by Wood, Vivian
“Stop,” I say, holding out my hand to halt his movement. “Don’t touch anything, okay? Do me a favor. Go get your manager and bring them out here. Then I want you to just go sit down over here for a second until we sort this out. I might need to ask you another question. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” he says, chest puffing up with a little pride.
“Cool.”
He takes off to find the manager, and I pull my phone out of my pocket. I call Karen, one of the women on my security detail. She picks up after one ring, even on her downtime.
Ever the diligent soldier; I appreciate having someone as bad ass as Karen on my detail, big time.
“Jarrett,” she says, answering with her last name.
“Can you procure some latex gloves from housekeeping and get down to the lobby ASAP?” I ask.
“Yep.” No hesitation, no questions. She hears ASAP and she’s ready to roll.
“Thanks. I’m at the concierge desk.”
I disconnect, knowing Karen won’t take it personally. The manager is on her way over, a dark-skinned lady in her fifties dressed in a clunky gray skirt suit.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m head of security for the AD Team,” I say, using the code we gave Elly’s tour.
“Oh! Yes, sir. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting your earlier,” she started.
“I’m going to stop you,” I say, shaking my head. “I need you to ask everyone who’s been at the desk or in the lobby for the last hour about these flowers. If you have any regular delivery guys who might have been here, or can think of any guests who might have seen the person that dropped these off… it’s very, very important. Do you understand?”
Her face grows pinched at my domineering tone, but she just nods.
“Wait,” I say. “Can you also get me the names of the most popular florists in the area? Any company that delivers here a lot. And couriers, too, any regular courier services. I think these flowers were sent as a threat.”
The manager and Karl’s eyes both widen.
“I’ll get all that for you,” she said.
“And security footage,” I add. She nods, and I give her a tight smile. “Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to keep Karl nearby for a minute, in case we have any questions.”
The elevator dings and Karen appears with a box of latex gloves. She’s a short, all-business woman with ebony skin and an ass-kicking glare. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, dressed down like we all are on this tour, Karen still radiates a don’t fuck with me vibe. I admire the shit out of her for that.
“Can you get Lawrence down here?” I ask. “85% likely that the note on these roses is a threat.”
Her brows rise, but Karen doesn’t say anything, just hands me the gloves I asked her to bring. She pulls her phone out and turns away, already calling Lawrence. I actually need to call Elly’s manager ASAP, but I opt to call Harv first.
He picks up on the third ring, just as I’ve wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can pull on the too-small latex gloves.
“It’s late,” he says. Normally I would rib him, especially because it’s only ten pm, but now’s not the time.
“We have a potential situation,” I say.
“Fucking— already??” he says. “Did she fire you? What did you do, asshole? I said be nice.”
“No, not— No.” I pause and gather my thoughts. “We’ve received a potential threat. There’s a dozen white roses, with a card.”
I read it to him, and he curses loudly, echoing my thoughts exactly.
“There’s also a package, although it’s not clear that they’re related.”
“Did you open it?”
“I was waiting for gloves. I already put my damn fingerprints all over the florists’ card,” I say.
“Welllllll….” he says. I can hear the gears grinding in his head. “If the package seems innocuous, open it. Very, very carefully, in a closed room away from other people. You see a speck of any kind of powder, you stop and leave everything on the table.”
“Got it.”
“I want reports every thirty minutes until resolution,” he fires off. He’s in full commander mode now, and it’s easy for me to fall back into the role of soldier right along with him.
“Sir,” I say by way of agreement.
“Call the manager. Actually, call the cops first, then the manager.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Get to it.”
Harv hangs up and I put my phone away, waving the hotel manager over.
“Do you have somewhere private, a small room I can use? I want to open this package but I don’t want to endanger anyone.”
“Of course. You can use my office,” she offers.
“Great. Karen? Can you stand here and secure the scene? Please call upstairs and get a status report. I want you all to turn on your comm radios, and I want five minute reports until further notice.”
Karen just nods, fishing her earpiece out of her pocket and dialing her cell phone at the same time.
“This way,” the manager says.
Ever so gently, I pick up the package. The weight and density make it feel like a book, as Karl guessed earlier. I quick-walk over to the office where the manager leads me.
“Can you close the door behind me?” I ask. “With you on the other side, no offense.”
She blanches and closes the door on me. I set down one corner of the package and unwrap it with all due caution. When I get the brown paper wrapping off, I find a copy of The Zen Guide to Motorcycle Maintenance.
What in the fuck?
I open it with two fingers, and a note falls out from where it lay pressed between the first couple of pages.
Dear Elianna,
I noticed you were stressed when I saw you last. I found that this book gave me some interesting perspective on my life, and I thought maybe it would do the same for you.
Best wishes for your tour — Craig and I will be catching a couple of the California dates. We’ll let Artisan know way ahead of time. I know you hate surprises!
XOXO,
Mom
I expel a heavy breath. This is the real deal. A questionable idea on Lacy Parsons’s part, maybe, but at least I know it isn’t laced with anthrax or ricin or something.
“For fuck’s sake,” I groan.
It was just bad timing. Or great timing on the stalker’s part, as it may be.
