by Lucy Score
He looked at her, really looked at her. Those long, lush lashes over sea witch eyes that avoided his face. The delicate hollows beneath her cheekbones and full, kissable lips. Her hair, the silvery blonde tresses that he still dreamed about, were wrapped in a tight braid. Mile-long legs with a California tan.
If she’d been his dream girl before, Waverly had now grown into something even more desirable. There was a determination, a strength, a confidence about her that hadn’t been there before. He liked it on her. Gone was the delicate princess, and in her place was a capable queen.
He’d never been able to resist her before, and why would he stop now?
Xavier lowered his lips to the scar of the wound that had almost killed her and pressed them gently against it. He felt her heart beat toggle higher, and then she was pushing him away.
“I said no kissing. Have you had your hearing checked lately?”
He wanted to pull her back to him, to hold her. But she was already rolling off the mattress on the other side of the bed. “I’m going to see about dinner,” she told him and left him alone on her bed thinking about how he’d almost lost her.
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They ate salads—with chicken that Xavier grilled to perfection—under Waverly’s pavilion by the fire as the sun went down over the mountain. She’d missed home, but Waverly was annoyed at how easily Xavier fit into the scenery here. She didn’t want him to fit anywhere in her life… except maybe her bed.
Their connection had always been so fiercely physical. And judging from their earlier encounter in the kitchen, the attraction had only sharpened in their long separation.
She wanted him. After all the time and all the pain, she still wanted Xavier, and that pissed her off. She wanted it to be a cleansing, a closure. But things would never be that simple between them. They were complicated people with complicated desires. Mixing them would only lead to devastation. She was stronger now, tougher and edgier. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still get hurt. Would she be able to walk away if she let him into her bed?
She steered the conversation away from their history and asked him about his family. In the midst of her stalker’s reign of terror, Xavier had spirited her away to his family home in Idle Lake, Colorado, for a weekend. She’d spent two blissful days splashing in the lake with his sisters and crowding around the kitchen table with his smart and sunny parents. The Saints had become her benchmark for normal, and they were still her secret hope for the kind of family she could have someday.
Xavier filled her in on the latest from the Saint family.
“My father has become quite the film buff since he met you,” Xavier told her.
“You’re kidding?” Waverly put down her glass on the table and gaped at him. Emmett Saint hadn’t had a clue who his houseguest was until his wife had educated him.
Xavier shook his head. “He’s seen every one of your movies, multiple times. The whole family goes to opening night at the local theater every time you have a new release.”
It touched her that they remembered her as fondly as she them. “I should get them tickets to the next premiere,” she mused.
“They would love you forever. Especially since it would mean a family vacation to California.”
Waverly laughed. “What would you do with your entire family here?”
“I’d ask my beautiful, generous friend Waverly if they could stay in her house since I don’t have one.”
“Your family is always welcome here.”
“When you say that, I get the feeling I’m not included on that guest list.”
“Well, I never said you were stupid,” she quipped.
Xavier leaned across the table. “Give me time, Angel, and I’ll get back on that list.”
“Yeah, well, you can start with the dishes and see if that softens me up.” She shoved her salad bowl at him.
Xavier carried the dishes inside while she stayed put under the pavilion. Waverly thought about her meeting in the morning. Would she finally know if Dante was still alive? God, he had to be. And if he was, where was he? Was he hurt? Did he need her? Or was this all part of a larger plot? she worried.
She had no one to ask and no one to trust, no one except herself.
When the evening chill chased her inside, she and Xavier companionably cleaned up the kitchen before retiring to the great room with their respective work.
Waverly read through the script her mother had sent over. Smart, funny, and poignant, it was the perfect project for her mother and, if the predicted shoot schedule was correct, it would be a great fit for her as well.
She rattled off an email to her mother and one to her agent, Aisha Leigh, a charming Southern belle who navigated the Hollywood waters like a shark. The woman had style, class, and balls, and Waverly hoped to be just like her when she grew up.
She needed to talk to her publicist, Gwendolyn, too. But she’d hold off on contacting Media Barbie until after her meeting in the morning.
She was confident she could sneak out in the morning without Xavier being any the wiser. Her return would be the problem. But she didn’t shy away from fights anymore. She didn’t need to avoid conflict as she once had. She could handle Xavier.
Next on her agenda, she needed access to some information about Petra and her father. Waverly’s gut told her that the father was the key. Someone wanted something from Grigory Stepanov. But without being able to tap the studio’s resources, she needed another asset.
And wouldn’t Xavier hate that? she thought with a smile.
She fired off a text, still smiling and when her phone shrilled moments later with Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night.” Xavier raised a suspicious eyebrow at her. “Gotta take this,” she said, taking the phone into the study off the great room and shutting the door.
“Hey,” she said by way of greeting.
“I don’t even know where to start!” Chelsea Saint’s voice announced. “First there’s some weird accident—that there’s no police record of, by the way. Then you’re allegedly in rehab. And then you fly into L.A. with my brother, the man whose existence you vowed never to acknowledge again.”
