Summer Fling, page 45
“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. This shooter didn’t function like someone acting out of emotion. He was too organized. He had a plan, a backup, and an exit strategy, which is the hallmark of someone experienced. He may even be a 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 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 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 dead?”
“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 and tempts the fuck out of me.
She tempts the fuck out of me.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus. “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 on social media 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…but he’s, um, got a thing about cougars. I’m only twenty-four. According to him, I don’t have enough ‘mileage’ and I don’t know what I want yet.”
“Out of a relationship?”
“Out of sex. He prefers a woman who asserts herself between the sheets.”
“And that’s not you?” Does she want a man to take charge in bed?
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. Oh, then there’s 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 refusal is all over my face before I answer. “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. The one time I tried to drag her onstage with me, she ran off puking. She wouldn’t want my life. And she wouldn’t want me six feet under.”
Another dead end. “Who gets your money if you’re gone?”
“I provided a flat amount for my mother that should make her happy. The rest goes to various charities I’m passionate about.”
In other words, no one seems 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. No one can see 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 open the piping-hot pizza and the fizzy soda and dig 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 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 loud, you should hear me with white chocolate truffles.” She cocks her head. “Sorry. Does it bother you?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Of course.”
Might as well get the truth out in the open. She’ll probably figure it out, anyway. “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, eat quietly.”
Sophie
Heat flashes through my body. One look into his dark eyes tells me he’s 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 my plate.
“I shocked you. I’m sorry.” He approaches from behind, maintaining a professional distance.
But I’m painfully aware that all I have to do is turn and take a few steps to have my hands and lips on him.
I swallow back the impulse. I might not care much about putting my image in jeopardy anymore, but we’re two ships whose paths will probably never cross again. If I weren’t famous and I wasn’t running for my life, I’d jump on him—here and now. But I shouldn’t distract him.
“I”—wish I could say yes—“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 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 is in the next room, and I’ve never been more attracted to a man in my life.
Sleep isn’t happening.
What the hell am I going to do? I can’t hide in Granbury forever. How soon will this killer come after me again? I hate being a sitting duck, but it’s not safe in public until I find out who’s after me. And resisting my desire for Rand isn’t easy. Maybe I could do it for a few days…but what if our seclusion turns into weeks?
I close my eyes again. His face swims in my head—his dark, intent eyes. His scar. His brutally sensual mouth. I tingle when I remember the way he kissed me. I shudder at the memory of his hot stare when he said he thought about fucking me.
Maybe it’s all the stress, but I feel ready to explode. My options for relief are sorely limited.
I roll over. My hard-as-nails nipples drag across the blanket, and I can’t help but moan. I bite my lip and swallow the sound, but there’s no getting around the fact I’m wound unbearably tight. The need coiled between my legs keeps clenching and throbbing. I can barely remember the last time I had sex. It wasn’t memorable.
Or maybe I only feel that way because I’m fixated on Rand.
I need relief—now.
I tell myself I shouldn’t…but I cup my breasts and squeeze. Excitement flares. My fingers slide over my sensitive flesh until I’m pinching the tight nubs.
It isn’t enough.
I focus on my nipples through the thin cotton, grasping harder. Pleasure jolts straight to my clit. I gasp, then bite back the sound and squeeze again.
Everything between my legs demands attention, so I slide one palm over my skin, down my abdomen, and inside the tighter-than-hell shorts. I’m beyond wet, and when I press a pair of fingers against my needy nub, desire shoots through my veins. I arch into the sensation. This time, there’s no stopping my moan.
One hand rubs, the other clutches. Everything sharpens. My blood boils. The ecstasy is so thick I’m in a haze. I want orgasm. I need orgasm.
It comes fast and hot with deep pants and helpless moans. But my relief is short-lived. A killer is still after me. Rand is in the next room. And my body isn’t at all satisfied. It keeps pulsing, my thoughts on a nonstop loop of Rand toeing off his boots, peeling off his shirt, then joining me on the bed as he works his jeans open, spreads me wide, and impales me deep.
Damn, I need to stop panting for him and start considering my next moves.
A soft knock has me scrambling.
I drag the sheet over my body and tuck it under my neck. “Yes?”
Slowly, the door opens. Rand fills the opening, standing almost as tall, shoulders almost as wide. “You okay?”
“Of course.” But I’m not. I’m sure I look guilty as sin.
His expression tells me he knows exactly what I was up to.
“David called. I let it go to voicemail. I wanted to talk to you again before I decide how or if I should respond.”
“Give me a minute to”—stop aching for you—“get up. I’ll meet you in the living room.”
“Sure.” He ducks out and shuts the door.
I let out a breath. Damn it, my self-inflicted orgasm only made me crave him more. And we’ll be here together—alone—for who knows how long.
I’m in deep trouble.
With a sigh, I shrug into the gray sweater I’d peeled off earlier and stretch.
