Saving the star, p.1
Saving the Star, page 1
Saving the Star
Romancing the Stones
Rachel Bowdler
Published by Rachel Bowdler, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SAVING THE STAR
First edition. November 24, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Rachel Bowdler.
ISBN: 979-8201114169
Written by Rachel Bowdler.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Atlanta Stone should have stayed at the party. She knew that as soon as she stumbled up the steps to her hotel suite, her sharp stilettos snagging in the cream carpet, all while cursing the fact that the elevator had been out of service in a string of drunken slurs coherent only to her.
“S’pposed t’ be five-star hotel, f’ God’s sake. Fuckin’ mess.”
She wasn’t talking about the hotel anymore. She was the mess. She didn’t care. She had been a mess for a long time now. The mess, really, if she were matched up against the rest of her family, which she often was. Her brother was the squeaky-clean angel. Her mother was the silver-screen goddess. Her stepfather was the charitable philanthropist. Atlanta was the mess.
She liked it that way.
Her family, not so much. They certainly wouldn’t be happy that she was coming in at four o’clock in the morning intoxicated again, cheeks pink from the London frost that had very nearly bitten off one of her toes on the walk back. She would never get used to the British winter. The sooner she got back to sunny LA, the better.
Inside, though, tequila still warmed her veins more than enough to make up for it, dulling her senses. It was why, when she finally reached her floor eight stories up, her heels now dangling from her hands instead of on her tender feet, she thought nothing of the fact that her mother’s door — the one she had strategically taken beside Atlanta’s own room — had swung open and creaked on its hinges. She thought nothing of the sudden shuffling and shouting coming from within, thinking that perhaps her family were awake because of jet lag or had found out that Atlanta had snuck out again and were waiting for her to get home.
Worry tore through her only when the gunshot sounded, the explosion thrusting a sharp dagger of clarity through Atlanta’s drug-mottled haze.
She flinched at the sound and dropped her shoes and purse to the floor. “Mom?” she called, stumbling straight past her own door and into her mother’s room.
With only a mere glimpse, she saw it was a mess. The glass doors leading to the balcony were splattered with crimson, and every vase, every lampshade, and every sad little sachet of English-breakfast tea were upturned and strewn around the place.
The breath was forced out of Atlanta as a broad shoulder sent her tumbling to the floor. Her head hit the wall with a sickening crunch, and yet somehow, she found it in herself to pry her eyelids open again against the searing, white-hot agony. Her vision swam, from both the drink and drugs and the bang to the head. Still, the cold, granite eyes of her attacker pierced into her, clear as day. Trepidation flickered in those stone eyes, as though she had caught him off guard. Trepidation and loathing, and something far darker.
He wanted to hurt her.
His hood slipped from his head as he scowled down at her sorry state splayed across the floor, revealing the salt-and-pepper buzz cut of a middle-aged man. It was his mouth she would remember when everything else faded to black, though, twisted into an ugly sneer and bracketed with deep-etched lines.
Atlanta scrambled backward, past fallen paintings and thorned rose stems, when she saw what he held, what he was lifting to her head. A gun, black and glinting against the light of the hallway’s chandeliers. “No. No,” she pleaded, voice a feeble rasp. “No. Please. Please don’t.”
His finger twitched on the trigger. She felt the blood leach from her face at the knowledge that this would be the end of her. She would die alone, in a hotel room, drugs and alcohol still pumping through her system and the sour taste of a stranger’s kiss on her lips. She had not even the luxury of a clear mind before she went.
Where was her mother? Where was Weston? Oh God, where was Anderson?
Her heart stuttered with panic, so erratically that she thought — hoped — he would not have to put a bullet through it to kill her. Her own body would get there first, send her into cardiac arrest. It wasn’t unheard of with the amount of shit she had taken tonight.
She should have screamed. She hadn’t even screamed yet. She opened her mouth, about to let what would be perhaps her last breath rip through the world.
“They’re here,” a low voice snarled before she could part with her shriek. It didn’t come from the man holding the gun to her head. There was more than one of them. Atlanta’s terror intensified threefold. “We need to go. Now.”
The gunman swore. Atlanta used the distraction to her advantage, swinging her legs beneath his feet before stumbling up onto her own and making a run for the en suite bathroom to her left. She looked back over her shoulder only once, and saw that he was doing the same. His panicked gaze melded into a determined grit that slithered from him and across the floor and seeped into Atlanta’s skin and bones like ice.
Silent sobs racked her body when she finally bolted herself in the bathroom. A sticky warmth trickled down her neck, and darkness teetered on the edge of her vision. Her lungs tightened with lack of air as she listened desperately, waiting for the thud of their footsteps to return for her, to finish her off.
Instead, the slam of a door rang out, and then... nothing.
No sound. No gunshots. No death.
Only Atlanta, slumped in darkness until darkness became her.