Waverly laughed. “I know, it’s all kind of hard to explain, and I don’t have a lot of time since your brother is still here.”
“Here as in ‘your house’?” Chelsea hissed.
“Yeah, I don’t know how to get rid of him. Any advice?”
“Try crying and talking about your period. That always worked for me and Mad,” Chelsea suggested, referencing her younger sister Madelyn.
Waverly snickered. “I’ll keep that one in my back pocket for now. Listen, if you have time, I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need some information on Grigory Stepanov. He’s your typical Russian billionaire mogul.”
“And your BFF’s money bags dad,” Chelsea added.
“Are all the Saints keeping tabs on me?” Waverly wondered.
“I plead the fifth. What do you need on Stepanov?”
“I’m looking for anything seedy. Any hint of rumors or investigations, money squirreled away, anything that looks off to you. Anything that would warrant an investigation by a government organization.”
“I take it you’re back on the job?”
“Let’s just say this is an unofficial peek. I’m still benched, so keep all of this quiet.”
“You got it. One more question,” Chelsea said. “Are you guys getting back together?”
Waverly could hear the hope in Chelsea’s voice and hated to crush her. But the hard truth was always better than a soft lie. “No. He’s, uh, helping me look for Dante.”
“Ohhh.” One extended syllable over the phone said a lot.
“Yeah.”
She took a few more minutes to catch up with Chelsea about work and life before disconnecting. She wondered how Xavier would take it if he found out his little sister was one of the best vigilante hackers in the busines
s. Probably about as well as finding out that she and Waverly had maintained a close friendship over the years since her visit to the Saint family in Idle Lake all those years ago.
She stowed her phone in the pocket of her cardigan and returned to the great room. Xavier was still on his laptop, but he’d moved to her couch. She could have picked up and moved over, but what was the point? He’d only follow her around in an evening game of musical chairs until he’d chased her up to bed. And her goal was to keep him up late tonight so he’d buy that she was sleeping late the following morning.
She flopped down on the couch and pulled her computer into her lap, ignoring him. But it was an impossible task. She fired off emails to her agent and drafted one for her publicist to send after her meeting tomorrow. Gwendolyn Riddington-Macks could sell bald-faced lies to a polygraph. And hopefully she could help Waverly repair the damage that the rehab story had done to her reputation.
With nothing else to do but keep Xavier up late, she shut down her laptop, turned on the TV, and picked a fight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Six came awfully early to Waverly’s way of thinking as she slipped out of bed and tiptoed into her bathroom. Xavier had, of course, chosen the guest room closest to her bedroom, and she wasn’t taking any chances of him hearing her.
She’d snuck downstairs in the middle of the night, testing her luck and Xavier’s ears to leave a note on the dining table.
Picking up breakfast. Be back soon.
On her way back to her room, she’d paused at Xavier’s door and heard him tossing and turning. She’d been possessed with the urge to open the door, knowing exactly what would happen if she entered his room. Her hand had actually grasped the handle before she’d gotten a hold of herself and crept back to her own room.
She lay awake for a good hour after that, thinking about Xavier in his room. Wondering if his head was as full of her as hers was of him.
It had been a long night. But now she needed to be sharp.
She dressed in her leathers and boots and tucked her gun into a holster inside the waistband at the small of her back and a knife in her left boot. She found her tiny can of pepper spray and stowed it in her jacket pocket. If she was walking into a trap, she was doing it armed and ready for a fight.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and some cash and her ID and stepped out onto her balcony, closing the doors softly behind her. There was no way she was going to chance tiptoeing past Xavier’s room. She was faster than she’d been years ago, but he could probably still take her in a foot race.
Waverly swung her leg over the railing and found her footing on the edge of the decking. She slid her hands down the railing and lowered herself into a full hang, dangling from the overhang of the front porch.
She dropped the last few feet and tucked into a crouch. She closed her eyes and listened for nearly a full minute. Hearing nothing, she rose and jogged across the drive to her garage. The fourth bay door rose with a quiet whir when she keyed in the code. She grinned when she spotted her baby. The Ducati SuperBike made her feel like freaking Batman whenever she put the Pirelli rubber to road.
She wheeled the bike into the driveway and down to the road. To be on the safe side, she pushed it another hundred feet past her property before starting it up. She snapped the visor on her helmet closed and began winding her way through the neighborhood.
It wasn’t the friendly community that Xavier had grown up in. There were no interconnecting backyards or community fire pits here in Hidden Vista. She didn’t know her neighbors, but the gate bought her the privacy she’d craved.
Paparazzi weren’t even permitted to linger outside the gate, not that they’d be waiting for her at 6:15 in the morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet. And there was no sign of Xavier Saint on her tail. Waverly went through her strategy again as she cruised north. Palo Comado Canyon was an arid park perfect for quiet hikes and clandestine meetings.
