  The tomatoes splatter on the sidewalk, and Delilah dives back into the car, slamming the door shut behind her as a hail storm of little red bombs explode against the side of the car.

  I bring the Rover to a squealing stop beside the Lincoln. “What’s happening?” Jezebel cries, her voice tinny through the speakers.

  I don’t bother answering. I’m out of the car and pulling open the left-side passenger door on the Lincoln. Delilah, looking young and scared, cowers away from me. I hold out my hand. “I’m with Jez. Come on.”

  She hesitates, and I’m thinking that I’m going to have to dive in the car and forcibly scoop her up, when Jez’s voice blares from the Range Rover’s speakers. “Do what he says, Del. I’m coming.”

  Immediately, Delilah lunges for me. I grab her hand and pull her toward me, then load her into the back seat of the Range Rover.

  “Hey!” the security guy calls, solidifying my assessment of him as an incompetent prick.

  On the hotel side of the Lincoln, a group of women are surging forward, their eyes filled with an anger I don’t understand, but certainly can’t deny.

  “Bitch!”

  “Levyl was too good for you!”

  “How could you hurt him like that?”

  “Whore!”

  They’re getting closer, and I’m on my way back to the driver’s side, yelling for Jez to meet us at the service entrance.

  But right as I’m about to get into the car, she bursts through the hotel door, then skids to a halt, just a few feet from the boiling crowd. Shit.

  Her phone’s at her ear, and I can hear her cry of, “Delilah!” in stereo—from the sidewalk a few yards away, and through the rolled-down window of my Range Rover.

  “Jez!” Delilah calls. “Please, mister!”

  I hesitate only a second, debating whether it would be faster to get in the Rover or sprint to the sidewalk.

  I sprint.

  The crowd’s not interested in her at first, but then someone calls out, Jezebel, and they move en masse toward her, shouting questions about Delilah. A surge of furious energy rips through me—they are not touching her—and I push myself to get to her faster, only taking an easy breath when I finally grab her outstretched hand.

  “Come on,” I order, even though there’s no need. She’s right beside me and we race toward the car together, fingers twined, while young women grab at my jacket, shouting curses and questions and swearing that Delilah will pay for the way she hurt their sweet, wonderful Levyl.

  “In,” I say, opening the door so she can get in behind me and be next to her sister. I slam the door, climb into the car, and burn rubber getting back to the street.

  I don’t stop until we’re well away from the hotel. Then I pull into one of the lots at Zilker Park, cut the engine, and relax, my eyes going immediately to the rear view mirror. To her.

  The women are right next to each other, Jez’s arms around Delilah, who’s cuddled up against her, crying softly. After a moment, Jez lifts her eyes and meets mine in the mirror. Thank you, she mouths, and I look away, my chest tightening with emotion. I tell myself I’m only thinking about Kerrie. Putting myself in Jez’s shoes,
and empathizing about how she’s feeling now that her sister’s safe.

  It’s not true, of course. What I’m feeling is the shock of this woman’s gratitude. That soft, grateful look from a woman I know is strong and competent, but who still needed me. And the pride of coming through for her.

  For her.

  Because it’s not about the job. It’s about the woman. And that’s not something I’ve felt in a long time.

  Frankly, it’s not something I want to feel at all.

  Suddenly, the huge interior of my Range Rover is feeling claustrophobic. I grab the handle and open the door, then step out, shutting it behind me. They need privacy. And I need space.

  But after a few minutes, I hear the door open, then slam shut. I’m leaning against the front of the Rover, looking out toward the soccer field and the river. My condo’s on the other side, and from this angle, I can see the rise of my building blending in with the downtown Austin skyline.

  Home.

  “It’s a pretty view,” Jez says, easing up beside me.

  “Your first time in Austin, right?”

  I’m still looking at the city lights, but I can see her in my periphery. The way she turns toward me, her head tilted just slightly, as if I’m a knotty puzzle she has to solve. “Why were you at Thyme? It wasn’t to meet me.”

  “Blind date,” I say, turning toward her. “Mistaken identity.” I nod toward the car. “We should write it up. It could be one of those romantic caper films. Your sister could star.”

  Immediately, her expression shuts down and she wraps her arms around herself as if cold. It’s March, but it’s Austin, so there’s barely a chill in the air. Even so, I take off my jacket and put it around her shoulders. She flashes me a quick smile, looking both sheepish and vulnerable. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s going to be anything to star in.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  For a moment, I think she’s going to answer. Then the wall slams back in place, and she just shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Jez…”

  “Honestly, it’s not your problem.” She pushes away from the car. “Thanks for your help—really. But we’ll be fine now. When you take us back, you should probably go to that service entrance, though.”

  “We’re not going back,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s South By Southwest right now,” I tell her, referring to the well-attended Austin conference and festival. “We’re talking fans, reporters, the whole nine yards. They’re all in town. And the Violet Crown isn’t secure. You think the photographers are going to stay away from that bar just because you ask them nicely?”

  “You’re right,” she says, surprising me. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “How about we take care of it tonight?”

  Her lips press tight together. “I appreciate what you did,” she says. “But I’m not hiring you. I need a firm that can provide a long-term solution, not a one-night fix.”

  “Tonight’s working out pretty well for you,” I say with a wry grin. “But just to be clear, in work, I’m all about long-term relationships.”

  “So it’s just your personal life that’s truncated?”

  Something about the way she says it stabs me in the gut. As if she’s stripped me down to the essentials and found me wanting. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve slipped on the relationship suit before. It’s a little too tight for my taste.”

