Hidden with you, p.2
Hidden With You, page 2
The man with her wore jeans and a gray Henley, suitable for the casual party. The way he held himself wasn’t casual, though. He stood tall, shoulders back, wavy hair in perfect order. He wore glasses, through which he was studying Jasper. His earlier smile had turned into a small frown at the corner of his mouth.
“Problem?”
“I’m sorry,” the man said, apparently realizing he was staring. “I’ve been trying to place you. Have we met?”
Jasper shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Actually, he was certain; he had an almost infallible memory for faces. “What’s your name?”
“I’m so sorry,” Nikki said. “I should have introduced you.”
“I’m Orlando McKee,” the man said. “But call me Ollie. I’ve been friends with these two since the beginning of time.”
“Jasper Kent. Just met them, but I expect we’ll be friends to the end of time.”
“Good answer,” Ollie said, extending his hand to shake. “Your name doesn’t ring a bell, but damn, your face is familiar.”
“Crossed paths through work, maybe?”
Ollie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I used to be a lawyer. Was in private practice for awhile here in LA, a bit in Europe.”
Jasper shook his head. “Fortunately, I haven’t had the need of counsel.” Except in dealing with the aftermath of Sandra’s and Bonnie’s deaths, but he wasn’t going to mention that.
“Now I’m with the FBI,” Ollie said, then grinned. “Maybe I’ve seen you on a Most Wanted poster.”
Jasper chuckled. “No, I’m far too careful with my criminal activities for that. Former MI6, so I know how to be invisible.” All true. Which, as Jasper knew well, was the best way to frame a lie.
“Well, it’s a mystery. The only one I know from MI6 is Quincy.” He shifted his attention to Jamie. “Is he here?”
“He and Eliza were heading down to walk on the beach when I saw them last. But they might have come back without me noticing.”
“I’ll go find him and introduce you,” Ollie said.
“No need,” Jasper said. “Quincy and I go way back.”
“There you go,” Jamie said. “You two have something in common. Do I know how to do hostess duty, or what?”
As Nikki laughed, Ollie gave Jamie a sideways squeeze. “You’re the Hostess Queen,” he assured her. “But I think the queen is supposed to mingle.”
“He has a point,” Nikki said, her face alight with amusement.
“I suppose I could use another drink and a fresh round of gossip. Come on, Nicholas. Let’s go find our husbands. These two can talk manly things.”
With a smirk, Nikki followed her friend into the depth of the party. “So what’ll it be?” Ollie asked. “Cigars? Car racing? We could stand around scratching our balls, nothing more manly than that.”
Despite himself, Jasper laughed. Then even harder when Trevor, an agent he recognized from Stark Security, joined them. Trevor’s brows rose as he put his hand on Ollie’s shoulder and asked, “Did you really just say that? And way too loud?”
“I was being an ass,” Ollie said, taking a casual step to the side and breaking contact. “It’s my hobby.”
“I’m going to go find a Scotch,” Jasper said. “Because that’s damn manly. Then I’m going to track down this writer—Zelda?—and congratulate her. Then I’m heading to my hotel and turning in. I’m still on London time.” He wasn’t, but he’d had enough socializing for the month. Sandra had been the one who loved parties. She’d made them fun. Now if he enjoyed himself for an hour, he considered it a stellar function. Beyond that, it was nothing but grueling work.
Tonight, Jamie and Nikki and the architecture itself had made the evening enjoyable. Better to leave on an up note.
“I saw her by the bar a few moments ago.” Ollie grinned. “You can’t miss her. She’s wearing a gold mini dress. Like something out of an old James Bond movie.”
Anticipation tightened Jasper’s chest as the woman in gold filled his mind. Zelda. “Well,” he said, “I look forward to meeting her.” He shouldn’t. He wasn’t at this party—hell, he wasn’t in this town—looking to get laid. And yet the first emotion—the only emotion—that had filled his head when he’d seen her was desire.
Not good.