She’d go in hot, play it pissed off and scared. After all, an ambiguous assignment had nearly gotten her killed, and her partner was missing. And what had she gotten from the studio? Certainly not answers; just a directive to lay low, instructions to follow. Instructions that never came. She was pissed, and she’d play it that way. She had given them two years of her life, finished every job she’d ever started, and on two occasions, had come home with information that had saved lives. She was a damn asset, not a gopher.
She let the adrenaline roll through her. She needed to be sharp, ready for anything. She’d arrived early on purpose, coasting into the parking area as the sky turned a mottled pink.
Waverly stashed her helmet and gloves and grabbed a flashlight from her saddlebag. It was already light enough to see with dawn beginning to break, but the stubby Maglite would add one more weapon to her arsenal in case she needed it.
She skipped the direct path that would take her where she needed to go and, instead, looped around on a longer trail to come up behind the meeting place. If anyone was there lurking, she’d find them. But she found the vista and its surrounding area empty. She was alone in the final dredges of dusk.
The weight of her 9mm at her back reminded her of how far she’d come. A few years ago waiting alone in the dark for the unknown could have triggered a panic attack. And now? Now, she pitied the idiot who made the mistake of targeting her. She’d made the most of her training and expanded upon it with a self-defense coach. With or without weapons, Waverly Sinner was no one’s victim anymore.
As the sun began to peek above the mountain, she saw headlights cut through the shadows from the parking area above.
She felt a tingle between her shoulder blades. It was show time.
She stood, her back to the canyon and the safety railing, and waited with arms crossed. She could easily reach for the knife or the pepper spray from this stance, and he’d never suspect anything until it was too late.
In her opinion, the studio bought a little too much of her cover as the bubbly party girl. And she wouldn’t hesitate to use that ignorance if it helped her case. She’d learned a long time ago that she was safer when people underestimated her.
She heard the scuff of his shoes and the low cadence of his voice as he approached. Bradley Archibald Tomasso, the youngest CEO in Target Productions’ history, sauntered down the decline to the bench chatting on his cell phone.
“Yeah. I saw the numbers. They look good. Listen, I gotta go. I have a meeting.”
He hung up the phone and flashed Waverly a pearly smile. “There’s my girl! How are you healing?”
He didn’t look like a firing squad in his navy trousers and glossy caramel colored Stefano Bemers. He was trim and energetic with thick dark hair that held a lot of product. He looked like every studio executive she’d ever met. But he was the first one, to her knowledge, to have the foresight to double the studio’s income by farming out talent to intelligence gathering organizations on a contract basis.
“Just fine,” she said with a smile as phony as Brad’s wife’s breasts. “Maybe a little shaken up, to be honest,” she ventured.
Brad joined her at the railing overlooking a portion of deep canyon. “I can certainly understand. That assignment went to hell in a handbag, didn’t it?”
“I got shot if that’s what you mean by handbag. Who were those guys?” she asked.
Brad gave a careless shrug of his shoulder, but his eyes were sharp and focused. “I have no idea.”
Liar, Waverly thought.
“They just came out of nowhere,” Waverly said, adding a quiver to her voice.
“Why weren’t you in the house?”
The question caught her off guard, but she rolled with it. “Petra wanted to show me the fire ring down by the lake,” she said.
“So Dante was alone in the house?”
Waverly chose her words carefully. She didn’t want Brad to know that Dante had been suspicious of the assignment and had gone snooping. “He had some calls to make. He wa
s going to meet us down by the lake when he was done. There was some security and staff in the house, I think. Petra’s bodyguards came with us.”
Brad jingled the keys in his pants pocket. “I see.”
“Do you know where Dante is? I’d really like to talk to him. You know, make sure he’s okay.”
“You haven’t heard from him?” Brad asked, pursing his lips.
Waverly shook her head. “I tried calling him immediately after the shooting, but he never answered, so I followed protocol and arranged an extraction.”
Brad nodded briskly. “So no texts or calls or emails from Wrede?”
“No. Why? Is he… he’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“He’s fine,” Brad said with confidence. “We sent him away, too, until everything calms down. Except he followed orders and didn’t come back early,” he said sternly.
Waverly did her best to look chagrined. “I couldn’t stay away any longer,” she protested. “I needed to know what happened, and you weren’t offering any answers.”
Brad’s friendly façade fell away. “It’s not my job to give you answers. It’s my job to give you orders and your job to follow them. You could have jeopardized a lot of plans coming back the way you did. With Xavier Saint, might I add.”
Waverly felt the pepper spray with her fingers through her jacket.
“That was my father’s fault. I didn’t ask him to—”
“You need to get rid of him,” Brad snapped. “If Mommy and Daddy are worried about their little princess’s safety, tell them the studio will be happy to arrange security for you. But get rid of Saint. I don’t need him coming around stirring up even more trouble.”
“I’ll get rid of him,” she promised.
“Good, because more than just your job is riding on this. If Stepanov’s father finds out that you were in his house on assignment, if he even suspects for a moment that you were there as anything but a friend to his daughter, your days are numbered. He’s not a good man, Waverly. Keep that in mind next time I give you an order and you feel like you know better.”