Brody opened his mouth to recant when Senator Wagner cut him off.
“Nope. It’s Mr. Wickham or the tour is off.” He directed his words to Veronica, who whirled around, her mouth open just long enough to give her away. Then her eyes went to Brody and he saw something flicker in them. Something that looked dangerously like determination.
Was she hiding something? But in a flash, up went a new mask—not quite cultured Veronica, but too serious to be Vonya. A new, probably more charming, personality. Nice.
“Fine. That’s just fine. Mr. Wickham will do. As long as he listens to me and stays out of my way.” She took a breath and moved toward him. Brody held out his hand again, as if to seal the deal, but she brushed past him.
“Staying out of your way might be a little difficult. And, by the way, just for the record, I do like you,” he said, hoping to throw some cool on her steam.
“Save it,” she snapped, and shut the door behind her with a click.
Brody blew out a long breath.
The senator clamped him on the shoulder. “Keep her out of the tabloids, keep her out of trouble, and bring her home in one piece. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to earn your pay, Wickham.”
Her “bodyguard” pre-cut his roast pork into geometric cubes the size of dice. He speared one piece of meat, pushed it through his applesauce, and delivered it to his mouth. He laid down his fork and wiped his mouth between bites, following each one with a sip of water.
Like a robot.
Ronie tried not to stare, but the more he did it, the more she longed to launch across the beautifully attired table and pour something, maybe gravy—which he’d poured into the center of a perfectly indented mound of potatoes—over his entire plate.
Heaven forbid the gravy touch his asparagus. Or the applesauce.
Or one of Marguerite’s rolls, buttered nicely on the bread plate.
Her father had sold her out to a cyborg. The Terminator.
A terminator that just might destroy everything if she wasn’t careful. She had better figure out a way to ditch him if she hoped to help Kafara.
Found him. She would reread the text until it gave her the courage she needed.
Brody took another sip and politely answered the senator’s questions, in a voice low and rumbly, like an earthquake. “I’m the oldest of nine, sir, and yes, my father worked at the Capitol as a security guard until his stroke three months ago. Nearly did thirty years.”
“I know him—gives away your mother’s homemade caramel corn to all the offices every year.”
Another cube of meat, another trek through the applesauce. Chew. Wipe. Drink. Yes, sitting across from him for the next month just might drive her insane.
Except, well, what about that idea? She couldn’t exactly fire him, right? But what if he quit? What if she simply played on his disgust and drove him insane?
Sorry, but she just didn’t buy the whole “you’re in danger” spiel. Did her father think she had lost her brains along with her pride? He just didn’t want another go-round with the international tabloids during an election year. And as for her so-called stalker, well, just because a few unauthorized photos showed up on the internet didn’t mean the man would harm her.
Everyone just calm down. She knew what she was doing.
Although she could admit to being just a little terrified when she found herself on the floor of the club. Being stomped on.
Not that Brody would ever know that.
But she would have survived. It was the one thing she knew how to do.
“And what do you do when you’re not standing guard outside someone’s hotel room?” Ronie tried to smile, aiming for too sweet when she said it.
He met her eyes. “I work out. And listen to classical music.” No return smile.
Ellie passed him the rolls. “Isn’t that lovely. Our family has season tickets to the New York Philharmonic. We just heard them play Brahms, the Second Symphony.”
Ronie wanted to nod off into her potatoes. Maybe a date, forced or otherwise, would have been better—at least said suitor might be trying to impress her father, and her, in hopes of winning round two.
Brody Wickham didn’t seem at all interested in her opinion of him.
Well, except for the moment she’d caught him staring, his gaze lingering on her as he’d pulled out her chair to the table.
As if trying to recognize in her the woman who’d belted him.
Yeah, well, there was more where that came from if he got too close. But, see, that could work, too—more craziness, and perhaps she would throw in shopping and nightclubs, drive him insane by making him fetch her coffee and donuts, anything she could do to remind him that, yes, she might just be the high-maintenance diva he’d scooped off the floor.
He’d rue the day he ever agreed to her father’s terms. If he thought she was hard to control onstage…
“How long have you been in the military, Mr. Wickham?” her mother asked.
Ah, the woman had caught him midbite. Ronie raised an eyebrow, enjoying the debate in his eyes. Finally, he replaced his fork, fully loaded, onto the plate. “I’m not in the military anymore, ma’am. But I was in for sixteen years.”
“Only four years shy of retirement? That seems a strange time to leave.”
Of course, the senator had to press. Why not? It seemed his specialty had become evaluating people’s lives, making them rethink their decisions, embarrassing them…
Brody’s gaze went to his plate. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Yes, sir.”
Hmm. The silence after his words had even Ronie clinking her plate with her fork, dividing her asparagus into chunks.
Outside, twilight had descended, shaggy fir trees shifting shadows into the yard, and the cicadas had come out, buzzing in the night. Ronie longed to push away from the table and escape outside into the sultry, thick air, slip off her shoes, feel her toes in the cool grass. If she listened hard, perhaps she’d hear laughter from the playhouse on the far edge of the yard, maybe even see Savannah beckoning to her from the swing set.
