I almost say no until I realize this could be the last runway show of my career. Despite the strict and “boring as fuck” diet, the endless hours of workouts, the long shoots under hot lights, this job has given me so much.
“I do,” I say and offer her a genuine smile. “Don’t take a single minute of this experience for granted. Soak it all in, and when you have to show up on set at 5:00 a.m. because some photographer wants the ‘perfect’ light or when you’re wearing a bikini on the beach in January and freezing your ass off, remember how you feel right now.”
And then Donna’s calling Jill’s name, and the young woman beams at me and heads out for her spotlight.
By the time I’m back in the care of Marina’s capable hands, I’m almost calm. Happy even. If this really is my last show, I need to give it my all and enjoy every second of it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Griff
Even in the front row, I can’t make out what’s being said about each of the models. My glasses don’t do shit in a crowd this large—or this boisterous. Between the applause, the conversations happening all around me, and the music pumping loud enough I can feel the beat, my normally silent world is now filled with a dull, constant roar.
Until Sloane emerges from the wings. I can’t take my eyes off her. The outfits? They’re interesting. Most show off a fair bit of skin, more now that apparently the show’s transitioned from daytime to evening wear. Pretty sure that negligée she wore for her last appearance was held up by string and prayers.
Whenever Sloane isn’t on stage, I text back and forth with Austin and Ripper—the other computer genius out in Seattle.
Ripper: Got a lead on Rodney Carriger. He moved down to Mexico not long after Sloane signed with the Ulstrum Agency. He paid for a new identity—name of Ricardo Cortez—and was living mostly off the grid. Only reason we found him at all? His dental records matched those of a dead body found outside of Cancun two weeks ago.
Shit. Another one of Volkov’s victims? As one of the blond male models I saw at the cocktail party the other night walks the stage wearing a pair of billowy pajama pants and a cropped silk shirt, I thumb out a reply.
Any sign of Volkov anywhere near Cancun?
There are only two models left before Sloane’s final appearance, and though she’ll need to stay and mingle at the cocktail party immediately following the runway show, I’ll be by her side. Every hour that passes without another threat—or a confirmed location on Andrei or Volkov—grates on my nerves.
Ripper: Nope. But I doubt the man does his own dirty work. The guy who broke into Sloane’s house? Based on her description and traffic cameras in the area around the time of the attack, he’s not affiliated with anyone. Local muscle for hire. Inara and the new probie are headed down to San Diego. They’ll make sure the asshole knows to stay away from Sloane if he wants to continue breathing.
The idea of Sloane returning to the place she was attacked has my every protective instinct flaring to life. Austin and Dax thought we’d have Volkov by now, that my assignment would end with the gala party tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving Sloane’s side with any threat to her safety still out there.
The beat of the music changes, and the lights dim, a spotlight on the Beauty and Style CEO behind the microphone. It takes all my concentration to read his lips.
“And now, dressed in the very gown that she’s wearing on the cover of our beloved Christmas Book, our darling star, Sloane Sanders!”
The second she emerges, I stop breathing. Red silk crosses over her breasts, wraps around her shoulders, and tapers down to her waist. The gown billows with every step, and Sloane spins, showing off one long, toned thigh before continuing to sashay down the runway.
She’s an angel in crimson, sparkling silver heels glinting in the lights, and the audience bursts into applause so loud, it fills the room, even to my damaged ears.
At the end of the stage, Sloane curtseys, spins one last time, and joins the rest of the models who’ve all come out to applaud her. The CEO says something—I can make out the timber of his voice, but not his words—and the world behind me dissolves into a sea of flash bulbs.
The ten minutes it takes Sloane to make her way off the stage are the longest of my life. “You amaze me,” I say in her ear as I embrace her. I can feel the vibrations in her chest as she says something in reply and add, “My glasses don’t work with the music this loud.”