Chapter One
Beck Harris’s upper lip curled into an instinctive sneer of disgust as she parked by the water fountain in the center of the Stones’ driveway — a fucking water fountain. She was used to wealth and grandeur by now, but being exposed to it in her work life hadn’t done anything to quell the scorn that clawed through her every time she rolled up to her next assignment.
And this... this was excessive, even up against the usual billionaire CEOs or arrogant politicians who hired her.
This was a joke.
The stately home loomed before the English countryside like a castle, casting everything in elongated, pointy shadows. Ivy, half-killed off from the bitter winter they were having, crawled up the old stone walls toward the turrets, and the windows were so big that it must have cost an arm and a leg just to buy curtains large enough to hang over them. Beside Beck’s own black SUV and the two identical cars belonging to her colleagues, a white Lamborghini and a flame-red Ferrari rested side by side, polished enough that Beck could see the distorted reflection of her own car in the bright paint.
Her sympathy for the Stone family dwindled by the minute as she worked up the resolve to finally get out of the car and toss herself to the wolves. It was no wonder they were robbed, with their wealth flaunted for anyone to see. They could clearly afford to lose a few valuables.
An elegant middle-aged woman emerged from the arched threshold of the manor to greet Beck. Though she had neither the time nor the patience to keep up with celebrities, she recognized Minerva Stone immediately from the films she’d watched with her brother as a child. The actress had been blonde and young, then: now, her dark hair was plastered to her scalp in a high ponytail, and her face was beginning to crease here and there. Still, her golden skin remained taut over regal cheekbones, highlighting the life of luxury she had lived — and probably the many facelifts that came with it.
Beck did not deign to take off her sunglasses as she nodded her greeting, slamming the car door and locking it with finality.
“You must be Beck Harris.” Minerva’s American accent grated like nails on a chalkboard, and Beck tried to tune it out.
“Correct.” Beck nodded, waving when she noticed their security detail, Phil, lingering just behind Minerva with his arms crossed over his puffed chest. He offered a wary bob of his bald head in return, his lips pursed into a thin line. Clearly, Beck wasn’t the only one unhappy with her assignment, though Phil had worked for the Stones for far longer than her. “And you’re Minerva Stone.”
“In the flesh.” Minerva threw her arms out as though she were modeling on a catwalk. “I assume you’ve been briefed on our... situation.”
“Armed robbery,” Beck rattled off calmly as they ambled across the gravel. “Two gunmen, after a necklace your husband had just bought in an auction, but they didn’t find it because it was locked up in a safe somewhere off the property. You were asleep, he wasn’t. They shot him in the leg before he could fight back. Your daughter came in at the sound of the gunfire and saw one of the shooters’ faces before they left. Have I missed anything?”
Minerva faltered for only a moment, glancing at Beck sidelong with something she had learned not to take personally: surprise. It still irritated her to no end that her clients expected less of her, particularly because she knew that Phil and her other male colleagues wouldn’t have received the same regard, but she pushed it down and kept her chin high.
“No, Miss Harris, I think that sums it up quite well.”
“Good.” Beck flashed a terse smile as Minerva led her into the manor. It was even more lavish inside, with a chandelier greeting them in the open hallway and a spiral staircase winding to the second floor. Beck fought the urge to wipe her feet on the welcome mat as she examined the array of paintings hung on the wall. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn the place was a museum rather than a holiday estate.
“I’m sure you were made aware that this is not our permanent residence. We rented the place out after the robbery while my husband, Weston, finishes off his work in London. Next week we’ll be flying back to LA.”
Finally Beck slid her sunglasses off to meet Minerva’s gaze. The actress’s eyes were a piercing blue, red-rimmed and weary. The vulnerability they bore made Beck forget for a moment that she was a world-famous celebrity. If not for the sophisticated dress and dewy skin, Minerva could have been any other woman who needed help. “That’s not a problem, Mrs. Stone.”
“There’s something else I wished to ask of you.” Minerva’s heels clicked against the marble floor as she continued down a narrow hallway lined by brass sconces. It brought them out into a large kitchen with clinically white walls that were blindingly bright, bathed as they were in sunlight. The marble countertops were spotless — whether from a maid or because the Stone family didn’t cook, Beck couldn’t guess. Beyond the closed patio doors, yards and yards of artificially green grass yawned out before them. A round-bellied man in khaki pants hunched over a golf putt not too far from the wooden terrace, preparing to swing the club. Bandages covered his left calf, and he moved cautiously on his feet. Weston Wilder, Minerva’s husband. He had been the only one seriously injured in the attack, but the bullet wound had been superficial enough that he’d only needed a week or so in the hospital. Another man, slim and golden-haired, leaned against his own club with his back to them. Anderson Stone, Minerva’s son, if Beck had to guess.
Beck snapped her attention away when she realized that she hadn’t replied yet. “Please, go on.”
Minerva rested against the counter, her false nails, pointed and red, tracing spirals into the surface. “I read your file. You certainly have plenty of experience for such a young woman.”