He was in the States for one reason only. To locate and kill the man who’d murdered his family. He needed to stay focused, not fuck around or get distracted by women. Not even if a fast fling might take the edge off. Not even if the woman had piqued his interest in a way he hadn’t felt in over a decade.
The woman was trouble, and if he knew what was good for him, he’d give Zelda Clayton a very wide berth.
“—she wouldn’t come.”
Jasper frowned, unable to play back Ollie’s words. “Sorry,” he said. “I missed that. What were you saying?”
“That I’m glad Zelda came. When Ryan suggested to the two of them that they should co-host a celebratory party, she almost said no.”
“I suppose some authors are uncomfortable in crowds,” Jasper said.
“True,” Ollie said. “But that wasn’t the reason for Zelda. I think she was afraid her stepfather would be here.”
“Ollie…” There was a hint of warning in Trevor’s voice. “You really shouldn’t—”
“It’s not a secret,” Ollie retorted, then shrugged. “But okay, yeah. It is gossip. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Jasper said. “But I admit I’m curious.” He shouldn’t be, dammit. He should excuse himself and go get a drink. Chatting about the lovely author was an absurd exercise.
Ollie eyed Trevor. “Fine,” Trevor said. “Like you said, it’s hardly a state secret. Zelda’s stepfather is a Stark Security client. Carter Malloy. He’s former CIA, and he runs a private security company.”
“A client? Sounds like a competitor.”
“Not really. Stark Security tends to do more investigative work, providing support for government agencies, stepping in to help private citizens when the authorities have turned away. That type of thing. We do take on protective services, but usually there’s a personal connection between someone at the agency and the client. And those clients are usually smaller, whereas Malloy provides coverage for royalty and politicos on a regular basis.”
Jasper nodded. “Got it. But what does that have to do with Zelda?”
“She can’t stand him,” Ollie said. “She’s never said so publicly, but it’s obvious. And he’s a client, so Ryan couldn’t not invite him.”
“So where is he?”
“Europe somewhere,” Trevor said. “He and Zelda’s mom. That’s when it changed from a party for Jamie landing the role to a party for the two of them. I’m glad, honestly. Zelda’s pretty cool. Malloy’s an ass, but he’s an ass who pays the bills, and—”
“And now you really are in gossip territory.” Ollie frowned at his friend.
Trevor shrugged it off. “Hey, Jasper’s one of us now, right?” he asked, his inclusion of Ollie making Jasper wonder if the FBI agent was also working with the SSA. He didn’t ask, though. Not now. Not when Zelda was filling his thoughts. A woman whose vibrant presence had grabbed his attention and whose tragic story had twisted his heart.
A woman he really needed to avoid.
Which begged the question of why he was suddenly excusing himself, then walking across the decking as he searched for a flash of gold in the crowd.
Chapter Two
“Listen, Ms. Clayton, I know this isn’t a book signing, and I’m not supposed to be fawning, but I just have to say how much I loved—like really, really loved—Intercontinental.”
“Are you kidding?” I say, grinning at the cute blond guy. “You can toss praise at me any time. But you have to call me Zelda, okay?”
Jamie and I are standing in the middle of a semi-circle of guests—no press, thankfully, just friends and acquaintances and business associates, most of whom I’ve never met. Still, everyone is excited about the upcoming film, and Jamie and I are soaking up the praise and enthusiasm.
I glance sideways at her, flashing my best Party Girl smile. “See? I told you the book was popular. She thought she was signing on for a dud,” I add to the crowd, grinning when they all laugh on cue.
Right now, I’m in my element. Or, at least, it looks like I am. I can do the Perky Public Figure thing with the best of them.
“Yeah, because Jamie so often picks a dud,” the cute guy says with a chuckle.
I glance between the two of them, realizing that of course she knows this guy. She and Ryan organized the party, after all.
“This is Eric,” Jamie says, answering my unspoken question. “He works with Nikki.”
