A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2) (5 page)

“Exactly!” Pride fills me, making it hard not to touch her right now. Public appearances have to be maintained, though.

“And when this is over, you’re helping me to escape.”

“Huh?”

“You said so.” Triumph fills her voice.

“...daughter, Lindsay!” Harry’s giving us a smile that looks so sincere, but under those friendly eyes he’s saying,
Get your ass on stage
.

Lindsay peels away from me and walks with great confidence into her father’s arms, fluid as a gazelle, graceful and confident. The crowd claps politely, a few catcalls and hollers a bit much.

A quick kiss on Monica’s cheeks and the two women wrap their arms around each other’s waists, staring adoringly at Senator Bosworth, who begins the true speech of the night.

“I stand before you tonight as a proud Californian and a United States senator...”

My attention stays on Lindsay at all times, body tense yet loose, ready to jump into action whenever needed. Paulson and Gentian are scanning the crowd. My team knows what Stellan, John and Blaine look like, but there’s no way they’d actually be here. They wouldn’t do their own dirty work. Not now. Too much to lose.

Whoever they send to try to hurt Lindsay is going to be an unknown. And I suspect they won’t be so blatant. Not their style. This cat-and-mouse texting game is more their speed. In the fight between the mindfuck and overt physical violence, they’ll take the mindfuck every time.

Harry stands on stage looking and sounding presidential. Only the security team can look at Lindsay and see what’s wrong. Her body’s angled just so against her mother, leaning for support. Monica’s shouldering it, but her eyes reflect a level of irritation Lindsay will pay for later.

Attagirl.

Get through this. You can do it.

As Harry’s voice takes on the stronger, firmer tone that comes with whipping the crowd into a rhetorical frenzy, I see Lindsay relax. This is the downhill. Like riding a bike up a killer mountain, Lindsay is aching, screaming for relief, and now she’s crested, the rest of the speech smooth sailing. I see her move an inch away from Monica, her shoulders squared, her body language morphing.

I got this, her body says.

I got it.

“When I am your president, I will...” Harry’s refrain generates shockwaves from the crowd, my earpiece exploding with noise, men reporting in to announce suspicious backpacks, people hovering at entrances, and the small accumulation of oddities that come with public events. None of them are noteworthy, nothing that rises to the level where I need to intervene.

Dotted throughout the crowd are supporters with clusters of balloons, red white and blue for the colors of the American flag. Balloon bunches rise up from the legs of the crowd in what is clearly a coordinated effort. It gives the stadium a whimsical look.

Harry makes a final statement, then two staffers walk on stage to hand Monica and Lindsay respective bunches of flowers.

Lindsay begins to sway on stage as she’s handed her bundle. Something’s off. Monica’s fine, taking her batch of white roses dotted with blue and red carnations, but Lindsay is holding hers like it’s a bunch of live snakes. The colors are different. Her smile fades, the panic in her eyes running down her face as she looks up above the crowd.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bunch of multi-colored balloons lifting, letting go and allowed to float above the masses. It’s a group of three balloons.

The colors match the flowers in Lindsay’s hands.

Blue.

Red.

Purple.

The same color as the scarves those bastards used to bind her four years ago.

M
onica’s smile
doesn’t even falter. Only her right eye twitches slightly as Lindsay stares at the bunch of flowers, head tipped down now, not looking out at the crowd with her agreed-upon performance smile.

And then the corners of Lindsay’s mouth spread wide. I see it before she looks up, and as the stage lights catch her face in slow motion, she comes up grinning.

It’s practically homicidal.

From a distance, though, you can’t tell the difference between a super-exuberant, vibrant young woman and a woman who is ready to commit murder.

But
I
can.

Lindsay walks right past Monica, her eyes staring out at the thousands who cheer, confetti and balloons in the air now, the tri-colored balloon bunch lost into the cavernous ceiling of the auditorium.

She holds the bouquet of flowers high above her head. I follow her at the side of the stage and tell my guys at the edge of the front row to get ready.

The flowers launch as she throws them into the crowd, then looks right out at dead center, her palm pressed to her lips, throwing the crowd a big kiss.

Euphoric cacophony erupts.

And then she turns around and walks into the waiting arms of her father.

That was as close as Lindsay could get to giving Stellan, Blaine and John the middle finger in public.

“Track down the source of Lindsay’s flowers and the red, blue and purple bunch of balloons in the crowd,” I snap to Gentian.

“Yes, sir. Need lockdown?”

“No. Damn it, we can’t risk the PR mess. Just get a fast handle on who was where. Review video. Front of stage, center, first row area is where I saw the balloons. Same area where Lindsay threw her bouquet.”

I skate through the thick crowds behind stage, knowing I have to get back to Lindsay, wondering what I’ll find.

“Drew?” It’s Paulson.

“What?”

“Balloons held by a stoner. Said ‘some dude’ handed him a fifty to walk in and release the balloons.”

“It’s always ‘some dude,’” I mutter.

“Wish I had better news.”

“Cameras outside where the stoner met the culprit?”

“Probably not. Said it was two blocks away.”

“Check anyway.”

“Got it.”

