by Shayla Black
I can’t go out dressed like this…but I can’t go out naked, either.
And right now, those are my only two options.
Shaking out my wet hair from the towel wrapped around it, I finger-comb the pale mass as best I can, then quickly braid it. After a last look in the mirror, I toss the braid behind my shoulder and sigh.
Yes, I’ve had costumes almost as revealing as this, and Rand is just an audience of one. Despite our kiss, I don’t have any real indication that he’s interested. Yes, he was hard, but maybe he simply responded to the fact I’m a woman, rather than to me.
And the longer I stand here and dither in indecision, the sillier I feel.
I tug open the door and pad down the hall to the kitchen. It’s all I can do not to cross my arms over my breasts self-consciously. “Hey.”
Rand
Sophie’s light footsteps alert me that she’s out of the bathroom. I’ve already ensured the cottage and its perimeter are as safe as possible, then busied myself calling to order groceries from a local shop. Thankfully, Joe knows the owner since he lives down the street, so he’ll let me pay with cash. I’m grateful no one can trace my credit card. I need to keep it that way, in case whoever’s after Sophie knows I stand between her and him.
Besides, accomplishing that kept me from thinking about her naked, lush curves wet under the shower spray, touched by nothing but suds and her soft hands.
Not going to lie, busting down the door and kissing her senseless crossed my mind.
At her quiet greeting, I nod absently and launch a search on my phone for restaurants in the area. “Groceries should be ready for pickup in a few hours. You’ve got to be hungry now. I’m starving. How about we call for a pizza? We can cook dinner later. Does that sound—”
My words seize up when I turn and see her. No way I can finish my sentence. I can’t speak. I can’t think. Hell, I can’t even breathe. What I can do? Stare.
She crosses her arms to cover her lush breasts and taut nipples. “I know everything is tight and transparent. It was the best I could find since this stuff belongs to a girl.”
“And you’re most definitely a woman.” The words slip out.
“Yeah, I am.”
Fuck, I can’t stop myself from prowling closer and staring. “I don’t mean to be unprofessional. I’m sorry if I’m gawking.”
“I’m used to it.”
That’s not all I want to do to Sophie, but I’m riding a dangerous line. She needs me to protect her, not seduce her—no matter how badly I’d like to try.
Get real. She’s a famous celebrity dating an equally famous celebrity. Why would she be interested in an average guy like you?
“I’m sure you are. I’ll try not to be annoying.”
“You’re not. And I swear I’m not trying to flash you.”
I bite back the reply that she doesn’t need to try too hard to stop on my account, but that’s inappropriate, too. “Pizza okay?”
“Sure.”
“After that, we’ll pick up the groceries I ordered. Then we should be set for a bit. The housekeeper comes tomorrow. I’ll see if she can get you some clothes then, too.” I can’t go out and leave Sophie unprotected. And I’ll have to figure out how to get more cash since I don’t dare hit the ATM. But I have ideas and resources. I’ll get it done.
“Great. Do you know if there’s a jacket or anything around here so I can cover up?”
That’s a good idea since it will keep me from staring at her. Kind of. “I’ll look. In the meantime, what do you like on your pizza?”
We agree to toppings while I manage to find a kid’s cardigan in gray. It’s too small, and the edges cling to her breasts in a way that only accentuates her assets. But it covers her nipples, so I’m hoping she sees that as helpful. I also find a pair of flip-flops that almost fit. At least the ball cap I scrounged up will hide her face when we retrieve groceries later.
Sophie sinks onto the sofa and seems to curl into herself. I call for the pizza. They’ll also deliver a two-liter bottle of soda with the pie in the next thirty minutes.
“I’m going to grab a shower before the delivery. The doors and windows are locked, and almost no one knows we’re here. You should be safe, but if anything happens, come get me.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
I hate leaving her alone, but this is the best opportunity, so I disappear into the bathroom and start the shower. Fuck, I can picture her standing in the claw-foot tub, water sluicing down her lithe body. I jerk my pants down in an effort to undress, but my cock stands straight up.
Son of a bitch.
Steam rises. As I step in, I contemplate soaping up, taking my cock in hand, and finding some relief, but I don’t dare leave Sophie alone any longer than necessary. My fantasy tour between her thighs will have to wait.
Quickly, I lather up, rinse, and get out. I wish I had clean clothes, but these will do. I need to check on Sophie, then start grilling her about her enemies. No way will I repeat my past. I won’t lose her.
As I’m tugging on my pants again, her tube of fuck-me red lipstick pokes me. I set it on the edge of the sink, wishing I could do exactly what the color suggests, but my phone buzzes. I’m not shocked to see it’s one of my brothers calling. I’m only shocked I haven’t heard from one of them sooner.
“Hey, Rush.”
“Thank God you’re okay. What the fuck is happening out there? I just saw the news.”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I toss back.
“Glad to hear you’re alive. Not that you called to let any of us know.”
“What were you going to do from Florida?”
“Get on a plane to help you if I had to.”
He’d do it, no doubt. “It’s under control, bro. I promise.”