Beck’s eyes narrowed. Minerva was lucky she had put “young” in front of that, though at thirty Beck didn’t feel worthy of the title anymore. It was true, though, that she had experience. She had joined the military at eighteen and started out as a close protection officer five years later. She had dealt with all manner of things by now, so much so that she didn’t think much else could surprise her. “Thank you, Mrs. Stone.”
“You came with a glowing recommendation. With that in mind, I was wondering if perhaps you might use some of your company’s resources to carry out your own investigation.”
“An investigation?” Beck questioned, brows drawing together.
“The people who attacked my family are still out there, Miss Harris, and my daughter has seen at least one of their faces. I’d like you to bring them to justice.”
“I’m a protection officer, Mrs. Stone. Not a detective.”
“I understand that,” Minerva said coolly, “and yet you and I both know the police won’t do enough to keep us safe, certainly not when we’ll be out of the country soon. I’m not asking for you to work day and night on this, but it would bring me a certain comfort to know that you are looking for the criminals, too, when you aren’t taking care of my daughter.”
Reluctantly, Beck sighed in agreement. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Miss Harris.” Minerva smiled pleasantly before pulling out two glasses from the overhead cupboard. Beck expected her to fill them at the tap, but instead she pulled a jug with a filter from the fridge and poured the water from that. Rich people, Beck scoffed internally, but accepted the drink when it was offered nonetheless. It tasted no different, either way.
“Atlanta is a late riser, so it’ll be a few hours before I can properly introduce you to her. I emailed over her work schedule for the next few weeks, and I’ll be sure to have her assistant in LA keep it updated for you. I’d like to apologize in advance. My daughter can be quite...” Minerva winced as she searched for the apt word, before settling on “difficult.”
Beck stopped sipping on her fancy water to deepen her frown. “I was under the impression that your daughter was an adult, Mrs. Stone.”
“Oh, she is.” Minerva waved a dismissive hand. “But she started her rebellious phase at sixteen and never quite came back out of it. I’m sure you’ve seen the news articles and whatnot.”
Beck hadn’t, but she could only imagine what it was that twenty-something celebrities got up to these days. What on earth was she walking into here?
Despite the dread wriggling through her gut, Beck forced her most polite smile and set her glass down. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
ATLANTA ROSE JUST AFTER midday — a habit she would be sorry to break when her work schedule started up again next week — to find a woman clad in all back standing with a rigid posture in her kitchen. She raised an eyebrow and brushed past her carelessly to make herself some coffee.
“I thought the audition for Women in Black wasn’t until next week.”
If the woman understood the joke, she didn’t show it. Atlanta rounded the breakfast bar again, scrutinizing her. She couldn’t have been that much older than her brother — twenty-seven, twenty-eight at most — but an air of maturity rolled from her that even her mother didn’t quite possess yet. Her straight dark hair was tied into a low ponytail, her face bare of much makeup. Though she was pretty — gorgeous, actually — with an olive skin tone and sharp jaw, she was dressed too plainly to be one of her brother’s conquests. Much too plainly.
She stared at Atlanta so blankly that Atlanta wondered if her stepfather, Weston, had purchased a waxwork from Madame Tussauds without telling her. She wouldn’t put it past him. Not after he had bought a life-sized stuffed elephant to keep in his hallway last year. To check, she waved a hand in front of the woman’s face. The woman didn’t so much as blink, though her hazel eyes narrowed on Atlanta. “Can I help you, Miss Stone?”
“Are you another detective?” Her obvious ability to move and speak set Atlanta’s suspicions at ease, and she returned to the boiling kettle and the instant — awful — coffee grains in her mug. “I’ve already told them everything I know.”
“No. I work for the World Protection Group. I’m your new close protection officer.”
After becoming bored enough to watch a few of the British soap operas on television over the past few days, Atlanta recognized the woman’s broad accent to sound quite like the ones she’d heard on Coronation Street, with a thick lilt and soft, lazy vowels. Northern, then. The way it mingled with her gravelly tone wasn’t altogether unpleasant, and Atlanta couldn’t help but let an indulgent smirk curl at her lips.
She heaped a tooth-rotting amount of sugar into her coffee before throwing the spoon into the basin with a clatter. “And what’s that in English?”
“I suppose to people like you, it’s a bodyguard.”
Atlanta did not miss the way “people like you” was said, as though she were beneath her. She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, well aware of the fact that the position exposed a dangerous amount of cleavage, with only her satin nightgown protecting her bare body. She didn’t care enough to cover up with her robe. “A bodyguard?”
“Yes, miss.” The woman cast her a standoffish glance, all downturned, plump lips and clenched, square jaw. If she could have looked down her nose at Atlanta, she probably would have, but they were near enough the same height. The observation caused Atlanta to bite back a laugh of disbelief. How the hell was this woman supposed to protect her? “Your mother hired me to monitor your safety until further notice.”
