“Harry Griffin,” I say to the men, flipping open my wallet to show them my ID. “With the Harvey Ulstrum Agency. I’m representing Ms. Sanders.”
The taller one scrolls through a long list of names on an iPad. “I see a Max Snood as Ms. Sanders’ representative.”
Sloane tenses, and I tighten my hand on her waist. God, I hope it’s as comforting as I intend it to be. “Mr. Snood came down with the flu. Check the morning update sheet. You’ll see me listed as his stand-in.”
If Wren didn’t work her magic, we’re fucked.
The two guards confer, one of them tapping his ear piece before speaking into the mic poking out of his sleeve. “We have a Mr. Griffin here who says he’s taking Mr. Snood’s place as the rep from the Ulstrum Agency.”
Skimming my lips over Sloane’s ear, I whisper, “Look impatient. You’re the star here and they know it.”
After a single, deep breath, Sloane extricates herself from my arm and places both hands flat on the table in front of us. “The press conference starts in less than ten minutes. How do you think the Beauty and Style execs are going to feel about their cover model not being there? I hardly think that’s going to end very well for you.”
The one with the mic clears his throat. “Apologies for the delay, Mr. Griffin. The notice came in overnight. The system has been properly updated now. You and Ms. Sanders can go in.”
I nod my thanks, gesturing for Sloane to precede me down the runner of plush red carpet. “They’re here for you, sweetheart. I’ll be right behind you.”
She closes her eyes for a beat, and when she opens them again, I see nothing but control in the blue depths. Passing me her clutch, she glides slowly down the hall, pausing every few steps to flash a smile or turn so the cameras can capture every angle.
I keep my gaze trained on the crowd, scanning each face, looking for anyone out of place, anyone not interested in snapping as many pictures as possible. Tapping the left temple of the glasses, I take advantage of the other feature Dax’s team built into these damn things. A camera.
Wren—or someone on her team—will analyze the footage later, and I’ll be able to review it before the runway show tomorrow.
I’m not sure if I’m happy or frustrated that everyone here looks like they belong. Not being able to hear a damn thing other than a low, dull hum of noise isn’t helping my mood.
Sloane’s warm fingers grip my left hand, and she squeezes to get me to look at her. “They’re asking about you.”
Shit. Get yourself together, idiot.
Stepping even closer to her, I smile, letting the paparazzi get their fill. This is uncomfortable as fuck, and thank God no one suggested I play some kind of diversity model for the week, because there’s no way in hell I’d pull that off.
Sloane’s talking—answering questions, I think—but from my position at her side, it’s too hard to read her lips, and even the glasses are having issues. I catch maybe one word every ten until she releases my hand and signs.
This is my boyfriend. H-a-r-r-y-G-r-i-f-f-i-n.
It takes everything in me not to let my jaw hang open. She learned a few signs? Why? To be able to communicate with me?
Draping her arms around my neck, she tips her head back slightly, her lips parted, and I take the hint. With my left arm tight around her waist, I dip her and kiss the hell out of her.
The flutter of her tongue against my lips has a low growl vibrating in my throat, and I open for her, letting her take control this time, and hoping all the photos don’t capture me with a massive hard on.
Sloane’s kiss is anything but fake, and when she pulls back, we’re both breathless. “They’re asking if you’re deaf, why you’re here…”
Keeping a hold of her, I scan the photographers and clear my throat. “Sloane is the star here, folks. I work for the Ulstrum Agency, and I’m filling in for her agent who came down with the flu this morning. If you want my bio, it’s listed on Ulstrum’s website. Yes, I’m mostly deaf, so shouting at me isn’t going to help anyone. Email me, and I’ll do my best to answer any questions you have. Right now, the lovely woman I’m lucky enough to have on my arm needs to get inside.”
We each give a small wave—Sloane’s practiced and professional, mine much less so—and cover the last fifty feet to the conference room as quickly as we can.
“Is it quieter in here?” I ask.
