“I’ll find her,” Tate said, stalking up to him, more than a little leftover adrenaline in his voice. “What’s her name?”
Knox still wore the grime of his imprisonment on his face, his jaw scraped, his shirt sopping with the blood. Definitely hospital-bound, and they should take a good look at his head while they were at it, because what was his no-fun brother doing attending a girl band concert, and more—hanging out backstage with one of the singers?
Although, yeah, well done, bro. It was time for Knox to get a life.
So, “What does she look like?”
“She’s the brunette. Long brown hair with a feather in it, brown T-shirt, turquoise boots.”
Oh, that one. Yeah, Tate had seen her picture on the screen only about a billion and a half times over the past weekend. Pretty pale blue eyes, a smile that could make a man forget his name. Other men. Not Knox.
Big bro hadn’t gone out with a girl since Chelsea had dropped him like a brick and headed out of town.
He could have told Knox that Chelsea was trouble. The girl lived a few different lives—the cheerleader version that Reuben fell in love with—poor guy. The girl-failing-calculus who went after Knox for his brains. Knox had been so over the moon with the most gorgeous girl in school, he hadn’t stopped to think through what stealing Reuben’s girlfriend might mean for the family.
And then there was the version Tate knew. The party girl who showed up with a smile for any guy with a six-pack of Budweiser. Neither brother knew, probably, that she didn’t know the meaning of the word exclusive. Tate couldn’t count how many times he’d watched Chelsea climb into the back of a pickup with one of his buddies.
Not him. He wasn’t stupid. Reuben could take him out with one punch.
Then.
Now, they’d have a decent go-round, thanks to the moves Yuri had taught him. After three years working on Yuri Malovich’s “security” crew, Tate might actually stand a chance against his smokejumper, tough-as-nails big brother, but the lessons learned watching Chelsea stuck in his brain.
Girls were trouble. Sometimes a good kind of trouble, but not worth the time and energy that came with chasing them down for date numero dos.
But Knox didn’t think that way, which meant that he’d probably done something stupid like given this girl his heart. Probably the moment they shook hands.
“Her name’s Kelsey. I need to know if she’s okay,” Knox said as the tech took his blood pressure.
Tate didn’t want to stick around for the expression on the EMT’s face when those results came in. He patted Knox on the shoulder. “I got this, bro.”
Keep it light, no problem, but his throat was thick as he moved away into the grouping of rescue vehicles. Fire engines, ambulances, rescue trucks, and so many police cars they clogged the parking lot. He spied Rafe Noble standing with his arms crossed as he watched his little girl being loaded into one of the rigs.
He ran over. “How is she?”
Rafe’s wife climbed in beside her daughter, holding her hand. Rafe’s face betrayed the wreckage of his fear. “It didn’t hit a major artery or vein, so—” He lifted a shoulder, glanced at Tate. “Knox is your brother?”
Tate nodded.
“Tell him that if he needs anything, anytime…” He swallowed. “He saved my daughter’s life tonight.” He pressed his hand over his mouth, shook his head as the EMT tech closed the door. Turned away and jogged, then sprinted over to a truck parked under tall lights.
The ambulance pulled away, sirens screaming.
Tate turned to scan the area for Kelsey. Surely she was in one of the other ambulances—although she’d seemed okay as she scrambled free.
He spotted a blonde standing in front of a closed ambulance, doing something on her smartphone, and jogged over to her.
A spur of recognition—yeah, she was one of the Belles.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked up, a tiny pinch of annoyance to her mouth. Her pretty mouth. And hazel-green eyes that raked over him, assessing.
“I’m looking for someone named Kelsey Jones?”
She put the phone in her pocket. “Why?”
He frowned. “I want to talk to her. To see if she’s okay.”
The blonde studied him, head to toe, then shook her head. “I don’t think so, pal.”
