CHAPTER TWO
Eighteen months later
N
ATE
MARKED
THE
BLONDE
as a potential stalker the moment she walked poolside on Hotel Hollywood’s rooftop garden where rocker Zander Freedman’s party raged with its usual excess.
For a start she wasn’t conscious of being observed—not a trait of any of the celebrity guests here. And she was nervous. Despite the cool way she lifted her chin as she walked through the throng, she clutched her purse tightly. Damn it, the bag was large enough to conceal a weapon.
He couldn’t read her eyes. She wore shades that dwarfed her face, but her exposed arms were too pale for a local and the simple blue halter sundress was department store, not designer. After a year in the service of the rich and famous Nate could tell the difference. And though she seemed as pretty—and as skinny—as any anorexic starlet, the boobs were real. His gaze dropped to her feet. Serviceable sandals and unpainted toenails in a place where everyone was buffed, polished, gleaming, manicured, pedicured, tautened...hell…a couple even had butt implants.
He glanced at the other security detail to see if she’d triggered their radar. Luther and Jake were doing a perimeter check; Andrew had been waylaid by an older movie actress, known for her penchant for muscle. And judging by the twenty-two-year-old’s starstruck expression, he wasn’t unhappy about it. With a pang, Nate remembered a time when he’d been part of a team he could rely on. “Don’t party with clients,” he growled into his mouthpiece and Andrew jumped guiltily.
As a line of waiters simultaneously popped the corks on twelve bottles of Krug champagne, the blonde paused by the ice sculpture of an electric guitar, its strings dripping in the Los Angeles heat. Waving away the waitress who approached her with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, she scanned the crowd with the single-minded intensity Nate recognized as that of a rabid fan.
Casually he stepped closer to his employer, currently holding court by the guardrail, a cigar in one hand, a tumbler of Grey Goose vodka in the other. A rock icon with a genius for marketing, Zander was fresh off a season of a hit reality show where Rage’s lead singer had cast new band members for his comeback tour.
Unfortunately the show had also increased his quota of crazies.
Swinging his attention back to the blonde, Nate caught her staring in their direction. Probably harmless, just wanted to ask Zander to father her babies. Or hear her sing.
Or she could be like the fan who’d shot John Lennon.
She swallowed hard, tucked a loose strand of long hair behind her ear then started walking toward them. He strode forward to intercept her through the olfactory blanket of expensive perfumes, lotions and liquor, today leavened with chlorine and… Nate took another whiff. Surely even Zander’s crowd wasn’t arrogant enough to smoke marijuana at a public event? He’d check that out next.
“Ma’am?” With a polite smile, Nate stopped in front of the blonde and lifted his mirrored aviator shades so she could read in his eyes that he meant business. “Can I see your invitation?” Instead, she reached out a hand. Lightning fast he caught her slender wrist, registering the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers.
“Nate,” she said in a New Zealand accent. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Shocked, he dropped her wrist as if he’d been burned. “Claire,” he croaked then took a deep breath to steady his voice. “What are you doing here?”
But he knew. With Steve dead, they needed to appoint a third trustee for her family trust. Nate thought of the papers sitting in his study while he psyched himself up into finally dealing with them and cursed his procrastination.
His best friend’s widow lifted her sunglasses, and he braced himself for the accusation he knew was coming. But her blue eyes held only affection…and empathy. He forced himself not to flinch. “Can I have a hug first?” she said.
“Of course.” His arms were leaden as he embraced her. “How are you?”
“Jet-lagged.” If Claire noticed his reluctance she was ignoring it. “I dumped my bags off at your condo. Or, rather, your neighbor’s. She was in her garden, fortunately. I tracked your location through that celebrity-locator website. Technology must really make your job harder.”
“Yeah.” She was expecting to stay with him? He broke into a cold sweat under his black Burberry suit. “But how the hell did you talk your way in?”
“I said you were my brother,” Claire confessed cheerfully, “and that we had a family emergency. And I showed them this.” She opened her handbag and retrieved a snapshot. He glanced at it, unprepared for the pain that swept over him. It had been taken three years earlier, shortly after Nate and Claire had gone halves in
Heaven Sent.
In the photo, the three of them stood in front of the dilapidated fishing vessel, Claire in the middle. Steve had just suggested renaming the boat
They Saw Us
Coming
and they were all laughing into the camera.