Not the Savannah that peered down upon them from the oil on the wall behind her in the dining room, but the one with long brown hair, so soft for braiding, the one who knew all the voices to Little Women.
“So, I suppose you visited a lot of interesting places in the military?” Ellie to the rescue, still trying to pawn off the rolls.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brody accepted another roll, set it next to his already cut and buttered one. What, was he going to slip it into his pocket for later?
“Have you seen action?”
“Oh, Ellie, don’t ask him that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brody said, again that strange glance down at his dinner. The entire affair felt not unlike a KGB interrogation. They just needed the bright lights and the toothpicks. For a second, Ronie had the urge to rescue him.
Thankfully, it passed.
“Mr. Wickham’s offices are in downtown Prague, Ellie.” The senator turned to Brody. “Beautiful city, Prague. Went there on my twenty-fifth anniversary, with my wife.”
Ellie looked over at him with a smile, not a hint of warmth in her eyes. “Yes. Very beautiful.”
Her father had finished off his bourbon and switched to merlot. He swished his wine by the stem of the glass. “I saw that you worked for Hans Brumegaarden. Something about a birthday party, and Snow White?”
Was that a blush on Wickham’s face? Maybe, but then it vanished and he caught Ronie’s eye, straight on. “Yes. Our security firm was asked to dress the part while protecting Gretchen Brumegaarden during her Disney-themed birthday party. I was a dwarf. I’ll do anything to keep a client safe. Even if she is five years old and dressed up in some crazy costume.”
What? No, he didn’t just call her a five-year-old, did he? Her mouth opened. Oh, she so had words for him. But no, she was a Wagner. She’d keep it to herself.
At least tonight.
“I need some air.” She pushed away from th
e table. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Brody rose from the table. The senator stayed seated. Ellie put out her hand, catching her arm. “Veronica—”
“It’s Ronie, Mom. My friends call me Ronie. Or, if you want, Vonya would work, too.” She pulled away and glanced at the Boy Scout. “The tour starts in a week. Try to stay out of my hair until then.”
She was turning away when she heard him mutter, “Which hair?”
And oh, she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t stop herself. In fact, yes, she turned right about five years old as she picked up one of the rolls and hurled it across the table, right at his smug little kisser.
“Veronica!”
He caught it with one hand.
Smiled.
Nodded.
Game on.
Fine. If that was how he wanted it. She turned, ignoring her mother’s hand as it tried to catch her.
The moon had lifted above the trees, a spotlight in the sky, skimming over the cool grass. She toed off her sandals, sifting the grass through her feet as she treaded over to the swing set.
She sat on it. Heard the voices of the past.
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a famous actress.” Savannah’s voice filtered from the yellow playhouse, its windows like eyes, dark and empty. “I’ll sing, too—we’ll sing together.”
“Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.”
Ronie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened her picture file. She scrolled through the thumbnails, intending to stop on Savannah.
Instead, she clicked open Kafara’s picture. Chubby, dark cheeks, a white smile, holding out a pineapple for her right before he cut it in half with his machete. How he loved to bring her treats from his village. She ran her thumb over the photo. Don’t give up on me, Kafara. Because I’m not giving up on you.
She pocketed the phone, found a tune, something from the past. Let the wind take her song.
“Which hair?” Brody’s smug expression, especially after he’d caught the roll, made her push off, start to swing.
Game on, indeed. Yes, he would rue the day he’d agreed to stand in her way.
THREE
Brody Wickham didn’t run from crazy. He didn’t care what costume Vonya appeared in, what outrageous request she made of him. Didn’t care how many times she asked him for a macchiato coffee or food from the craft table. He’d keep on informing her he wasn’t a butler—he hadn’t been hired to carry her shoes or protect her delicate skin from the harsh sunlight.
And to think the gig hadn’t even officially started, although the week spent in New York City watching her rehearse had him second-guessing this gig every day. He couldn’t wait for the weekend leave when he’d return to D.C. and check in on his family before leaving for Europe.
Brody Wickham fully planned to outlast her. Figure her out. Win at whatever game they happened to be playing in her head. After all, how was he supposed to protect her if he couldn’t predict her moves? She certainly wasn’t going to make it easy by, say, cooperating.
She made him want to bang his own head against something hard and cold. Whose brain-dead idea had it been to earn a quick 100K anyway?
“Thank you, Brody.” His mother’s face when he handed her a portion of the prepayment of services after returning from the meeting with Senator Wagner. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good to help his parents.
Or to know that they wouldn’t lose the family home.
Or give his brother a shot at a decent education.
And, truthfully, Ronyika—as he’d taken to calling her—did intrigue him.
After all, he’d never seen anyone wearing giant wings during a pop song before, even if watching her dangle fifteen feet on a trapeze swing off the ground as if she might be flying nearly gave him chest pains. Today her hair was baby-boy blue, an almost clownish mop of curls atop her head. And she wore a black Batman mask, perhaps just in case anyone mistook her for the sugarplum fairy.
In truth, she scared him a little with how quickly she morphed from high-society Veronica to Vampy Vonya.