When she draws back, the light in her eyes, even through the contact lenses, brings a peace to her entire being I don’t know that I’ve seen in “Sloane Sanders, the model.” All through the cocktail party, the press conference, and even during her first walk down the runway, she’s been guarded. Acting the consummate professional while practically falling apart on the inside.
But now, she’s different. Happier.
“I need some water—or sparkling cider. The lights take a lot out of me. But, I need something else first.” Before I can ask what, her fingers stroke the back of my head, and she’s kissing me. The intimate contact settles me, giving me the peace I’ve craved my entire life but didn’t know it.
This woman is it for me. The urge to tell her right fucking now is so strong, I don’t know how much longer I can wait. She takes the lead, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips, and I let her in, let her control the speed, the urgency…all of it.
Flashbulbs explode around us, and I can feel the press of bodies getting closer. Sloane stiffens and breaks off the kiss, and the only thing in her eyes now? Fear.
“Hands around my neck, sweetheart. Now.” Scooping my right arm under her knees and using my left as best I can to support her back, I rush her to the far side of the room where the security guards who refused to admit me to the dressing room stand at attention. “Hey. If the two of you want to do your fucking jobs, you could make sure Beauty and Style’s star model isn’t crushed to death by the media.”
They stare over my shoulder at the approaching mob of photographers, and after a beat, leap into action. One radios for backup, and I escape out the double doors to the Pavilion with Sloane still held in my arms.
“Are you okay?” I ask when we’re safely out in the hall where the air’s cooler and it’s quiet enough for me to lower Sloane to her feet and turn my glasses on.
“Y-yes,” she stammers, her hand pressed to her heart. “I’ve been mobbed before at events like this, but never that quickly.”
“Do you want to leave? Go back up to the room?”
Sloane’s still shaken, and reaches for my hand, linking our fingers and squeezing gently. “No. I’m expected to stay through the party. Once the press are escorted out, it’ll be calmer.”
Angling a glance back inside the Pavilion, I know she’s right. It’s already considerably less crowded, and the music isn’t so loud I can feel it through the soles of my feet.
“Sloane?” The words scroll across my lenses in black, tagged as Unknown, and I follow Sloane’s gaze to find the Beauty and Style CEO, Franklin Meadows, standing a few feet away. “My apologies for interrupting. And for the abhorrent behavior of some of the media. They’ve been escorted from the premises. Will you rejoin us inside? I’d love to introduce you to some of our investors who weren’t able to make it to the opening cocktail party.”
Sloane releases my hand and steps forward. “We’d be happy to. This is Harry Griffin. My boyfriend. He’s also standing in for my agent from the Ulstrum Agency.”
She signs my name, along with the word “boyfriend,” and something in my heart cracks open. I didn’t know how much I needed her to say the word. Even though we’re in public, the look in her eyes? I think—I hope—it’s love. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
I offer Meadows my hand, and he shakes it, though he doesn't look me in the eyes. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Meadows. Your team put on a phenomenal show this afternoon.”
The man shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze bouncing between me and Sloane. “I’m afraid I don’t sign,” he s
ays with an apologetic shrug.
I’m used to this. Being dismissed. Having people talk around me rather than to me. So used to it that I can easily shove down the annoyance. “I read lips well enough. Signing is easier in a crowd, but as long as you speak slowly, I can understand you.”
“Oh.” If anything, Meadows looks even more off balance now, and I offer Sloane my arm.
“See you inside,” she says, her lips tight. Once we’re through the doors, she leans closer to me. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” The bass beat of the music thrums in my ears, providing me with a hint of normalcy in my fucked up life.
“Franklin didn’t talk to you.” Her brow creases, and I cup the back of her head and plant a gentle kiss to the furrow.
“I’m used to it, sweetheart. Mostly. It’s why I’m so fucking thankful for these glasses. One-on-one, I don’t have to be just ‘the deaf guy.’ I can be Griff, ‘the guy who happens to read lips.’” I force out a laugh, even though I doubt it sounds completely genuine.