I take a minute to update Harv via text. Then I call the cops, although I decline their offer to come down. I tell them I’ll send Lawrence down to make a report, rather than draw attention to Elly’s presence in the hotel. I call the manager last, and after his initial panic I manage to talk him down.
“I’m going up to see her now,” I assure him. “Yeah, of course I’ll stay with her tonight. I’m going to let you go so I can get in the elevator.”
True to my word, I head up to her suite, right after I put Karen in charge of getting the flowers bagged up and sending Lawrence to the police station with the evidence. I check in with Bill and Thomas, the final two guards on our team, as I head to Elly’s suite. They’re standing on each side of her door, relaxed and ready.
Damn, sometimes I’m so proud to work with former soldiers. They can execute whatever task they’re given, flawlessly and effortlessly. I see Thomas touch his ear, hear the soft squawk of his comm radio at work.
“Karen told you what’s been going down?” I ask them.
They both nod. Neither much for words, it seems.
“No need to tell you to be on alert, then.” I mean it; we don’t have to discuss whether they’ll do their job. I know they’ll control the situation.
“I’m going to stay in the suite tonight. Bill, I’d like you to station yourself downstairs on the staff’s floor. I don’t want to take any chances that this guy will strike at someone else on the tour.”
Bill’s already moving toward the stairwell. Good man.
I swipe my c
ard and let myself into Elly’s suite. To my surprise, she’s still awake and back on the couch in the living room.
“Hey,” she says with a curious frown. “I can’t sleep. What’s going on outside? Thomas asked me not to leave when I tried to go down to the gym.”
I walk over to where she’s sprawled on the couch, wearing this silky white short and tank top set. Immediately, I notice that she’s not wearing anything under it; I can see her nipples standing out under the top, and I feel guilty for even looking. She doesn’t seem to notice my interest, or doesn’t say anything if she does notice. Maybe she’s just so used to people eye-fucking her all the time that it seems normal to her… which is a little sad.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get my fucking head in the game.
I clear my throat and walk over to sit in an armchair across from her.
“You got some roses,” I say, feeling strangely hesitant. Her face is so open and expressive, her gaze sleepy and relaxed. I know I’m about to ruin whatever sleep she would get tonight, but I can’t not tell her. “There’s a chance they might be from your attacker.”
Her face crumpled, amethyst eyes filling with fear and anger.
“Fuck,” she spat out.
“Pretty much. We’re not absolutely sure, but the card sure looks like a threat.” I pull up a photo of it on my phone and show it to her. “Unless this looks like an inside joke from someone you know?”
She reads it and then hands the phone back to me, fingers brushing mine as she slowly shakes her head.
“No. It’s not anyone I know.”
“I figured.”
The stalker’s presence hangs heavy in the air for almost a minute. I’m trying not to stare at Elly too hard, but I’m curious about her reaction. After a minute, she surprises me.
“Um… I’m still pretty aggravated with you,” she says. “But will you stay here tonight? On the couch, I mean.”
“Of course. I planned to anyway.”
She raises a brow, but doesn’t argue.
“I just took some melatonin to help me sleep,” she says, standing up to grab an oversized sweater that’s draped across the other end of the couch.
I try not to stare at her ass as she shrugs into it, and then I try not to be sad that she’s covered up her tits. They looked amazing in that tight, almost see-thru tank top…
“Connor?” she says.
“Huh?” I ask.
“I said I’m going to watch some trash TV. Don’t let me fall asleep out here, okay?” she asks.
“Sure.” I couldn’t care less how she chooses to cope with tonight’s news, as long as it doesn’t endanger her life. Everyone’s got to have a vice, and reality TV isn’t such a bad one.
We fall into silence, and I stare at the TV without seeing anything on the screen. I’m lost in my own fucked up thoughts instead.
I have really got to get my head screwed on straight.
Elly Parsons is my client, a famous fucking pop star, and my future fucking step sister.
If that’s not enough of a reason for my perverted brain, I can think of plenty other reasons why I shouldn’t even be looking at her.
I can’t protect her if I’m distracted by my own lust. And even if she wasn’t out of bounds in a dozen ways, Elly could be with anyone in the world. Someone smart and accomplished and powerful, a billionaire software guru or something.
In no fucking world does Elly Parsons hook up with the fucked up ex-soldier who’s supposed to be protecting her. Even less of a chance that she lays a finger on the son of her future step-dad, that would be career suicide.
I wonder to myself if it’s mostly the forbidden fruit thing that makes me find her hot, or if it’s just that she’s got a great face and body. Usually I’m pretty good at killing my interest in a woman if she’s a bad idea. My brain works on a priority system, and I am always numero uno on my own list.
So why can’t I get Elly Parsons out of my fucking head?
Chapter Seven
Connor
I’ve been on tour with Elly for just over a week, and one question is left burning in my mind: how the hell does she do it all?
We’re in Boston in a rented SUV, me in the front beside the driver, Elly in the back sandwiched between her ultra-polished Ken Doll of a publicist Brad and her rail-thin redheaded makeup artist Gisella. Gisella keeps shooting me flirty glances and fluttering her eyelashes, without a drop of subtlety.