Now he studied her. Short, but with curves and white-blonde hair. She wore a sleeveless leather number, and a red tattoo curled from her shoulder, around her front, a tangle of flowers. Except the stress of the past few hours had smudged the tattoo, so probably paint.
But it gave her a sort of war-torn toughness, all that leather and blonde hair and sass and the way she looked him over…
He suddenly felt like the thug he had been, maybe still was. And that’s when he realized he wasn’t wearing his shirt. He’d whipped it off, wrapped it around Knox’s wounded arm. He folded his hands over his chest, feeling a little, weirdly, naked.
“Why not?”
“Seriously?” She cocked her head. “I’ve seen it all, buddy, so if you think a little”—she gestured with a flick of her wrist to his naked chest—“eye candy is going to get you past me to get dirt on Kelsey, you’ve got another thing coming.”
He blinked at her.
“Oh, don’t bat those blue eyes at me, honey. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know exactly what you’re after.”
Honey? And he thought he was the king of phony endearments. He unlatched his arms. “Claws in, sweetheart. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about—”
“Really. What’s this then?” She flicked the security pass around his neck. “You need to try a little harder.”
He grabbed the pass. Frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Her guard dog demeanor dropped for just a second, and a flash of confusion turned her suddenly vulnerable. As if behind all that tough girl and sass might be someone he’d like to start over with, get to know.
To mean it when he said, “I promise, sugar, whatever you’re thinking, I’m actually harmless.”
She drew in a breath. “You’re not…” She met his eyes then, nothing of weakness in her gaze. “You’re not paparazzi, here to steal a front-page picture of Kelsey for some rag, right?”
He held up his hands. “No camera.” Then he grinned, put all of his charm into it, lowered his voice. “You can search me.”
Her mouth opened, closed. She cocked her head, as if suddenly he might be interesting.
Finally. For a minute there, he thought he might be losing his touch. He softened his voice. “Listen. I’m not paparazzi. Far from it—I’m security here. And I helped pull her out of the rubble.”
She was listening now, her gaze roaming over him with a sort of wary smile.
Better, much better.
“And, most importantly, I was sent to find Kelsey by my brother Knox.”
He waited, hoping that might ring a bell, but she didn’t move.
“Knox Marshall? The guy who was trapped with her? Tall, cowboy type?”
A tiny smile tugged up her mouth. “Mr. Safe. Right.”
That sounded like Knox. “He’s got a wicked cut—I think they’re taking him to the hospital for some stitches, so he sent me out to find her. He’s worried about her.”
She crossed her arms as if assessing his words.
And then he dropped the flirt, added a little raw emotion. “Listen. I get it too. I’d do anything for Knox. But whatever you’re trying to protect her from, it’s not me. Tate Marshall. Good guy. I promise.”
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes going to his shoulders, the tatted right sleeve. He had the strangest urge to do something like flex. Instead he stuck his hands in his pockets and added a smile, something authentic.
But all this had his radar on high. Sure, the Yankee Belles were pretty, a little popular, but they weren’t the Rolling Stones, for crying out loud.
“Okay. She’s inside. But you’d better not be lying, champ. If I see one hint o
f a camera, even a phone, you’re—”
Enough with the nicknames, already. But he held up his hands and nodded.
“Fine.” She turned and opened one of the back doors, then the other.
Stilled. “What—?”
Empty. Except for the EMT who sat on a bench filling out something on his iPad. He looked up.
“Where’s Kelsey?”
“She took off.”
“She was in an explosion!”
He set down the iPad. “And she refused medical services. Left a few minutes ago.” He nodded to the open driver’s door.
“Perfect,” the blonde said. She turned to Tate. Sighed. “Thanks a lot.”
He blinked at her, stymied. “What did I do?”
She narrowed her eyes, gave him another once-over, and now he stood there, letting her take a good look because really, this was silly.
“You’re really in security.”
“Really.”
“Do any personal protection?”
“Some.” He didn’t particularly want to dig out that résumé, however.