How am I going to face Rand?
Buck up and brazen it out, sister.
I pad down the hall and find him prowling the living room. When I enter, he stops and turns to me. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
No way am I asking how he knows that. “No. What did David say?”
“He wants to know if you’re all right and where you are. He’s fielding questions from the press and he doesn’t know how to answer.”
Rand is asking me if I’m willing to risk my life on my hunch that David doesn’t want me dead. I am. My gut tells me David would never harm me. Hell, he cried for days when he and Allen had to put their cat down a few months back. He’s a gentle soul…except when it comes to fame and fortune. Still, I’m convinced he wouldn’t kill someone for it. Claw, punch, lie, cheat, and steal? Absolutely.
“I admit David is ruthless, but he’s not violent. I trust him.”
“Then we have to be strategic. Whatever we tell David will be what the public—and your shooter—knows.”
Rand is right. “Maybe we shouldn’t answer. I don’t want to hurt your reputation as a bodyguard—”
“It’s not my main gig anymore.” He shrugs. “I was doing this as a favor to Rob. But that doesn’t mean I’m not damn good at it.”
Rand has already proven that. “So what’s your recommendation?”
“Let David and the world wonder if you’re dead for now, at least until we compile a list of suspects and start running them down.” Rand darkens his phone and tucks it away.
“Thanks. I’ll try not to be too much of a hassle and take too much of your time. I’ll make sure you get paid incredibly well for all you’ve done—”
“That’s nice but not my number one priority. This is personal now.”
Because someone tried to off me on his watch? Or because I actually mean something to him?
Silence fills the room and stretches between us. Rand stares—and I feel compelled to gaze back. My body, totally unimpressed by my earlier climax, tightens and throbs again.
What is it about this man that makes me so desperate for him?
“So…if you don’t cook, how do you feed yourself?” It’s the most roundabout way I can think of to ask if there’s a woman in his life.
“A combination of takeout, rotisserie chicken, and well-meaning friends. Why?”
“Just curious.” But my reply comes too fast.
“Because?” He steps closer. “What is it you really want to know?”
Of course he sees through my silly question. The longer I don’t answer, the more he pins me in place with his dark, hot eyes.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Making conversation.”
He doesn’t move or blink for long moments. I find myself holding my breath, waiting on his every move and word.
Finally, he pulls his keys from his pocket and tosses me the ball cap from the nearby table. “That’s fine. But if you were wondering if there’s any woman in my life who cooks for me, the answer is no. Then again, if that’s what you were trying to find out and you weren’t honest with me, I’d toss you over my knee and spank your ass red for lying. So it’s good you weren’t fishing to find out.” He shrugs. “Put the cap on, find the flip-flops, and let’s go.”
“Sure,” I say automatically as I don the hat. But in my head, there’s an entirely different litany. Spank me? Yes, he’d spank me!
Shock and excitement both ping my overstimulated body as I slide into the kid’s sandals. My heels hang slightly over the back, but it doesn’t matter since I probably won’t exit the truck.
Then he ushers me to his vehicle. His hand on the small of my back does crazy things to my libido.
The trip to the grocery store is quiet. Rand concentrates on the road, but the tension in the cab is thick. I feel it. The longer I’m close to him, the more the fine hairs on my arms stand up. He feels it, too. Nothing he says or does tells me that, but the awareness between us is both undeniable and unbearable.
When we arrive at the store, he pulls into a spot at the edge of the lot and whips out his phone, types a message, then taps his thumb impatiently on the steering wheel. He’s keyed up.
Me, too.
What will happen once the sun falls, darkness sweeps in, and temptation rises?
I’m picturing every delicious possibility when someone knocks on Rand’s tinted window. He lowers it halfway. “Hal?”
“Yeah,” the older man replies, then gestures to a shopping cart behind him. “I got everything you asked for.”
“Thanks. Can you load it in the backseat?” He thumbs behind him at the empty bench.
“Sure.”
Rand hands over some cash, and Hal piles the plastic-bagged groceries behind our seats. I keep my face turned away, pressed down toward my shoulder as if I’m half asleep. As far as I can tell, he barely gives me a second glance.
“I also rounded up the extras you asked for.” Hal smiles, then glances my way as he hands over a paper bag. The neck of what seems like a wine bottle sticks up. “Good luck.”
Rand takes it and sets it between us. “Thanks.”
Then he rolls up the window and we’re off, heading back to the cottage. I’m fascinated by the mystery bag. “What’s that?”
“Something for later.”
He’s intentionally vague, and I find myself more curious than ever. “Meaning?”
He turns to me, dark brow raised in subtle rebuke. “Meaning you’ll find out later.”
It’s high-handed. Maybe I should be mad. But his hint of dominance makes me shiver.
Once we arrive back at the cheerful yellow cottage, he takes the mystery bag, in addition to most of the other groceries. I bring in the rest and start putting things away.
