by Misty Evans
Trace knew the names of every type of handgun, automatic weapon, and knife in use by the armed forces, but names of purses? No clue. “Were any of these used recently?”
Beatrice wiped the moisture from her smoothie cup. “Not that I’ve been able to track.”
Damn. That would have been too easy but sure would have made his world better. “Who’s her handler?”
“I’m working on that,” Beatrice said. From the steady look she gave him, he assumed she had an idea but wasn’t ready to share it with Savanna.
“What’s our next step?” Savanna asked.
Trace closed the file. “Is there anywhere Parker would go to if she were in trouble? Any place from your past? A person she might contact for help?”
“You believe a highly-trained operative like Parker would contact a person from her past or go back to a childhood home?” Beatrice asked, her voice slightly incredulous.
Trace had done his homework on her, Reese, and Petit. She wasn’t the only one with sources. “Who did you turn to when Rory Tephra came after you? Who did your husband ask for help in protecting you?”
’Nuff said. She’d gone straight to her husband, estranged at that time, and together they’d gone to Petit. Family and friends.
Beatrice fell silent but a hardness slipped into her eyes before she switched her gaze to Savanna. “Can you think of anyone Parker might turn to? Old friends from high school? University?”
Savanna thought for a moment. “She had lots of friends in high school and college. She was in sports, on the debate team, in the science club, you name it. I couldn’t keep up with all of her extra-curriculars, and I never figured out how she did all of that and still graduated valedictorian of her class.”
“She wasn’t actually involved in all of those activities,” Beatrice said, snagging the corner of a paper inside the file and teasing it out to lay it on top of the folder. “They were cover for her internship with the CIA.”
“What?” Savanna leaned forward to examine the paper. Her gaze scanned quickly and her mouth hung open. “I don’t believe this. How did she keep all of this from me? Why did she?”
“She had to,” Trace said, feeling slightly sorry for her. It had to suck to know your closest friend and confident, a person who shared your very DNA, had deceived you so expertly. “The CIA requires spies to keep their true job a secret.”
“I know that, but…” She closed her eyes and sighed. “She was living a whole separate life none of us knew about.”
“It’s normal to feel betrayed,” Beatrice said and Savanna opened her eyes again.
“Betrayed? I’m amazed. Yeah, I wish she would have at least told me she was working for the CIA back then, but I’m pretty damned impressed she could keep that from me. I knew she was a hell of a sister, but now I know she’s one hell of a woman, period.”
Trace felt the corner of his mouth lift. Parker wasn’t the only one. “The men and women who work for intelligence, no matter what agency, are remarkable individuals.”
The phone on Beatrice’s desk buzzed. She hit the speaker button. “Yes, Connor?”
“Lieutenant Franklin is here to see Ms. Jeffries.”
“Ah, good. Send him in.” Beatrice rose. “Coldplay and I will step out and let you speak to Franklin.”
Dark blue eyes snapped to his. “Doesn’t the officer need to speak to him too?”
“Yes, he’ll interview Coldplay separately. For privacy reasons.”
The door opened and the receptionist, Connor, motioned a man in a uniform to step through.
“Lieutenant,” Beatrice said, crossing the room to shake his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to do the interview here.”
Trace started to stand. Savanna grabbed his hand. Don’t leave me, her eyes said.
Savanna didn’t want him to leave. Beatrice, now introducing the cop to both of them, was grabbing Trace’s sleeve and pulling him away. “Ms. Jeffries’ bodyguard and I will step out for a moment.”
Trace, hating himself, gave Savanna’s hand a squeeze before withdrawing his. He saw the fear in her eyes. Fear that even a cop couldn’t be trusted. “I’ll be right outside the door. You need anything, yell.”
Savanna’s throat contracted and then she nodded.
Beatrice grabbed the folder and her smoothie, leading the way to the still-open door. Maggie followed. Trace did as well, glancing back over his shoulder at Savanna whose eyes were on him instead of the officer asking her questions.
She was right to be paranoid after what had happened. He didn’t trust anyone either, even though he knew that Beatrice had no doubt handpicked the cop now sitting in the chair Trace had just vacated.
Beatrice wouldn’t allow just anyone into SFI headquarters. Still, Trace stepped into the hallway but left the door cracked open so he could hear what was going on inside.
“I need to speak to you in private,” Beatrice said, tilting her head to a conference room across the way.
“I’m staying here.”
One brow raised but she didn’t argue. From her pants pocket she withdrew her cell phone, punched in a code. “This came across my desk earlier this afternoon.”
The screen showed a grainy black and white photograph of a woman, her face turned away from the camera and her whole body slightly out of focus as if she were walking fast when the photo was snapped. “Who is it?”
“Look closely at her surroundings.”
Trace felt his insides grow cold. Even though the photo was shitty, he knew those bars, that concrete floor. “Shit.”
Beatrice lowered her voice and motioned for him to move a couple steps farther away from the open door. “Facial recognition says it’s Parker Jeffries. There is no record of her signing in, yet, as you can make out in the picture, she’s wearing an official prison visitor’s badge.”