“Hmm,” she said, as if she were trying to decide on an order off a menu. “Okay. I guess you’ll do. For now.” She held out her hand. “Glo. Jackson. Come with me, tough guy.”
Huh? But when she stalked away, he followed her.
And not just for Knox.
He’d do? Oh, he’d see about that.
Yeah, okay, Glo may have been a smidgen of a jerk to the tall, tattooed, half-naked so-called bodyguard following her through the jammed cars and roped off security of the arena toward the RV parking area.
But Glo knew Kelsey better than almost anyone, except Dixie, and no one from the press was going to get a good look at what might be going down in that ambulance. Kelsey had lived through enough trauma in her life not to have her grimy, traumatized face hit the front pages. Again.
And sure, it was a gigantic, Texas-sized leap to think that—what was his name? Tate—might be working for TMZ or some Nashville-based rag, but she had personal experience with what the media would do to get a story. Reporters camping out on the front lawn of her house, sleeping in their cars, posing as pizza delivery, bike messengers, even once as a security guard. So yeah, a man sniffing around with concern in his eyes, wanting to find Kelsey, had ignited her radar.
Although, she’d never seen the shirtless approach. For a second, it wiped a response from her brain, distracted by the script that wound up his thick bicep and over that sculpted shoulder. It made her want to linger, try to read the words. Which would only give Mr. I-Think-I’m-a-Charmer the exact wrong idea.
Even if he wasn’t a reporter, she wasn’t going to fall for his white smile, those blue eyes, or even the hint of raw vulnerability that flashed on his face when she’d accused him of running Kelsey off.
What did I do?
Maybe nothing. But it was very possible that Kelsey took one look at Tough Guy through the window and every tucked-away nightmare had woken and chased her out into the night.
Please, no.
Which meant that making Tate help her find Kelsey might be a wretchedly bad idea, but frankly, the flip side was that Kelsey and, honestly, the rest of them were rattled.
Might do them good to have someone with her as she searched for Kelsey.
Maybe even put a tough guy on payroll who could assure their safety if they were to keep touring.
First things first— “Kelsey probably ran back to the bus.” She glanced over at Tate, who had pulled out his phone, texting as he walked.
“Who are you texting?”
“Knox. I told him to go to the hospital, that Kelsey was all right.” He shoved the phone into the pocket of his dark suit pants. The ensemble of his bared, tattooed chest with his dirty dress pants and scuffed shoes made for an interesting combination. Part trouble, part Mr. Safe and Sound. She didn’t know which one to believe.
Glo ignored the stir of something forbidden inside her and headed toward the RV section. The beer tent was quiet, the flaps closed. Down the path, the carnival had also shut down. The tall Ferris wheel glowed, unmoving against the night sky.
She cut through the shadowed path of the stock barn, and it came to her that if Tate were trouble, she’d just led him down the perfect path to assault her. Her hand closed around her phone.
But he walked with his hands in his pockets, as if he might be aware of her tension. “Where are we going?”
“The tour bus. And…thanks.”
He glanced at her, raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Coming with me. It was a…” She swallowed. “A little tense back there.” She looked away but felt his gaze on her. “We’re all pretty shaken up.”
“You don’t seem shaken up.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Years of training.”
“What, are you with the CIA?”
She tucked a smile away. “Close. My mother is a senator. Years of bodyguards and press prowling around our house.”
“Ah, that’s where the claws came from.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. But I might need medical attention.”
She glanced at him—oh, bad idea. The shadows and moonlight turned the planes of his body into a work of art. But he shot her a grin.
She swallowed, looked away. “Sorry. I was just…”
“Why does your friend need protecting?”
She shook her head. “It’s not my story to tell. We just need to figure out what’s going on. If someone is trying to hurt us.”
“Why do you think it’s about you? Could be a political statement, or even someone angry at NBR-X.”
“Probably, but…” She took a breath. “Okay, listen. If you are a reporter and you betray me, I will personally find you and kill you in your sleep.”