“I do,” Eric says. “And I read a lot of thrillers, and this series is one of my favorites. I’m looking forward to the next Martin King adventure.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. Thanks.” I flash him one of my best smiles, trying to discern if he’s doing the fanboy thing or the flirting thing. And trying to decide which one I’m hoping for. I mean, he’s cute enough, and I have no intention of going home alone, but all things being equal, I’m hoping the dark-haired guy I’d noticed earlier seeks me out. The one who filled out his jeans so perfectly and looked deadly hot in his white crew neck tee and casual black blazer.
He’d been standing on the lowest step leading down to the beach. The same place I’d been heading, needing a moment to ratchet down the joy. I play a good game in public—all bubbly and delightful in the role of the lighthearted heiress with the golden typewriter—but it’s an exhausting role to play. I’d wanted a few moments of watching the sunset. A few moments to be alone. To be me.
But there he was, filling my space.
At first, I’d been irritated. Then he’d moved, and I’d been intrigued. As I watched, he kicked off his Sperry boat shoes, then moved off the step and slipped his toes into the sand. He peeled off his jacket next, the movements as he draped it over the handrail accentuating the muscles in his arms and back. I sighed, relishing the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. His hair was cut short, so I could see the back of his neck, and despite myself, I imagined how it would feel to put my hand there and let the bristles from his close-cropped nape tease my palm.
I didn’t go to him, but I didn’t turn back either. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and held them by the straps as I slid under the handrail. Once my feet were in the warm sand of the dune, I crouched lower, knowing that if he turned around, I’d be hidden from his perspective by the support post.
I’m glad I took that precaution, because a few moments later, he glanced over his shoulder. As he looked toward the house—and me—I got a good look at his face, the visage eliciting a satisfied sigh. The guy was definitely something, with deep-set hazel eyes, a wide mouth, and the kind of sculpted jaw that only looked better with his hint of beard stubble.
The sun hadn’t yet dipped below the horizon, and I saw a hint of gray at his temples, which did nothing to reduce his hotness factor. On the contrary, it made him seem even sexier.
I guessed he was in his early forties, which made him almost twice my age. Not someone I’d normally be attracted to, but there was no denying the way my pulse had kicked up. It was as if he’d physically reached out and touched me, and I stood frozen in my hiding place, afraid he was going to see me, and equally afraid that he wouldn’t.
A heartbeat later, he turned away, once again facing the riot of colors Mother Nature was painting on the horizon. Then he took a seat on the step, moving with the kind of confident precision that most people drop when they think they’re alone.
I stood frozen for a moment, debating whether I should go talk to him. Did he know I was there, or was he the kind of guy who was always in control, never letting down his guard even when he was completely alone?
Foolish, maybe, but right then, I wanted nothing more than to go to him. And I’d just convinced myself that I should when I heard someone coming. Damn.
I ducked down further, only to see Ryan Hunter pass by, his feet inches from my nose. I waited until he reached the guy, then slipped back onto the stairs and darted barefoot up to the top level, hoping my sunset-watching stranger hadn’t noticed me, but still kind of hoping our paths would cross at the party.
The memory washes over me in a flash, and as I smile at the group and stand by Jamie, I let my eyes skim over everyone that I can see on this level of the patio. But I don’t see my stranger anywhere.
“When will filming begin?” The question comes from someone near Jamie, and she answers, but I’m not paying attention until she says, “Zelda loves it.”
“I’m sorry?” I say. “What do I love?”
Her brow furrows, and I realize she must be talking about writing. Because she’s right. It’s my life—what I love. Writing stories, sharing them with the world. Talking about them until the people around me are bored out of their mind, and then rejoicing when I find fans who are fascinated by my characters, my process, my made-up world. All the stuff that makes up the non-reality in which I live.
“I was just saying that you love the world that Martin King populates,” Jamie says, referring to the hero of the series.
“Oh, yes, I do. He’s got serious balls,” I say to laughter all around.
“When’s the next one come out?” someone asks.