“Much. Why?” She peers up at me, worry creating the barest hint of a furrow between her brows.
“Glasses didn’t work out there.” With a tap, I turn them on again, and thank God the noise level doesn’t immediately overwhelm the system. Under the guise of kissing her neck, I whisper, “In case it gets loud and I have to turn them off again, I need you to pick a signal—something you do with your hands maybe?—that will let me know you’re in trouble or need me to get you out of here.”
She takes a shuddering breath and her fingers skim over the back of my head. No one’s touched me like that in…well, a long damn time, and I want more. So much more.
“I’ll play with one of my earrings. Did you…um…did the glasses work just now?”
We’re still locked together, my lips trailing along her neck, and I press a kiss right behind her ear. “Clear as day. Now go kick some ass up there.”
With a shaky smile, she releases me, and watching her walk away? Up onto a raised platform where she takes the center seat with six other models flanking her? I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep things professional between us much longer.
I genuinely like Sloane Sanders. But if I can’t shut it down and focus on the job? I could lose her. And then where would I be?
Fucked. A useless, damaged, relic with no hope of working ever again.
Sloane
The young woman next to me—she can’t be more than twenty-four—flashes me a million-watt smile. “Oh, God. Sloane Sanders. Excuse me while I fangirl all over the place. You’re the reason I wanted to be a model in the first place! I saw you at Fashion Week ten years ago. My aunt works for Yves Saint Laurent and snuck me in with her, and you were just…radiant. I’m Jill, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” We air kiss, the habit ingrained in me from early days in this industry. Impersonal, perfunctory, even, yet to anyone watching, we probably look like we’ve known one another for years. “What agency are you with?”
“Thompson and Taylor.” Jill’s bright red hair and wide green eyes give her a Red Riding Hood look, considering she’s wearing a sheer black cloak over her skin-tight bodysuit. “They’ve been so awesome. I didn’t think I’d make the cut this year, but when the call came…I screamed so loud!”
Her energy does nothing for my nerves, but she’s so sincere, I can’t be rude to her. Members of the press file in, taking their assigned seats, and the photographers adjust their lenses for some candid shots.
My gaze pings between Griff and the clock on the back wall. Thirty minutes. I can do this. Half an hour and I can change into something more comfortable—and much less revealing—and let Griff whisk me away from here like a knight on a white horse.
“Is this your first presser?” I ask Jill, not taking my eyes off my protector. His intense stare grounds me. Despite breaking eye contact to study each person in the room, he returns his gaze to mine every thirty seconds or so, and I don’t know if I could do this without him.
“Yes. My agent prepped me a little, but I had so much caffeine this morning, I’m sure I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.” Coiling a lock of hair tightly around her finger, she tugs sharply before releasing it. Lowering her voice, she adds, “Do the caffeine pills upset your stomach too?”
Oh, no. This one is going to crash and burn if she’s not careful. Turning my head so none of the press can read my lips, I whisper, “This industry has many dirty secrets. That’s one of them. Never let the press hear you mention that again.”
Jill recoils like I just slapped her hand, but she’s still grinning—training trumps everything
else—even for the inexperienced. “Uh…th-thanks.”
Patting her thigh under the table, I offer her a practiced smile. “Your agent should have told you. Don’t stress about it.”
Gratitude shines in her green eyes, and she nods once before returning her attention to the full rows of seats.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Beauty and Style’s Vice President of Print Media bounds up onto the raised platform holding a microphone in her hand. “Welcome to the Christmas Book Debut weekend! My name is Nan Roberra, and I’m so pleased to introduce you to some of the models we’ve chosen to feature prominently in this year’s catalog. As you know, this is the tenth anniversary of the Christmas Book, and I’m proud to announce we’ve expanded our distribution to twenty-three countries and nineteen different languages.”
Under the table, my hands won’t stay still, clenching and unclenching, fingers drumming against my thighs. If there weren’t microphones all around me, I’d be cracking my knuckles one after another.