A wall of wavy blonde hair attached to the same dress Lindsay wore catches my eye. Monica is on the other side of her, eyebrows turned down, face otherwise hard as stone.

And just as expressive.

“What are you talking about, Lindsay? Colors?”

That’s all I need to hear.

“Monica, the attackers are harassing Lindsay again. First cutting the brake line, then a series of harassing texts, and today they upped the ante.” I whisper this into her ear, breathing in the heady scent of her spicy perfume, like cinnamon mixed with copper.

She jolts, then tenses. “No press leak?”

“None. We’re careful.”

Her shoulders relax. “Good. Maybe Harry didn’t make a mistake hiring you, after all.”

She walks away.

Lindsay’s been watching our conversation with keen eyes. “I’m fine, Mom,” she says in a falsetto voice. “Thanks for asking. No, no, don’t shower me with so much concern.”

It’s a tough day for everyone. I start to say that, then stop myself.

Because it’s hardest of all on Lindsay.

“Paulson’s working on locating the people who provided the flowers and balloons,” I say as we walk rapidly to the back doors where the SUV’s waiting for us. I see Gentian with Monica, escorting her out to meet up with Harry for post-announcement press junkets.

We’ve been ordered to take Lindsay back to The Grove. She’s not allowed to be interviewed.

Strict orders.

“Tonight was a success!” Lindsay says in a fake, breathy voice. “From the senator’s perspective, the moment was a triumph. Lindsay didn’t spew green soup, a sniper didn’t pick off Harry, and Monica was having a perfect hair day.”

“Lindsay.”

“I wish I could drink myself into oblivion.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because everything I’m trying to escape will still be here in the morning.”

“Does that include me?”

She says nothing.

I regret the question instantly.

“Sir?” Gentian speaks into my earpiece. “Texts confirmed from a new phone purchased with Lindsay’s credit card.”

Damn it. “Same store?”

“No.”

“Research any similarities between this purchase and the last one. We need to figure this out.”

“Yes, sir.”

A familiar dread tickles the back of my neck, dragging along my spine.

Inside job?

Is someone on Senator Bosworth’s staff – or God help me, my own – doing this to Lindsay?

“Can you think of anyone on the household staff or your father’s staff who would set you up like this?”

“Aside from you?”

“Not funny.”

“Not kidding.”

“You seriously think that I’m making it look like you cut your own brake line, bought the phones that are sending you threatening texts, and paid off some guy in the crowd to bring in colored balloons that matched your flower bouquet, all while being in charge of your private security?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Jesus, Lindsay!” My pulse skyrockets. “If you really think any of that
is
within the realm of possibility, you need to talk to your father and mother. Have me taken off the case. I’ll quit right now. You never have to see me again.” It hurts to say that.

She jolts.

“Good riddance. Because I can’t work with someone who suspects me of that level of mindfucking sabotage.”
I can’t be in love with one, either.

She just shrugs.

“Gentian!” I snap into my mouthpiece. “You and Paulson are in charge. I’m out.”

Fury turns my vision a cold white as I find the nearest Exit sign. Paulson appears to my right as Lindsay opens her mouth to say something.

I storm away, crashing through the metal double doors into the blinding sun, unable to think or feel. The world inside is nothing but fuzz. Outside, everything lives in stark, crisp clarity. Sound and touch and taste and wind and car exhaust and everything blends.

I walk and breathe. Walk and breathe. Curse and fume. Curse and fume until I’m in my black SUV and pull out my laptop.

“She fucking thinks I’m setting her up. She –
what
?” I mutter to myself, fingers flying on the keyboard as I open programs I hope the NSA doesn’t know exist. The looming threat of Stellan, Blaine and John is like a thundercloud that builds and builds, twisting into a tornado high in the sky.

Filled with sharks.

I snort at the image. It’s not funny. Nothing about any of this is funny. But we made it through the senator’s announcement and all I know is that those assholes from our past are out there, playing a cat-and-mouse game that I need to control.

And fast.

Lindsay’s little darknet contact has been feeding her information all along. She knew more than she let on. How deceptive has she been this whole time? Has she been playing the innocent while double-crossing me?

And why?

If you know the
why
in a given mystery, you can figure out the
how
.

Why would Lindsay keep all this knowledge under wraps? Why did she tap into someone using the darknet in the first place?

But more important:

Why is this person helping her?

And how reliable are they?

If she’s trusted every scrap of information this person has fed her while they’ve worked together, then she could be in even more danger than I realized. Bet it never occurred to her that her contact could be a plant.

Someone Stellan, John and Blaine set up to screw with her.

Tap tap tap.

I look up to find Lindsay glaring at me through the tinted window, with Gentian behind her, rolling his eyes.

I ignore her.

“Drew!” she shouts. “Don’t make me make a scene!”

There is a crowd of media behind her, cameras pointed at different angles so the talking heads can get their ninety-second clips. If she draws their attention by yelling more, this victory could quickly turn to defeat.

Setting the laptop aside, I snap the door open and grab her wrist, pulling her into my lap. Gentian closes the door quickly, turns around, and leans his back against the window.

Good man.