“How can you be so…calm?” she asks. “He didn’t even try…”
“Because you’re much more important to me than putting some guy in a four-thousand dollar suit in his place. And this is your night. Your whole weekend. Doesn’t mean I’m not angry. Or that I’ll give Meadows a pass if he tries to talk around me again, but…” After a deep breath, I take both of her hands and bring them to my lips before I hold her gaze. She has to know what she’s signing up for. With me. “This is a part of my life, Sloane. The anger. The frustration. Feeling like I’m ‘less than’ because of my arm or what I can and can’t hear. I live with that every single day.”
Her frown doesn’t reassure me, and the idea that I shot our relationship in the foot makes me wonder why I thought I could have something real. No woman—especially not one as smart, as brave, and as drop-dead gorgeous as Sloane—would sign up for this shit.
“Griff?” Her hand on my cheek draws me out of my misery, and when I look up, the understanding written all over her face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “If you’re trying to scare me away, it won’t work.”
“Saw right through me, did you?” I run a hand through my hair, forgetting that I’d slicked it back before we left the room. “Shit. I ruined it.”
Sloane’s laugh reassures me that while my hair is probably a mess, whatever this is between us? It’s still intact.
Sloane
Despite being on my feet—and in heels—going on five hours, I feel like I’m floating as Griff and I step into the elevator. The moment the doors close, he tangles his fingers in my hair and kisses me so thoroughly, I’m out of breath by the time we reach the fourth floor.
“Wow.” The word escapes on a sigh, and I lean against him as we make our way to our room. Marina—with Jacob as her escort—left the party over an hour ago, still nursing her hangover from last night.
Once we’re safely back in the suite, I sink down onto the couch and carefully remove the glittering silver heels. “When this weekend is over, I don’t want to even see a pair of heels for at least a month.”
“No heels. Noted,” Griff says, loosening the top few buttons on his black dress shirt. “Anything else?”
“Strawberry ice cream. A whole pint of it.” My stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven’t had a single bite to eat since the dry-scrambled egg whites and fresh fruit Marina ordered me for breakfast. “Are you hungry?”
“For strawberry ice cream?” His laugh is so warm and genuine, I join in as he picks up the room service menu and flips through it. “Or an actual meal?”
“Tomorrow night’s dress leaves very little to the imagination. I’ll stick to a salad. But maybe if you ordered something more…substantial, I could have a bite?” Crap. I sound so pathetic. But this is the job.
“Where I’m concerned, Sloane? You can have whatever you want.” Griff winks one of those deep blue eyes at me and sets the menu in front of me. “Will you order? I could use a break from the glasses. I’ll take the orecchiette pasta with duck confit.”
Pasta. I’d kill for a plate of pasta.
One more night, then I can eat whatever the heck I want.
“I’ll order. But…where are you going?” Griff stops halfway across the room and turns back to me. “Making sure Marina didn’t lock the door. Jacob walked her back here and made her promise she wouldn’t go out, but in this business, Sloane, you trust, but verify.” The latch turns easily, and the moment he cracks the door, I can hear Marina snoring over the sound of some violent action movie.
“She won’t stir until morning. Marina never gets drunk, so her hangovers are epic.” After I order our food, I push to my feet, wincing as my cramped toes protest. “I need to get out of this dress. If room service rings, I’ll let you know.”
Griff looks like he wants to say something, but instead, nods and heads for the bathroom. And then it hits me. He slept with me last night. We both admitted this wasn’t pretend. Yet his clothes, his toiletries? The case for his arm? They’re all still in the main room. Relegated to corners like he’s some sort of second thought.
“Griff?” I call from the doorway. He’s staring out at the lake again, but he still has his glasses on, thank goodness.
Whipping around, he goes from almost relaxed to on full alert in a single breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought maybe…you could move your stuff in here?”
“Are you sure?” Staring at me like he can’t quite figure me out, he waits for me to nod. “Okay. You want to change first?”