Nate dropped it back into her bag. “You should never have got through security,” he rasped.
“You could at least pretend to be pleased to see me. I’ve come halfway across the world to get you.”
“Get me?”
“Only for a few days.”
He had to nip this in the bud right now. “Claire, Zander’s going on tour next week. I can’t come home right now.”
“
Rolling Stone
magazine said it doesn’t kick off until next month.”
“Yeah, but we fly out early to set up,” he lied. “I’d lose my job. Look, I’ll sign those papers you sent through a while back. You can take them home with you. And of course I’ll reimburse you for your flights.”
“Unfortunately it’s no longer that simple.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice.
“Hang on…Luther?” He spoke into his mic. “Cover Zander for me for a couple minutes.”
The receiver crackled. “Got it.”
Cupping Claire’s elbow, he steered her into the shade, away from the curious glances of the polished and indiscreet guests mingling nearby. “Fill me in.”
“I have a buyer for the house.”
“You’re selling?”
She nodded. “And I need you to sign the transfer of ownership. If you come home for a few days then we can complete the documentation very quickly. I can’t afford the sale to fall through.”
His frown deepened. “Are you in financial trouble?”
“No, but I need more capital to fast-track the boat upgrade so she’s ready for November.”
“Okay, now you’ve really lost me.”
“Before the broadbill and striped marlin arrive? And the snapper numbers take a leap.” She smiled. “So to speak.”
He looked at her blankly.
“My new fishing charter venture?” she prompted. “It was all in my offer for your share of the boat, Nate.”
He hadn’t even opened the last envelope. His face heated.
Her smile grew a little tight. “Just as well I jumped on a plane, huh?”
“Claire, I’m sorry. Things are so busy here.” Lame, even to his ears.
“You don’t have to make excuses,” she said quietly. “Not to me. Everyone has their own method of grieving and if yours is avoiding your friends for a while…I get that.” She took a deep breath. “But I can’t keep sitting in limbo. With Steve dead and you living overseas, the trust isn’t working anymore. I want to break it, put everything back in my name. All I need is a few days. Can’t you spare me that?”
His Italian tie suddenly felt too tight. “We’ll find another way,” he said, loosening it.
“There isn’t another way.” For the first time she sounded impatient. “If I lose the buyer I won’t have the money to upgrade
Heaven Sent.
Without the upgrade I’ll miss this sports-fishing season. I’ve given up my job—”
“You’ve already quit your job?” Claire was marketing manager for a boutique hotel in Whangarei. She was diving into a risky prospect without a lifeline.
But she was looking past him with an expression that told him exactly who was behind him. His boss had a shark’s instinct for drama. Nate turned. Pushing forty, Zander Freedman looked ten years younger, which was no surprise since Nate knew he spent most mornings at treatment clinics.
His famous face was tanned and taut with cosmetic surgery under a full head of implant-enhanced hair. His silk T-shirt had been custom made to hang loose over his slight paunch and cling to the biceps he was inordinately proud of.
“Claire, this is—”
“I know who he is.” Smiling warmly, Claire held out her hand, and Nate sensed Zander’s interest. Great, just great. “I’m Claire Langford from New Zealand, an old friend of Nate’s. I have to apologize for crashing your party, but I wanted to surprise him.”
Nate narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. She’d known he’d have made excuses if she’d given him warning.
“Langford?” Zander’s forehead wrinkled as much as the Botox would allow. “Nate, isn’t that the name of an army buddy from the ambush?” The rocker was a military-history nut and Nate’s Special Forces background, specifically the heroism award at the end of his career, had cinched this job.
“My husband, Steve, was one of the two men who died,” Claire answered.
“Shit,” Zander said. “Then you’ll need a drink.” Claire blinked and he added, “It works a whole lot better than sympathy.”
For all his skewed worldview, the rocker got some things right.
She smiled. “Thank you, I do want to move on.” Her gaze returned to Nate’s. “Which is why I’m here.”
“Then let’s toast to new beginnings.” Zander snapped his fingers and a waiter materialized with a tray. A crystal tumbler of Grey Goose stood out from the tall flutes of Krug, the champagne’s straw-colored bubbles sparkling in the sun’s last blaze before sunset. Zander dumped his empty tumbler and picked up the full one. Then handing Claire a flute, he gestured for Nate to take a glass. “C’mon, buddy, break your bodyguard code for once, hey? This is a special occasion.”