  She nods. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters either way. We’re not in a relationship, we’re not having a one-night stand, and I already have a new security team lined up for the rest of the shoot.”

  “Led by the same guy who didn’t show up at Thyme?”

  “Actually, yeah.”

  I nod. “Seems reliable and solid. Good choice.”

  “The studio vetted him,” she says tightly. “They just got the date wrong when they set up the meet. He’s flying in tomorrow.”

  “And Larry?”

  Her brow furrows. “What about Larry?”

  “He’s your former security detail, right? The one you were with for five years?” I make a spinning motion with my finger beside my head. “I reran our conversation in my head. It makes a lot more sense now that I know who you weren’t.”

  “What about him?”

  “He approve of your new guy?”

  “I—I wouldn’t know.” She draws a breath and looks down at the ground. “He died over a year ago. A drunk driver in Newport Beach.”

  My blood pounds through me—this story is too familiar. “Larry?” I say. “Laurence Piper?” Colonel Laurence Piper?”

  Her eyes widen. “You knew him?”

  “I spent six months under him. I went to his funeral,” I add.

  “You were in Special Forces.”

  I nod. I don’t like to talk about my time in uniform. I don’t regret it—I have my job and my training because of the skills I learned in the military—but the things I saw can haunt a man. And I learned a long time ago to turn my back on the pain.

  “I think Larry would want me to make sure you’re safe,” I say now. “To get you out of the Crown.” The wind’s blown a strand of hair over her lips, and I brush it away without thinking, surprised by the shock of awareness that jolts through me as my fingers brush her cheek.

  She feels it, too. I’m certain of it. I hear her shuddering breath. I see the way she drops her gaze, then starts to take a step back. She stops herself, pulling my jacket tighter around her. When she looks up again, she’s all business. “We’ll never find a room. It’s the festival, remember? And all of our stuff is at the Crown.”

  “In other words, if I can get your things delivered to you and set you up in a room, you’ll move hotels, no argument?”

  “Well, hell,” she says. “I walked into that one.”

  I fight a smug grin. “Right straight into the fire.”

  Her lips are pressed together, but this time it’s not with irritation, but because she’s trying not to laugh. And the effort is making her eyes light up, giving her a glow that’s both sexy and sweet … and really not the direction my thoughts need to be traveling.

  After a second, she pulls herself together. “Okay. Fine. You win. But you’ll never get a room. It’s insanity.”

  “Shall we bet?” Now I’m the one playing with fire. But I can’t help it. I want to feel the heat, even at the risk of being burned.

  Her eyes narrow. “What are the stakes?”

  “I thought you were my date earlier tonight. Let’s make it official. Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

  A single brow rises in that way she has. “When you thought I was your date, we were having drinks.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Drinks and appetizers. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she says. “But you’re not going to win.”

  “Watch me.” I pull out my phone, hoping my confidence isn’t misplaced, then dial a friend I haven’t spoken to in years. “Ryan Hunter,” I tell her. “He used to own his own security business, but now he’s the Security Chief for Stark International,” I continue, referencing the huge international conglomerate owned by former tennis-pro turned billionaire entrepreneur, Damien Stark.

  “And that’s helpful how?”

  “The new Starfire Hotel on Congress Avenue is a Stark property. So if management is holding back a room, I’m ninety percent sure Ryan can snag it for me.”

  He answers on the fourth ring, and after some quick catching up, I cut to the chase. “Ideally a suite,” I say after explaining the situation. “But I’d be grateful for anything you can wrangle.”

  “Hang on,” he says, then puts me on hold. “You’re in,” he says when he returns. “Ask for Luis when you get there. He’ll get them set up.”

  “I owe you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I chuckle, then hang up. A lot of the security business is run on traded favors. Today, that practice worked well for me—and for Jez, who’s eyeing me
with curiosity.

  I flash a victorious smile. “Never bet against the house.”

  “Let’s go,” she says, and though her voice is stern, I hear the humor underneath.

  As promised, Luis takes good care of Del and Jez, providing them with pseudonyms for check-in, a suite on a floor with private key access, and a floor plan that consists of two bedrooms that connect from opposite sides to a huge living area.

  “I hope this is suitable?” Luis asks.

  “It’s great,” Jez assures him.

  “So you’re all set,” I say after Luis leaves. He’s promised to personally act as a liaison with the Crown to arrange the delivery of both women’s things. “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “I’ll meet you at Thyme,” she says, then smiles innocently.

  “Fair enough. But no club soda with lime.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  “You two need to shake on it,” Delilah says, walking in from the bedroom she’d claimed.

  I hadn’t gotten much of a look at her earlier, but it’s easy to see why she’d shot to stardom. At eighteen, she has a maturity about her that seems much older. But there’s an innocence, too, suggesting a life that’s just a little too sheltered.

  She’s shorter than her sister, and thinner. Almost too thin, at least for my taste.

  Her face is classically beautiful, but a smattering of freckles gives her an approachable quality. She’s full of laughter, despite the harassment by the fans, and it’s easy to tell which is the more serious of the sisters.

  “Thank you again,” Delilah says to me, for what must be the thousandth time. “For the rescue and for the room.”

  “You’re welcome again,” I say, and she grins.

  “He was good, wasn’t he?” she says to Jez.

  “Bossy and arrogant,” Jez says, her eyes flickering to me. “But, yeah. He was good.”

  I smile, more pleased than I should be by the compliment.

  “Of course, he’s also an ass,” she adds, making Delilah burst into laughter.

  “Watch it, or I’ll make another bet. I think we both know your track record.”

  “I’m quaking with terror.”