Nan’s words fade into the background, almost like I’m listening to her underwater. Shit. I’m edging towards a panic attack, and if I can’t calm down, this is going to be a disaster.
Finding Griff, I pray he understands how close to the edge I am. He’s leaning against the wall, but after a beat, stands up straight, and rests his hand on his chest, all five fingers splayed. Then he tucks one under his palm. Followed by another. And another.
“Count for me. Backwards from forty-seven.”
Was that only last night? With a small nod, I try. Forty-seven. Forty-six. Forty-five.
“…finally, I’ll introduce you to our star, the woman you’ll see on the covers of Christmas Books all around the world, Sloane Sanders!” Nan gestures to me, and I give the press a winning smile and a little wave. “And with that, let’s get to your questions.”
The first reporter to ask about Griff waits a full fifteen minutes to do so, which almost surprises me. Usually they’re all over the relationship angle. But apparently Jill made a bit of a scene last night after the cocktail party making out with one of the other models, so that was priority number one.
“Ms. Sanders, Nigel Rathmore with the BBC. Your entrance was, shall I say, titillating? Who’s the new man in your life?”
I don’t need to fake my blush. Thinking about the kiss we shared in front of all those cameras? Warmth floods my core, and I struggle not to squirm in my seat. “His name is Harry Griffin, Mr. Rathmore. We met after he joined the Ulstrum Agency, and we’ve been together for almost three months now. He’s a wonderful man, and I’m so glad he was able to accompany me to Zurich.”
“Are there wedding bells in your future?” Rathmore asks.
“Nigel, you don’t expect me to kiss and tell, do you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Griff smile, and I turn and blow him a quick kiss.
Another reporter immediately jumps to his feet, but half the room is clamoring to ask the next question, and I don’t catch his name. “Mr. Griffin is deaf, is he not? His bio says he’s also an amputee. How has that been a challenge for you?”
A muscle in Griff’s jaw starts to tick, and I pin the reporter with a stare I hope can melt glass. “Is there some reason you feel that’s an appropriate question? Millions of people around the world have some form of hearing loss or are missing a limb. I care much more about Mr. Griffin’s heart and mind than I ever will about his arm or what he can or cannot hear.”
The jerk sinks back into his chair, and I think I hear a muttered apology. Thankfully, someone from USA Today changes the subject to ask one of the male models what it’s like to be one of the first transgender men to be featured in the Christmas Book.
I can’t stop stealing glances at Griff. His face is still impassive, but the tension in his shoulders wasn’t there before, and I wish I could find a way to ease his discomfort.
“One last question!” Nan announces, and in the last row, a man with messy black hair and a full beard stands and holds up his hand. There’s something about him that’s vaguely off-putting, but then again, I feel that way about a lot of the press.
“Ms. Sanders? I am Nikolai Lebdev with Argumenty i Fakty out of Moscow.”
Lebdev. Moscow. No. No, no, no.
I can’t breathe. Can’t hear the man’s question. My fingers find their way to the gray pearl hanging from a long strand of silver at my ear. If I thought my legs would hold me, I’d run. He knows who I am. Dimitri’s sending me a message, and oh, God.
Griff. Please. Help me.
A flash of movement to my right, and then his warm hand cups the back of my neck as he leans close to the microphone and addresses the man. “Ms. Sanders’ travel schedule for next year hasn’t been determined yet. Rest assured, as soon as it is, our agency will release further details. If you’ll excuse us, we have another event to attend shortly.” A flurry of shutter clicks follow, but he slides his hand down to my elbow and squeezes gently. “Sloane? Sweetheart? We should go or we’ll be late.”
I can only nod as I let him help me to my feet, and take his hand. The latex covering his prosthetic feels so real, so warm and natural, it helps steady me, and we escape out a back door into what appears to be a service corridor.