Grimly, Nate accepted a drink, hoping Claire didn’t read this as a concession. They all chinked glasses. “You know my brother, Devin, married a New Zealander,” Zander told Claire. “A frickin’ librarian. That woman can give you a paper cut just by looking at you. All you Kiwi chicks that tough?” He chuckled because she looked as fragile as bone china.
Until you noticed her eyes—Viking blue.
Lowering her lashes, she inquired politely, “Is your brother rejoining Rage?” The rocker paused midswig. He expected everyone to know everything about him. “I’ve been out of circulation,” Claire added, obviously realizing her mistake.
“Oh, sure.” Zander grew magnanimous. “Let me bring you up to date with what I’ve been doing.” As he expanded on his favorite subject, Nate watched Claire. When had she gotten Hollywood thin? And her smile was overcast with a fatigue that went beyond jet lag. He drained his champagne.
“How’s Lewis?” he asked abruptly, interrupting Zander midflow.
“He’s become a troublemaker,” she said.
“Excellent.” Zander glanced between them. “Now, who the hell is Lewis?”
“My thirteen-year-old son.”
“I lost my virginity at thirteen.” Zander savored his vodka. “She was seventeen, worked at Dairy Queen, which was pretty apt, because she was stacked. The sex was all over in seconds, of course.” He grinned at Claire. “I’ve improved since then.”
She laughed.
Nate frowned. Even married women weren’t safe around Zander. Widows. She was widowed. His earpiece crackled into life. “Nate, got some trouble quadrant four,” Luther rumbled. “I’ve sent Andrew to cover Zander.”
“I’ll be right there. I’m wanted,” he said to Claire. “Let’s organize a driver to take you to my house.”
“No hurry.” Zander put an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll look after her.”
Nate hesitated. Telling the rocker to behave would only make him act more outrageously. He nodded to Claire. “I won’t be long.” Then he strode over to the far corner of the deck where Luther towered over the skinny self-proclaimed successor to Eminem.
JT Trigga held a joint in one hand and his date’s booty in the other. Behind them, the rapper’s bodyguards—all tatts, glares and bling—jostled like linebackers. “If you give it to me, sir,” Luther was saying in his deep, calm voice, “I’ll dispose of it for you.”
“Yeah, I bet you will.” JT Trigga blew a smoke ring in Luther’s face. “Chill, cuz, it’s only Mary Jane.” He spotted Nate. “Tell your boy, here, to turn a blind eye.”
“We can’t do that today, JT.” Nate summoned a regretful look. “Not in public. I’m sorry.” Before the rapper could argue, he flicked the joint out of the man’s fingers and ground it out under the heel of his shoe.
“This ain’t no party,” JT complained. “It’s a suck-up to the press.… Zee’s sellin’ out. Where is he…? I’m gonna tell him.”
This son of a bitch wasn’t going anywhere near Claire. Nate glanced at the rapper’s bodyguards, all thugs, not an ounce of professionalism amongst them and probably carrying more metal than they were licensed for. And the girlfriend was clearly underage. “Zander’s tied up right now,” he said smoothly, “but he asked me to introduce you to Vince Rutledge.” Ruthlessly, he sacrificed the renowned music journalist from
Rolling Stone.
JT brightened. He had a new album pending. “Yeah?”
“Except your entourage will have to stay here. We don’t want to crowd him. Your daughter, too.”
“My what?”
Nate returned a blank look. “Not your daughter?” He hesitated. “Okay, maybe we’ll tee up another time. You know how Zander feels about jailbait.”
The rapper stiffened, and inwardly Nate cursed his slipup. Claire’s presence had unsettled him. He winked. “He’ll be jealous.”
JT relaxed. “Give her cab money,” he said to his boys.
The teenager started to complain, but Luther took her by the arm. “Let me organize that for you, ma’am.”
“You boys relax, enjoy yourselves,” Nate suggested to the entourage. He and Luther had rescuing underage damsels down to a fine art. “We’ll cover your boss.… Follow me, JT.”
He foisted the rapper onto a reluctant Vince, then organized a ride for Claire and went to fetch her. He needed time to come up with a fix that would get him off the hook. He’d do anything for her—except go home.