“Is she schizophrenic? Maybe suffering from multiple personality disorder?” He hadn’t exactly meant to say that aloud, but perhaps his disbelief at watching her suspend herself from the ceiling as the fog machine filled up the stage simply overtook his brain and he accidentally went audible with his opinion.
Her manager looked up at him and shook his head. “No, she’s brilliant.”
“Tommy D” D’Amico reminded him of a man who might greet him at a frat party. Or a used-car sales lot. A full head of blond curly hair, eyes that didn’t retain his quick smile, the fast handshake. Shiny alligator shoes that probably cost half Brody’s yearly income. What had Senator Wagner said about someone skimming her profits?
Brody had done a background check on Tommy first, followed by Leah, her pretty assistant. If the black-haired whirlwind gained about sixty pounds of muscle and grew a foot, she just might give Brody a run for his money with all the hovering she did.
Although Miss Ronyika hadn’t seen anything yet.
But why was a girl who’d been stalked—in and out of the tabloids—uninterested in having a bodyguard?
More intrigue.
He’d kept his distance this week as he conducted his background checks, went over the accommodations—he’d changed them to decent hotels, thank you very much—and scoured the itinerary. If she wanted to be treated like the pop sensation she was becoming, she needed to start thinking about more upscale lodging, venues…perhaps even attire. But he wasn’t touching that.
He’d conceded, also, to the fact he’d have to involve the rest of the Stryker International crew—Artyom and Luke—if he wanted to prepare for contingencies at the concert venues. Thankfully, the Stryker staff jumped at the work, also bored with their mandatory R & R.
Now if he could just figure out Vonya’s mind. It was not unlike trying to get a firm grip on Jell-O.
“You know she did two years in Harvard’s MBA program for international business, right? And can speak four languages? She’s a genius with this stuff.”
Really? Because how much genius did it take to sing “Your love gives me wings, makes me sing, on a swing”?
Still, four languages? Could one of those possibly be Klingon?
“I have to admit, she looks like she could just about fly if she wanted to.” He winced, however, at how high she swung. Hopefully the grips would make sure the trapeze was secure, or he would. She might be hard to catch.
“The wings are her design, as is the swing act. It’ll be a hit.” Tommy patted him on the arm as the director stopped the scene. The recorded music died in the speakers.
An air-conditioned chill collected in the warehouse, despite the tepid June air outside. Vonya must be freezing in her light blue leotard and tights. However, she seemed the consummate professional, hitting every cue. And, if someone put him under the bright lights, he might even admit that she exuded a sort of Marilyn Monroe beauty that wasn’t completely unlikable.
Tommy clapped as she finished her song, the stage crew lowering the swing so she could hop off. “But you’re right, no one can pull off the wings like Vonya. We’ll add in the special effects for the video and sweep at this year’s MTV Awards.” He turned to Brody, white teeth showing. “You’re the lucky one—you get to watch her premiere the live act as part of the tour.”
Oh, yes, lucky him.
“She won two awards last year, you know. One for a music video, and she was up for best album, too. A real coup for an indie band. But she’s headed toward the big-time—even international stardom with this tour.” Tommy D shook his wrist, checking his diamond-encrusted watch, shiny under the spotlights. “I just hope you’re up to this.”
Brody raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, the last bodyguard her father hired ended up in the hospital. Heart attack.”
Really? Brody nearly p
ut his own hand to his chest watching her swing in the air.
“Heart attack, huh?”
“The first time we were in Zimbala. She had just walked into a refugee camp. Of course, the man spent more time at the craft table than in her shadow, but yes. Heart attack. Could have been much worse.” Tommy patted him again, a habit that just might cause him to lose a hand. “But she’s not on any goodwill trips this tour, so probably you’re okay.”
“Goodwill trip?”
“Oh, it’s Ronie’s weakness—she’s got the heart of Mother Theresa. Can’t pass up a child in need. We have to visit every refugee camp, every orphanage. But I told her, no bleeding-heart stunts this time.”
Yes, he’d read that, but honestly, he thought it more publicity than fact. She intrigued him, this woman of numerous personalities—and, apparently, layers.
After she had left the dinner table the other night, he’d spied her in the yard nearly an hour later, swinging on an old swing set, humming.
She’d seemed so forlorn, for a crazy second he’d almost pitied her. After all, even he had felt the chill at the dinner table between Mrs. and Senator Stuffy. It didn’t take a psychologist to see open wounds.
Not that he could hide his so much. He remembered more staring at his cold pork roast than was good for him.
Maybe, suddenly, he understood the Vonya act, just a little.
He took another sip of his black, industrial-strength coffee. “Listen, Tommy, I need to know if she’s going to do any more crazy stunts like she did at the D.C. club.”
“Like?” Tommy D raised an eyebrow.
“Like throw herself into the audience? Maybe climb on top of a speaker and dive? I mean, look at her—she’s flying. I think she’s got a Superman complex.”
Indeed, now that the stage crew had finished lowering her to the stage, she balanced atop a baby grand.
“She’s a bird—you know, flying?” Tommy shook his head. “You bodyguard types haven’t a creative bone in your body.”
Hello, but yes, he did. Just…okay, he liked his creativity confined to Sunday morning omelets.
Mission: Out of Control Page 3