“When was that picture taken?”
“The day you escaped.”
“So she was still alive. What the hell was she doing there?”
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
Beatrice tucked the phone away. “Obviously, she went to visit someone.”
Trace hated feeling like he was one step behind Beatrice all the time, but damn it, either he was missing something or she was thinking something completely ludicrous. “You think she came to see me.”
The brow climbed again. “You sound surprised.”
“I don’t know her and never met her. Why would she come see me? To apologize for giving Savanna a bullshit story to run that sent me to prison?”
“She’s been screwed over by the president and she’s most likely figured out you were too.”
“And what could I possibly do for her while I was incarcerated?”
“Share your secret? Maybe it’s the same one she’s keeping.”
Trace rocked back on his heels. “Not possible.”
“Well, she’s looking for you and you’re looking for her. I’ve put out a feeler to the contact Savanna used to find us. He’s been off the books for a long, long time. If I hear anything back, you’ll be the first to know, but don’t hold your breath. Your best bet is to get in touch with Parker. Make it easy for her to find you. Then the two of you can wrap this up—whatever this is—with Linc Norman.”
He couldn’t believe she thought it would be so easy. “Parker and I are both in hiding. It’s not like I can call her up and invite her out for coffee.”
At that moment, Savanna emerged from the room, the cop on her heels. “We’re done,” Savanna said, a smile of relief on her face. “Your turn.”
“Connor,” Beatrice called.
The kid who posed as Beatrice’s assistant scrambled from his desk near the lobby. Trace suspected he was more of a bodyguard than he let on. One Callan Reese recruited to act like the slightly incompetent youth who was better at making coffee and working a laptop than he was at security. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Accompany Ms. Jeffries to the dining room so she can get something to e
at.” To Savanna, Beatrice said, “Coldplay and I will only be a minute with the lieutenant.”
Savanna’s eyes darted back and forth between all of them, then she nodded. “I could stand to use the ladies room.”
“Of course,” Connor said. “Right this way. There should be fresh cookies ready in the dining room. The chef makes some every day for our three o’clock break.”
“You have your own chef?”
“He was one of Atlanta’s most sought after restaurateurs for years. When he retired, we snagged him.”
Savanna shot a look at Trace over her shoulder. “Want me to bring you a cookie?”
He didn’t want a cookie, but this woman was offering to bring him one.
Kindness. He hadn’t experienced much of it, except from the people here in this organization.
Suddenly he wanted a cookie more than anything in the world.
Beatrice nudged him, making him realize everyone was waiting for him to answer. “Um, sure.” he said.
As Beatrice and the cop filed into the office, Trace stood for a moment watching Savanna walk away with the kid.
After all the years of kill or be killed, a simple kindness from a beautiful, intelligent woman might be the one thing to do him in.
THERE WERE TWO times when Savanna had returned home to her penthouse apartment and nearly wept with relief. Once after a trip to China where people spit on the ground all the time and there were no legitimate restrooms. The other, from a camping trip in Minnesota with Brady where mosquitos as big as cars feasted on her for days.
Today marked the third time.
“Thank you for what you did today,” she said to Coldplay as they entered her place.
The ball cap was back on his head, his eyes scanning the living room area and landing on her entertainment center. “Let you end up in a car accident?”
She shrugged off her coat. Beatrice’s cleaner had indeed removed all of the bloodstains. “You couldn’t have prevented that.”
He helped her with the coat, gently sliding it down her arms and off, before hanging it on the nearby hook. She was getting used to his good manners and liked how gentle he was with her even though she was fine. A little tired after the day’s events, and unsettled about what they meant, but overall, she felt…
Safe.
That was the purpose of a bodyguard, right? To give you the illusion of safety even if there were certain things they couldn’t protect you from.
“Stay here,” he said and took that weird gadget he’d used before from his pack of tools.
“You’re checking for bugs again?”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“Even with the new security system?”
He paused and came back to her. “Can I get you something? A glass of water? Maybe wine?”
He had a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth from the cookie she’d brought him at the Rock Star office. She became her mother for a moment and instinctively reached out and wiped it off with her finger. “I can’t start drinking this early. I have a show to do tonight.”
He tensed at her touch and she realized she’d done something wrong. “You had chocolate…” she pointed at the spot she’d just touched, “in the corner of your mouth.”
His hand grabbed her wrist. Not tightly. No, his grip was firm, steadying, but she could break away if necessary. His jaw worked as though he wanted to say something, his intense eyes darkening.
So he didn’t like being touched unexpectedly. Another thing to remember.
His gaze dropped to her lips and a shiver of anticipation ran down her spine. The memory of him on top of her in the car, protecting her from the flying glass surfaced. The past few days of him invading her home, her space, sharing in her world while keeping his a secret.
A dangerous warmth started low in her stomach and spread down her legs.
Dangerous. Yep, that was him in a nutshell. Yet, she stood there, staring right back at him, challenging him, because some small, very female part of her wanted to break through his gruff exterior.