“I didn’t think twice about you working that parade until I heard just now that shots were fired. Who were you protecting?”
“This is completely on the down low. You’ve got to promise.”
“Yeah. Sure. You know me.”
I do. He’s tight. “Sophie Larsen.”
“No shit! She’s fucking gorgeous.”
Tell me about it. “She’s also scared as hell right now. Whoever busted up that parade was shooting at her.”
“Shit. The news speculated it was the work of an anti-government terrorist.”
I roll my eyes. “You know better than to believe a cover story.”
“That’s why I called you. The police didn’t catch him, by the way.”
I didn’t think they had. The shooter was too good. Sure, his first shot went wide, probably because Sophie was dancing, but if I hadn’t hustled her from the platform and out of the area, he probably would have offed her. “And I know he’s not giving up, because he’s either got a purpose or a mental illness.”
“Either can be fatal.”
“Yep.” And I’ve got to figure out how to keep Sophie safe. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Fine. Shit’s starting to happen here. I think my cover assignment is coming to an end.”
Rush would know. “Life of a spy, huh?”
“Don’t say that shit over the phone.”
Rush is convinced the NSA records everything. Hell, he’s probably right.
“Sorry, man.” He doesn’t offer more details about his job, and I don’t ask. Given his line of work, I know there’s only so much he can say. “I gotta go.”
“Sure. Check in, would you?”
“Will do. Hey, do you know if Ridge is around?”
“I talked to him last night. He’s home.”
“Great. Thanks.” He’ll help me if I need cash or a hand.
“Love you, bro.”
Rush never has trouble expressing his feelings. Maybe because he’s learned the hard way that any day could be his last.
“Love you, too.”
We hang up, and I yank my shirt down my torso, then emerge from the bathroom. At the end of the hall, Sophie is on the sofa in some cross-legged
pose that would make me feel like a pretzel, curled up with a book about Texas gardening.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Learning anything?”
She looks up at me with a tired grin. “Yes. Why I have a brown thumb. Apparently, you have to be home to water your plants more than occasionally.”
“That would help.”
“Is your thumb greener than mine?”
“I’d be lying if I said it was.” I cross the room and sit in the big navy-blue chair opposite her, then set my weapon on the table beside her. “Sophie, I need to ask you some questions.”
She sets the book aside with a sigh. “I know. But I really don’t know who would want me dead.”
“You’re sure it’s not a disgruntled family member?”
“No. Like I said, my dad has written me off, my mom has moved on, and my half siblings are all too young.”
“Crazed fan?”
“I guess it’s always possible, but I can’t think of one. Usually, there are hallmarks—at least according to other celebs I’ve talked to. You know, they contact you, try to get your attention, make it personal, develop a relationship with you…”
“And resort to violence when they feel spurned, yeah. None of that?”
She shakes her head. “I got good advice early on to make fans feel important but to keep them at arm’s length. I do backstage meet-and-greets but rarely invite the same person twice. I almost never respond to people on social media except with a vague ‘thanks’ or ‘glad you enjoyed it.’ I never engage the haters or the crazies. And until today, I’ve never had a serious problem.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a good job. I didn’t think this shooter functioned like someone acting out of emotion. He was too organized. I guarantee he had a plan and an exit strategy, which is the hallmark of someone experienced, maybe even professional.”
Sophie sucks in a breath. “A professional? Who would pay to have me killed?”
“Someone who feels you’ve done them wrong, who can’t afford to get their hands dirty, and who has the cash to throw at an assassin. That should narrow your list. Anyone who feels you’ve stabbed them financially?”
“Other than a change of agents a few years ago, I’ve been doing business with essentially the same people since I started. Same label, same producers…”
“How’s your relationship with David?”
“It’s great.”
“And your former agent? How did he or she take the split?”
“She was pissed, but after an initial outburst, she reined it in because she’s going to continue getting residuals from my older material, which still racks up airplay and downloads.”
Sophie has a point, but I’m not writing off either agent yet. “Former lovers?”
“There aren’t that many, and I still speak to all of them.” She wrinkles her nose. “In some ways, the music industry is like living in a small town.”
“Everyone knows everyone?”
“Mostly.”
I think back to the list of men who have been associated with Sophie in gossip rags, but their public personas come off like the sensitive coffeehouse sorts, not anyone who seems dangerous. But I’m not judging a book by its cover. “Ever felt unsafe with any of them?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been involved with a noncelebrity?”
“Not really.”
“Not sexually?” I feel guilty for probing her sex life. It’s not strictly necessary…but it also can’t hurt to be thorough, right?
Fuck, I’m rationalizing and I know it.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“So you can’t think of a former ex who might want you gone?”
“None of those relationships were very serious. We’d meet at a music festival, pose for a few pictures at a party or a restaurant, and be seen together at an awards ceremony. I mean, sure, we tried to make a personal life work, but when you’re recording and on the road and constantly busy, trying to find time to be with your significant someone who has the same challenges is next to impossible.”
It both makes sense and sounds lonely. It also narrows my list of potential suspects. “What about your current squeeze? That British guy… Graham What’s-His-Name?”