“Sloane? Look at me.” Griff strokes my cheek, but I’m still numb. Still too shocked to speak. “Sloane!” It’s not until his lips press to mine that I can move, but instead of enjoying what I’m sure would be another spectacular kiss if I gave in, I pull back. “That man…he knows. Whoever he was. He knows who I am. It was a message. A warning. From Dimitri.”
Griff wraps his left arm around me, the hard metal oddly reassuring, so he can pull his phone from his right pocket. A few taps, and the name Wren scrolls across the screen.
A woman answers, her voice tired and a little raspy, and the speech recognition software fills the screen. “It’s early, Griff. What do you need?”
“Facial recognition for one of the reporters in the press room. Last row, fourth seat from the left. Black hair, black beard, brown eyes. Six-two, maybe two-eighty. He claimed to be from a Russian newspaper. The glasses butchered the name.”
“Argumenty i Fakty,” I say. “They’re one of the biggest newspapers in Moscow.”
“He said his name was—”
“That is not his name. I’m sure of it. Griff, please.” If Wren searches for the name Nikolai Lebdev, she’ll find a dead man—my father—and it won’t take her long to connect Nikolai to me.
Griff could easily tell her the man’s name, but instead, he gives me a terse nod. “Get us his real name, Wren. And let me know if he’s still anywhere on the hotel grounds. We’re going back up to the room.”
“Will do,” she says and hangs up.
Anger and frustration stiffen his shoulders, but Griff keeps his arm around me all the way to the service elevator and back to my—our—room. But once we’re back inside with the door locked, he loses his patience.
“This only works if you’re honest with me, Sloane. I need you to tell me right fucking now. Who is Nikolai Lebdev and why are you terrified of him?”
Sniffling, I dig in my clutch for Griff’s handkerchief. I feel better with the soft cloth in my hand. “I have never been terrified of Nikolai Lebdev. He was my father, and I loved him.” Taking a risk, I lock eyes with my protector. “My name…I wasn’t born Sloane Sanders.”
If Griff is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Or perhaps he’s too angry to display any other emotion. I wish he’d say something. Anything. But after another few seconds, I know he won’t. Not until I tell him everything.
“I was born in a small town in Russia. Penza. When I came to this country, I was eighteen. A naive child who thought she would find a better life here. Maybe even a way to help her starving family. Instead, I found only pain.” The barest hint of an accent tinges my tone, but I’m the only one who notices. “My given name is Sophiana Lebdev, and that is how Dimitri knows me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Griff
The na
me—Sloane’s real name—fades away from my lenses, and I can’t decide if I’m angry with her, with the asshole who used the name of her dead father, or with all the people who failed her in her life.
“Sophiana?” I ask.
“Yes.” Tears brim in her eyes, and she won’t look directly at me. “I came to the United States sixteen years ago, and for a year and a half, Dimitri owned me. He took my passport at the airport, and I never saw it again. Not even after he went to jail.”
“Sit. Please?” I can’t stand to see her trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The sweater leaves little to the imagination, and while sex should be the last thing on my mind, I’m still a guy. Still alive. She needs me present. Not distracted by so much perfect, creamy skin or the way her breasts heave as she tries not to cry. “Sloane? Or…do you want me to call you Sophiana when we’re alone?”
“I can never be Sophiana again.”
Not being able to hear a person’s voice? Most of the time, it doesn’t make much of a difference. I read lips well enough, can understand ASL if the person signs slowly, and with the glasses, texting, email? The only problems I have communicating are when my coworkers want to be assholes or when I’m in a crowd or a dimly lit room. But right now, I’m desperate to hear this woman in front of me. If for no other reason than she needs to know she isn’t alone.
We’re close enough, I can reach out and snag her cashmere-covered wrist, holding on until she huffs and drops her arms. “You’re shaking. Sit down. I can put on a fresh pot of coffee. Or tea.”
“Nothing will fix this.”
“I’m not trying to fix anything. Not right this minute. I’m trying to take care of you.” Tea seems like a better choice than coffee, so I fill the electric kettle with hot water and drop a bag of chamomile into one of the delicate china cups.
Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 15