He’d showered and changed at the Rock Star offices and the scent of his soap drifted to her. Something lemony with a hint of musk. He simmered with unspent frustration and restrained danger. Who and what was he underneath that chiseled, tough armor? What was the mystery behind the baseball cap and the good manners?
“I won’t touch you again,” she said softly and his hand started to release her wrist, “unless you want me to.”
His grip stilled. She saw the slightest quirk in his left cheekbone as if he were willing himself not to smile. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of doing your show tonight, can I?”
That sexy, low voice of his, the way he was looking at her, touching her…damn, she’d been without a man far too long. If he kept this up, she’d let him talk her out of anything. Maybe even her clothes.
Cripes, Savanna. You’re a walking cliché. The famous personality who falls for her bodyguard.
But she wasn’t some flighty Hollywood actress or pop star. “If anything, Coldplay, I’m more determined than ever to break that story tonight.”
The quirk of his cheek broke free this time. A tiny smirk touched his lips. “You’re not scared of much, are you?”
She was scared of plenty. Didn’t mean she gave into it. “The president can threaten me all he wants. I’m going to do my job.”
“Just so you know, Rory, our computer genius, was able to get me the HR files on the people who’ve threatened you publicly or by email. A couple of clear threats, but I doubt any of them have the means to track your movements or do what happened today.”
“Wait. This Rory hacked into the studio’s files? Why not wait for HR to hand them over?”
“They claimed the files were confidential. I’d need a warrant.”
“Seriously? You’d think my okay would be enough.”
“We’re not done discussing you doing the show tonight,” he said, releasing her wrist. His fingers trailed to her hand and he tugged her over to her couch. “This will only take a minute.”
His meter came to life as he started scanning her apartment. First the living room, then the kitchen and dining areas. Watching him was rude but she couldn’t help herself. He moved with the grace of a dancer, all long limbs and fluidity, but there was always that underlying sense that he could turn deadly in a second. He reminded her of a panther. Sleek, fluid, skilled.
And deadly. Don’t forget that.
He’d admitted being in the military. Maybe that was it. He must have been one hell of a sailor.
So what was he doing working security details?
With a brief glance at her, he disappeared into her bedroom.
She sat for a moment, debating, then followed.
Her bed was still a crumpled mess from that morning. Her cleaning lady came once a month and the rest of the time, Savanna didn’t worry about appearances. No one was ever there, except Parker, to see it anyway.
Now, the unmade bed seemed wrong. Exposed. She had the sudden urge to make it up.
Her gaze followed Coldplay and his device around the room, and she felt heat in her cheeks as he ran it over and under that unmade bed. Then she caught sight of a small monitor on her nightstand. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Part of the new system.” He picked up a remote lying next to it and tossed it at her. “I thought you might feel safer sleeping if you could see the security camera footage from bed. Check it out.”
He headed for the bathroom and she sat on the edge of the bed and hit the power button.
The screen came to life, four pictures blinking onto it. The elevator doors, the fire door, her front door, and the sliding glass doors to her patio.
“The feed is connected to your TV as well, like the living room one I’ve been watching at night,” Coldplay said, returning to the bedroom. He sat next to her, dipping the mattress with his weight. “So if you’re watching something in the living room, or in here, you can at any time, swit
ch over to the surveillance cameras to check on things.”
He tapped her television remote and her news channel came up. Taking the security remote from her hand, he hit a blue button on it and the TV screen changed to the same one she saw on her monitor.
“The bedroom is your most private and vulnerable space. If you’re watching TV and you want to keep an eye on your doors as well,” he pointed to the monitor on her nightstand, “you have that option.”
“Wow,” she managed to say. It was impressive. So was his massive body sitting so close to hers on her messy bed.
He faced her. “When you get your phone back from the store tomorrow, I’ll show you the app for accessing this system from anywhere you are.”
The cracked screen of her cell phone wasn’t its only issue. It had refused to come on at all and Beatrice had said she’d take care of it. Get her a new one.
She’d been wrong about Beatrice in the beginning. Coldplay, Beatrice—all of the staff at Rock Star Security—treated her with respect and as if she were valuable, not for her fame, but as a human being. Coldplay’s act of throwing himself across her during the accident was probably just a natural response as her bodyguard, but it seemed like more. The way he’d followed her around on set and looked gobsmacked every time she was made into Savanna Bunkett had made her pulse speed up.
But her favorite moments so far were at night when they’d get home from the studio and make dinner. He was helping her now. He made an awesome Alfredo sauce.
The revelation that she might mean more to him than just a job made her happy. Rock Star Security and Coldplay weren’t taking away her independence. Just the opposite. They were empowering her to fight back against the most powerful man in the world. “There’s an app I can use to access the system when I’m not home?”
His gaze did that unnerving dip to her lips. “We aim to make our systems effective and efficient for you any place, any time.”
Why did that sound faintly like a come on? Because you want it to be.
God, what was wrong with her?
Too much stress.
Most people, most businesses, would have run the other way from her problem, but not Coldplay and the RSS team. They’d taken her on without blinking an eye.