“Normoth. No.” She bites her lip. When she releases it, the plumpest part of her mouth goes from pink to rosy red. It tempts the fuck out of me.
She tempts the fuck out of me.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on what she’s saying. “No…you don’t think it’s him?”
“I don’t. And he’s not my squeeze.”
Now she’s lying. “There were pictures of you in People kissing him two weeks ago with the caption that you’re planning to buy a house together. Try again.”
“I’m serious. The relationship is all for show. We have the same agent. He’s coming off a hot tour and his first album was a bestseller. I’ve been lying low and recording for months, gearing up for a tour. Dating me gives him the appearance of being established. Dating him gives me the appearance of still being hip and hot and right-now. But we’ve never…” She shakes her head. “He’s not interested.”
“Gay?”
“No. He likes women. A lot. I’ve seen it…but he’s, um, got a thing about cougars. I’m only twenty-four.”
It’s not funny, per se. But it makes me laugh.
“I’m serious,” she insists. “He says I don’t have enough ‘mileage’ and I don’t know what I want yet.”
“Out of a relationship?”
“Out of sex. He likes a woman who knows her way between the sheets.”
“And that’s not you?”
Sophie clams up. “Can we focus on who might want to kill me? It’s not Graham.”
It doesn’t sound as if he fits the mold. “Who are the other people in your life?”
“I have an assistant, but Tania just had a baby, so she’s back in Cali with her husband and her mom. And my best friend.” She winces. “Kristi is going to be pissed I haven’t called to tell her I’m okay.”
“Is she in LA, too?”
“No. Frisco.”
“San Francisco?”
She shakes her head. “Texas. You know, not far from the giant IKEA store? We were supposed to get together tonight. Can I call her?”
No doubt my apology is all over my face before I say the words. “It would be better if we waited long enough to home in on who would want you dead. Kristi doesn’t have a jealousy problem?”
“God, no. She’s so shy the one time I tried to drag her up on the stage with me, she ran off puking. She wouldn’t want my life. And she wouldn’t want me dead.”
Another dead end. “Who gets your money if you’re gone?”
“I provided a flat amount for my mother that would make her happy. The rest goes to various charities I feel passionate about.”
In other words, seemingly no one is motivated to off her for cash. “Can you think of anyone you’ve pissed off? Tell me more about your relationship with David.”
“It’s fine. He’s one of the best, and he’s taken my career to another level since I hired him four years ago. I consider him a friend. Hell, I was one of his attendants when he married his husband, Allen, last year. They’re lovely.”
And I’m frustrated. “There’s someone out there who—”
A knock on the door interrupts me. Sophie stiffens as I grab my weapon with one hand and gesture her to the back bedroom with the other. I don’t want anyone seeing her.
But it’s just the kid delivering pizza, happy for the tip I give him and the cool air conditioning wafting his way from the cottage.
Less than a minute later, Sophie and I are opening the piping-hot pizza and the fizzy soda and digging in. It’s decent. Or maybe I think that because I’m hungry. But I lose my appetite for food quicker than I should when I hear Sophie moaning with every little bite.
“It would be better if you didn’t do that.”
She looks perplexed. “
Do what?”
“Moan while you eat.”
“It’s a bad habit I have whenever I eat something I love. If you think this is bad, you should hear me with white chocolate truffles.” She cocks her head. “Does it bother you?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Of course.”
I put down my slice of pizza and wipe the grease from my hands. Might as well address the elephant in the room… “When you make those noises, all I think about is fucking you.”
Her eyes go wide. “That’s really honest.”
“I typically am. So if you don’t want me to think about dragging you to bed, peeling off everything you’re wearing, and kissing my way between your legs, maybe you should eat quietly.”
Sophie
Heat flashes through my body at his words. And one look into his dark eyes tells me he’s completely serious.
Suddenly, I can’t think about anything except him naked, on top of me, pleasuring me before I please him in return.
Don’t be crazy. You barely know him. What if he’s the type to kiss and tweet?
“Actually, I’m full.” I set my pizza crust aside and rinse off my plate.
“I shocked you. I’m sorry.” He approaches from behind, still a few feet away.
I’m painfully aware that all I’d have to do is turn and take a few steps to have my hands on him, my lips on his.
I swallow back the impulse. I might not care so much anymore about putting my image in jeopardy, but we’re two ships whose paths will probably never cross again. If I weren’t famous and I was the kind of girl satisfied with a hot fling, I’d jump on him—here and now. But that’s not me, and I shouldn’t distract him.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s”—making me wish I could say yes—“fine. I think I’ll take a nap. It’s not even two o’clock and it’s been a long day.”
“Can’t argue with that. Groceries will be ready in about an hour.”
“Thanks.” I nod and head to the back bedroom—anything to put distance between us.
As soon as I’m alone, I shut the door and tear off the slightly scratchy sweater, then crawl between the sheets and close my eyes. I’m tired, but sleep won’t come. I can’t erase the pandemonium of the parade or its terror. I also can’t escape the fact that Rand saved me. Or forget that he’s in the next room. I especially can’t deny that I’m terribly attracted to him.