“Knowing Zelda, it will be soon,” someone shouts in reply, and the crowd titters. “She’s a machine.”
I force a chipper smile and a laugh, but this is the uncomfortable part. When you first hit the New York Times list at seventeen, then have five more bestsellers between then and now—which happens to be the ripe old age of twenty-three—some people get really weird. Like they think I’m a total fraud who’s been writing her books in crayon.
Or maybe I’m just touchy.
I shift the conversation to praising the screenwriter who wrote the adaptation. She’s not at the party—instead she’s in Manhattan having quality time with her family—but I describe some of our conversations, and how much care she took to understand the characters, and on and on, until I’m not listening to myself. It’s just a hum of noise, and I’m the one doing the buzzing.
“Is it true you wrote Intercontinental in two months when you were only—” someone begins to ask, but I’m not in the mood to talk about my age, my break-out book, my family, or anything at all, really.
“Sorry,” I interrupt, pressing my fingertips to my temple. “Light-headed. I’ve been going a mile a minute.” I flash a winsome smile, like the little soldier doing her duty. “I should probably track down something to eat and sit for a bit. But I promise this one has all the answers,” I add with a nod to Jamie, who frowns as if I’ve grown two heads. An understandable reaction. We’ve done a few public events, and usually I feed off the crowd’s enthusiasm. Or seem to, anyway. But until today, no one at our joint events has jumped on the age thing.
I start to turn away, and she reaches for my arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just didn’t eat today.” A lie. My childhood bestie was in town overnight, and I’d met her for brunch before she hopped a plane back to Ohio. I’d been so excited to see her, but the truth was the brunch had been awkward. Full of long pauses interrupted by inane conversation, like we were meeting each other for the first time or something.
I’d gone home depressed and in no mood to party.
Which probably explains why my Perfect Party Girl manner isn’t actually working out as effusively as I’d expected.
I need food. And alcohol. And a few moments alone to regroup.
“Find me later,” Jamie says, and I nod in agreement, then flash my brightest smile and offer a finger-wiggle wave to the group.
“I’ll be around,” I say, “so if you want to talk thrillers or whatever, just track me down. Ply me with drinks, and I’ll tell you everything.” My voice doesn’t sound as bright and shiny as I’d been going for, but I think I pulled it off, and with one final flash of my cheeriest smile, I turn and slip around the group clustered behind us and talking local politics.
Since that sounds like death masquerading as conversation, I pick up my tempo and slip inside the house right as one of the caterers is coming out of the side door that leads to the breakfast area.
I’ve been to Jamie’s new house twice now, and I pause long enough to skim mentally over the floor plan. Then I slowly grin and hurry deeper into the house to the best place I can think of to be absolutely alone.
Chapter Three
He was chasing a mirage.
He’d caught an enticing glimpse of gold in the distance, standing beside Jamie as if holding court in front of a cluster of guests. He watched for a while, mesmerized by the way she spoke and laughed with the crowd. Then he’d been sidetracked by Ryan again, and by the time he’d reached the group, that blur of gold was long gone, like water teasing a dying man in the desert.
Damn.
Now he shifted directions entirely, then crossed to the opposite side of the massive porch, finally stopping by two women sitting on the edge of the hot tub and sipping wine.
“Have you seen Zelda Clayton?” he asked, but the women only shook their heads, then returned to their conversation about dates gone wrong.
“I mean, there was nothing romantic about the silences,” one said. “Big. Gaping. Pauses at dinner. Not a thing to talk about.”
As Jasper walked away, he wondered what he’d talk about once he found Zelda. Nothing came to mind, but it didn’t matter. He was on a quest now. A foolish one, perhaps, but a quest nonetheless.
The last time he’d put so much mental energy into tracking a woman, it was because he’d been hired to kill her. She’d deserved it. She’d murdered her parents and husband for an inheritance, and his client—the husband’s sister—had been wracked with both grief and fury when the bitch had been allowed to go free, with no criminal charges brought at all.