I wonder if there’s a way for me to shame her into stopping without drawing Elly’s attention to the situation. Then I wonder why I’m trying to spare Elly’s feelings.
“So we’ve done the three radio interviews,” Elly says, holding up her fingers. “Someone remind me that I’m never doing Mike in the Morning again, that guy is a straight perv.”
“I can’t believe he grabbed your ass,” Gisella giggles, talking to Elly but glancing at me.
“He won’t be grabbing any asses anytime soon,” I inform her.
“I thought you broke his hand for a second,” Brad says, tossing his head back to jostle the lock of blond hair that always lays across his forehead.
“Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, Brad,” I say, my tone heavy with sarcasm. “Just doing my job.”
“No, no! I think it’s really selling the whole relationship angle. Mike might be a jackass, but he has a big mouth. This is going to help spread the story we’ve set up,” Brad says.
He sounds way too happy about that. I swear this guy only thinks in tabloid news headlines; I’ve already caught him on the phone with TMZ three times this week, feeding them bits of made-up gossip about Elly.
The object of Brad’s outright lies shifts in her seat, splaying her hands out over her knees as the driver takes a too-sharp turn. She leans into Brad with a laugh, and damn if Brad doesn’t look a little too pleased.
Is this guy gay or is he just playing the long game with Elly? I wonder for the tenth time. I can’t quite puzzle Brad out, which is driving me fucking nuts.
Shit, maybe he’s some weird sexual orientation where he’s just attracted to dollar signs.
“Can we get back to today’s schedule?” Elly says. “We have a Elle Does Athletics event, right?”
“Yeah, in about two hours,” Brad says, consulting his phone. “Then you’re doing a meet-n-greet at the mall. Then a very, very quick photo opp with the mayor…”
“And somewhere in there you have to fit in your workout,” Gisella says, giving Elly a pointed look. “Since you went off book last night at dinner. I’m pretty sure margaritas aren’t allowed on your diet, Miss Thing.”
“I only had one!” Elly protested. “A single, small margarita.”
“No excuses!” Gisella says, poking Elly with a finger. “You’re supposed to be pop perfection, remember?”
I squint at Gisella. I’m pretty sure Gisella had about eight margaritas herself, considering that she insisted that I carry her to the SUV afterwards. She seems perfectly fine now, but this morning Gisella didn’t look so hot until after she washed down a handful of mysterious vitamins with a massive almond milk latte.
Brad, on the other hand, doesn’t drink. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him eat either. Maybe he really is a Ken Doll under those clothes and can’t piss out a pitcher of beer.
“—you need to be at the arena at six…” Brad continues ticking off the unending list of events on Elly’s schedule.
The SUV pulls up outside the hotel and I jump out first, clearing the sidewalk and then opening the door to usher everyone out, passing by me. Elly’s lips twist as she passes me, a weird quirk of amusement. I wonder if she’s thinking of the multiple arguments we’ve had about the proper way for her to get in and out of the car.
She thinks I’m being a dick, but loading and unloading a vehicle is one of the highest-risk moments for her.
For anyone, actually — just ask all the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan who lost limbs and lives trying to do something as simple as tra
nsport medical supplies through supposedly friendly territory.
The thought jumps out at me, unwanted and unexpected. I left the Navy when I was twenty three, so it’s been two years and I still get these goddamned unpleasant reminders of my service.
A flashing light on the subway. The sound of a man’s shout from across a crowded street. A gust of hot air hitting me as I step into a department store in the winter. It doesn’t take much to send a familiar tingle of anticipation down my spine, make me break into a light sweat as I cringe, expecting…
Something that never happens. An IED that never hits, an air raid siren that never sounds.
“Connor,” Gisella says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Wake up, dude.”
“I’m watching that guy down the block,” I say, nodding at a guy in a trench coat. It’s not a lie, exactly. I am watching him, and he is acting very strangely. He’s not at all interested in Elly, though, so he’s not really a target.
“Oh,” Gisella says. “Well, we need to get moving.”
I close the car door and brush by her, moving up behind Elly and shadowing her as she moves into the hotel. The tour has a whole floor reserved for staff, plus Elly’s suite upstairs. Brad and Gisella get off on floor seven.
“We’ll meet you in the lobby at three, okay?” Brad tells Elly. “Don’t be late.”
“Am I ever?” Elly says, looking affronted.
“Jared isn’t going to be on tour until Chicago, so you’re going to have to get yourself to the gym,” Giselle says. “He’s whipping a Kardashian into shape.”
“Fine,” Elly says with a shrug.
“Well, he’s been texting me to make sure you’re on top of your game plan.” She reaches out and holds open the elevator door. “So you need to do at least an hour of cardio and twenty minutes of light weights. And when you eat lunch, Jared says you need to lay off the carbs. Sashimi tuna, salad greens with lemon, ice water, black tea. Okay?”
Elly’s face fell.
“Okay,” she says. I can see the bright energy she had all morning falling away.
“All right, enough,” I say, prying Gisella’s fingers from the elevator door. “I’m sure you have some work to do yourself, huh?”