I can smell the anxiety pouring off her skin, her body stone cold and trembling at the same time, oddly still, yet buzzing. Her skirt hikes up and the thin triangle of cotton from her panties reveals itself between her thighs.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouts. We’re in the passenger seat, which is pushed all the way back, and she’s wriggling, her long hair in my face.

I wrap my arms around her and tighten them. She can’t leave.

I won’t let her.

“You want to talk to me?” I say dryly.

“Not like this!”

“Talk.”

“Let me go!”

“Let you go
where
?”

“I can sit in the driver’s seat.” But she’s slowing down, settling into my lap. One heel from her shoe digs into my shin, but I don’t care. She smells like fear and sugar.

Lindsay is the only woman who does this to me.

Drives me up a fucking wall and makes me want to hold her for eternity.

“Whatever you’ve been doing on the darknet needs to stop, Lindsay.”

“Oh, God. Another lecture.”

“It’s my job. And you didn’t deny it.”

“Your job is to protect me. My mom’s job is to lecture me. Are you my mom now?”

“If you have mistaken me for Monica, you have more serious issues than I’d ever imagined.”

A reluctant snort comes out of her. She calms in my arms, then slumps her shoulders with a sigh. “Do I have to sit in your lap for this conversation?” She wriggles her ass against me. “It’s getting uncomfortable.” Her eyes meet mine and she smirks.

Damn it.

I run my hand along the lines of her arm, tight with muscle and a little too thin. She’s dropped weight since she went to the Island. Four years changed her. She’s gorgeous in every way possible, but the worry lines in her forehead make me want to steal her away. Remove her from this gigantic mess.

My job, though, is to keep her right in the middle of it all.

Keep her safe.

She moves out of my lap without words, her ass suddenly in my face as she crawls over the console to get into the driver’s seat.

“Nice view.”

“Shut up.”

Her thighs slide against mine, her legs bare and tan, smooth as spun silk. Blood pounds through me, rushing with a massive tingle to every pore in my body. I tense. If she doesn’t get her skin away from me in about two seconds, I’ll end up kissing her in here.

And I can’t do that.

I can’t do that because it wouldn’t be just one kiss.

And going at it with Lindsay in a tinted SUV limo in front of a hundred media outlets is the very definition of
not
doing my job.

Lifting one knee, she moves, her panties in my face. I close my eyes, thinking about baseball scores, Jabba the Hut, Monica – anything to get this raging hard on under control.

“Foster?” someone barks in my earpiece. “Paulson here. Gentian says you have Lindsay?”

“Yes.”

“One of the scarves is present.”

All the passion in my blood is instantly replaced with a cunning rage designed for battlefields.

“Copy. Track him. Anywhere near us?”

“No. But he’s shaking hands with the senator.”

“Fuck.

“Who is it?”

“Blaine Maisri. From what I overheard, he’s here to congratulate the senator on his presidential run. They’re talking about him making a run for Senator Bosworth’s old House seat. Something about Nolan Corning helping with the campaign?”

“Copy.” Nolan Corning? That’s Harry’s biggest rival in the party. It’s widely believed Corning’s going to run in the primary, too, against Harry. Why would Corning back
Blaine
of all people for Harry’s old House seat?

I can’t focus on the intrigue right now.

The SUV is tiny. If Lindsay has good ears, she heard most of that. Knows that Blaine is right here.

I look at her.

She meets me with eyes the size of saucers. “Blaine,” she whispers, her voice filled with terror.

“Track him. I’ll get Lindsay out of here.”

“Will do.”

“We need to trade places,” I snap at Lindsay. She starts to open the door. I reach across her and grab her hand.

“Not like that, Lindsay. Cross over me.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you getting out of the car.”

“Who is ‘scarf’?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“It’s a code name.”

“Yes.”

She frowns, then her entire face morphs into a mask of rage. “You call them all ‘scarf’? Seriously? Whose sick idea was that for a code name?”

I ignore that. She doesn’t need to know that her own mother came up with the name.

“Sir.” It’s Gentian. “Senator Bosworth wants you back in here.”

“He what?”

“Wants you back in here. Now. He’s talking with the scarf.”

“Is he in danger?”

“No, sir.”

I gave Lindsay a hard look. “Stay here.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I’m not going to debate that. Let’s just say I can.” I climb out of the SUV before she has a chance to reply. Gentian’s back is still pressed against the door.

“Keep her in there. I don’t want her seeing any of the scarves.” Hell, a part of me doesn’t want to see Blaine, either.

Another part can’t fucking wait.

“Yes, sir.”

“Gentian, get a confirmation on all hallways or corners not covered by video camera.”

“Jones already did, sir. The small alcove between the bathrooms and the loading dock has a tiny portion that isn’t covered by the angle of either camera in that area. It’s a dead zone of about six feet wide, right in front of a labor law sign.”

“Got it.”

I march back into the backstage area and my guys guide me, through glances and microgestures the average person wouldn’t notice, until I take a deep breath before turning a corner, knowing what I’ll see.

Harry, chatting with Blaine Maisri.

My mouth spreads into a smile that never, ever comes close to reaching my eyes.