He blinked at her, his mouth opening. “Really?”
“I’m kidding.” She shook her head. “I just—”
“You can trust me, Glo.”
And it was his low tone that found her bones, as if a warm hand curled around her. Hmm.
“Okay, so, Kelsey has a reason to think someone might want to hurt her. A history. And maybe that’s just paranoia talking—probably it is, but if I were Kelsey, that’s the first thing I’d be thinking. And that’s why maybe having someone around who could give her a sense that she isn’t on her own might keep her from…”
She paused.
“From…?”
They came out of the path and headed toward the RV park. Their tour bus wasn’t fancy—an old 1992 remodeled Greyhound that now hosted six bunks in the back, a tiny kitchen, a couple sofas, a television, and a storage area for their equipment. They’d pooled their cash and bought it for $40K.
Her mother hated it. Which was yet another selling point.
“Kelsey has the occasional, um, panic attack.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“She’s amazing onstage. Turns into this confident, breathtaking performer—I’m sure she’s the reason we’re still getting gigs. But offstage, crowds freak her out, and she’s been known to—”
“Run?”
She glanced over. Frowned.
“She was in the beer tent last night. Sort of had a weird altercation with this guy who grabbed her—”
She stopped, turned to him, and touched his arm.
Okay, the man really needed a shirt, but, “A strange man grabbed her?”
“Not…well, she fell, and he sort of caught her.” Tate looked at her hand on his arm, then back to her. Oh, those eyes. She pulled her hand away but let him continue. “But she freaked out and took off. She dropped her wallet, and Knox chased after her to return it.”
Mr. Safe. Interesting.
“So, you think she’s panicked?”
“And maybe she’s hiding in the bus, but if she’s not, we need to find her.”
Tate nodded, as if this might be something normal. “Got it. Let’s go.”
Oh. She liked a man who got on board that easily. She hea
ded toward the bus, noted the dark windows, and unlocked the door.
Climbed aboard. “Kelsey?”
Light from the parking lot filtered in through the privacy curtains, striping the gray velour sofa, the white Formica counter in the mini-kitchen. She glanced at Tate, who climbed up the stairs behind her. “Stay here.”
He cocked his head, argument on his face.
“If she’s here, let’s not freak her out more.”
He nodded then, and she crept into the bunk area. All the bunks came with a curtain to pull, and she noted with dismay that Kelsey’s curtain, on the bottom bunk, was cracked open. She pulled it aside anyway and flicked on the tiny light in the cubby.
No lead singer.
She turned around.
“Check the bathroom,” Tate said, still on the stairs.
Good idea. She knocked, then opened the door to the tiny bathroom/shower room. Empty.
She closed it and came back through the bus, shot a look at Tate standing there, one arm holding the upper grab bar, then turned and moved to the back where they kept their suitcases. Sorry, Elijah. She stole one of his shirts lying on the top of his clean wad of clothing and tossed it to Tate.
He grabbed it with one hand, glanced at her, then said nothing and pulled it over his head.
Oh, Elijah might kill her—it was his well-worn black Rascal Flatts concert tee. But it looked dangerously hot melded against Tate’s physique.
“So, where would she go?” Tate asked as she closed up the bus.
She pulled out her phone, checked her texts, then sent one to Kelsey. Glanced back at Tate.
Now that he wasn’t exuding all that raw maleness, she considered him. Short dark brown hair, a thick five-o’clock shadow, and a scar along his jaw as if he’d been nicked during a fight.
Probably a few fights, the way he held himself, just a little tight and alert. Yeah, the guy had ready-to-protect written all over him.
It eased the knot in her gut she hadn’t realized was there.
“I don’t know. She doesn’t usually leave the bus, so—”
“What about the stock barn?”
Glo frowned at him. “Why on earth would she go to the stock barn?”
He held up a hand. “Step back there, Columbo. I saw her come out of there last night. Maybe when she took off last night, she ended up there?” He lifted a shoulder.
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