“No. I’m not afraid of you seeing me, Griff. Of everything that comes after? Yes. But not of you seeing me. The real me.” It’s the truth—mostly. I am scared, but not in the way he probably thinks.
To prove my point—both to myself and to Griff, I stand in front of the mirrored bathroom door and start taking off the dress one hook, zipper, and strap at a time. Wardrobe put me in a one-piece bodysuit underneath all the layers of silk and chiffon, so even when the dress falls to the floor at my feet, I’m still wearing the equivalent of a nude strapless bathing suit. Albeit one with a push-up bra built in.
Griff stops in the doorway, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and his jaw half-open.
“You realize more of me is covered now than when I was in that lace negligée, right?” I ask after I turn to face him.
“Doesn’t…uh. Shit.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. But you were also twenty feet away, in public, and now you’re not.”
“You’re kind of cute when you’re embarrassed.” Picking up my dress—Beauty and Style gave me this as a gift for participating in this show—I toss it over my arm and head into the bathroom. I wasn’t lying. Being naked in front of Griff wouldn’t bother me. If this were still a cover story, a fake relationship I knew would end the moment I’m no longer in danger? I’d strip down in a heartbeat, just to see his reaction.
But it’s not. This is real. And if we get naked, we’ll do it together. Even if we don’t do a damn thing more than that—tonight or ever—I want this to be special. For both of us.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sloane
The room feels different now. Griff doesn’t have a lot of “stuff.” His tux and suits hang in the closet, the case for his arm sits next to the dresser, and he left his duffel bag in the corner. But having his things mingling with mine? I didn’t think the added intimacy would be so very powerful.
Over dinner—where I steal more than a couple bites of his pasta—I tell him a little about what happens in a runway dressing room, and he shows me the video of the audience he took with his glasses.
Dimitri isn’t there. Neither is Pavel Andrei. Not a single person looks out of place, but apparently his team is running some sort of facial recognition program on everyone “just in case.”
After Griff sets the tray back outside the door, he flips the switch for the gas fireplace and sits close enough, our thighs touch. “Ripper texted me durin
g the show. Rodney Carriger was killed down in Mexico two weeks after Volkov got out of prison.”
I should feel…something. Pity? Shock? Anything. But I’m numb.
“Sloane?” Griff rests his hand on my arm. “Say something.”
“Like what? I don’t even know if I’m sorry he’s dead. He made me feel even more ‘invisible’ than Dimitri. At least when I was trapped in that life, I wasn’t alone. The other girls and I…we were together. Not friends, because he never would have allowed that. He rotated us between houses all the time so we couldn’t get too close to anyone. But Rodney…he told me every day how I had nothing—was nothing—without him.”
“You were never nothing,” he says, his tone so possessive and full of anger, I’d be afraid if he weren’t looking at me like I was his whole world.
“I was.” He starts to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me get this out. Please.”
If we’re going to try to make this work, he has to know all my dirty secrets and broken pieces. Even if telling him kills me.
Taking his hand, I guide his fingers to the back of my neck. “Do you feel this?”
I’d let my hair down after the party, and Griff brushes it to the side. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, and my heart hammers against my ribs. Until he turns me back to face him. He knows. It’s in his eyes. In the furrow between his brows. In the way a muscle in his temple throbs. “A tattoo. One you had removed.”
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Griff calls my name, probably worried I’m running away. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
When I return with a pen and one of the hotel notepads, he breathes a sigh of relief. On the small piece of Baur au Lac stationery, I draw the crown, an approximation of the barcode, and the series of numbers Dimitri said would forever mark me as his. I still remember them. Even after all these years.
“The barcode isn’t right. I never figured out how the numbers and those stupid lines paired up,” I whisper. “We all had one. Every girl…the first night…was shown what he expected of us. Then, after we were too broken to fight back, one of his men would tie us down on a rough wood table and mark us.”
Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 20