Authors: Cherry Adair
Afterglow (2 page)
ONEMonte Carlo
R
and Maguire could just see the headline now:
XXX WEDDING HOLLYWOOD STARS BARE ALL!
One leak, one Tweet, one goddamned Facebook picture, and a hundred lives would be affected in ways no one could predict. The wedding had been, literally, a clusterfuck of gigantic proportions.
As security specialist to the stars, Rand’s job was to protect the celebrity guests from danger while they attended the destination nuptials of Tinseltown’s hottest young couple.
Possible hazards? Paparazzi, stalkers, ex-lovers, kidnappers. Hell, possibilities were varied and endless.
Not
on the damned list of potential threats?
Aphrodisiac.
It was barely six the morning following the reception, and forty-plus of the major players—bride, groom, immediate family—gathered in the Presidential Suite of the Monte Carlo hotel, looking to Rand for answers. Why the hell
wouldn’t
they? However one looked at it, Maguire Security was responsible for the debacle. It was Rand’s ass on the line.
The only thing he and his men had figured out in the hours since the reception was that the drug had been added to the toasting champagne. Which meant all the guests had drunk at least a few sips. Within minutes all hell broke loose as everyone lost their inhibitions in a spectacular display of unbridled lust.
Clothes were ripped open or completely off as couples screwed where they stood, lay, or sprawled on a table or chair. The sophisticated formal wedding became a sexual free-for-all. A porn-movie orgy come to life.
Rand hadn’t had enough manpower to pull everyone, humping like dogs in heat, apart. Even when his crew tried, they were fought off as if the participants had to fuck or die. Whatever the hell the drug was, he’d never seen anything like it.
It had been a hellacious and exhausting couple of hours before he and his men managed to wrangle the hundred guests to their suites and lock them in for their own safety.
It was fortunate the wedding and reception took place on this floor for security reasons. Damned fortunate that it had been contained and not in the gardens as the bride had wanted.
Working with hotel management, he had the outside phone lines blocked, called in a team of doctors to minister to the guests, and started a full-scale investigation into the why and how of it. The local authorities were going to have to be called in, he knew. But for now, he had a couple of hours, tops, to figure this out.
He paused beside one of the ornate stone pillars, his back to the breathtaking, million-dollar view of the Mediterranean beyond the closed French doors. All the better to survey the bickering mass of celebrities and elite as they debated whether to lynch him now or save the ass kicking for later when the rest of the wedding guests showed up.
“… absolutely couldn’t control myself …”
“Favorite dress …”
The guests, gathered in small, feral knots, looked no further for a scapegoat than the man paid to protect them.
Glamorous actresses had skipped hair and makeup to put in their two cents before the other guests woke up and demanded his attention. Most, still feeling the sting of embarrassment, wouldn’t meet his eyes, and those who did make eye contact didn’t hold back the anger. Or fear.
The simmering tones in the suite threatened to boil over as Rand waited for everyone to find a seat. He’d better resolve this clusterfuck
fast.
If it became known that Maguire Security allowed something like this to take place on its watch, he’d lose every top-tier client he’d spent years cultivating.
He prowled the edges of the spacious suite, its Louis XIV furniture and 18-karat gilding gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. He felt the weight and heat of a dozen pairs of eyes tracking his progress. Like a shark, he kept moving, eavesdropping on the conversations around him as he spoke quietly into his lip mic as his teams reported in.
“Anything?” he asked Walters, who was situated in the hotel security room. Like the rest of them, he and his splinter team had been at it all night, going through the hotel security videos from the previous evening. None of them had taken a break, let alone slept.
“Nothing solid yet,” Walters admitted, sounding as frustrated as Rand felt.
“Stratham and Rebik are following a lead—one of the waiters who, some-fucking-how, managed to get out before we locked everyone in,” Rand informed him as he prowled. “So far, that’s our best bet. Let’s hope to hell
that
pans out. Everyone else is accounted for.”
He headed for the buffet. The private chef had loaded the table with fruit, pastries, juices, and large pots of coffee. Clean. A day late and a dollar short, but Rand checked anyway. Not that it mattered now. The damage was done.
The cold clench in his gut had been there all night. Disaster brewing, escalating tempers threatening to erupt, and still no goddamned answers. “The natives are getting restless,” he said quietly into the mic as he scanned the restless group. “Find me something before it gets any uglier.”
“Will do, boss.”
Rand poured hot, fragrant coffee from a giant silver urn into a fragile-looking cup that barely held two swallows. He drank and filled it again, observing the milling guests behind him in the mirror over the buffet. Exhausted. Embarrassed. Pissed.
How in the hell had anyone gotten past his men to compromise security in such a spectacular way? Jesus.
Compromised
was an understatement. In this case, that was just a fucking euphemism for
catastrophe
.
Rand had achieved a certain amount of fame for his stunt work in the film industry before branching out into the security business four years ago. More balls than brains, some said. But they were wrong. He was always three steps ahead of the stunt. Yeah, he’d taken some ballsy risks, par for the course, but they were calculated risks. Back then he placed his own life on the line daily with barely a qualm. Now he was responsible for the security and well-being of clients who paid him shitloads of money to make sure they remained safe.
He’d fucked up.
He’d landed this job because his security company was one of the best. He knew the business, and he knew the players. He understood the need for safety, combined with the desire for privacy, important to celebrities, and difficult to provide. He knew how they ticked. And the current situation was a public relations nightmare for any actor, other than a porn star.
He had a lid on outside contact, so the press hadn’t got wind of what happened. Yet.
Early-morning sunlight spilled across the creamy marble floors and glinted off gilded picture frames, ancient tapestries, and plush, stylish furniture. The smell of stale perfume mixed with the heavy scent of hundreds of white hothouse roses in three-foot-high Carrara marble urns was stifling even with the air-conditioning on.
Rand was sorely tempted to fling open the doors and windows, just to get some decent air. Not that he would. All this situation needed was someone with a zoom lens or a directional mic. He had to keep a lid on Pandora’s box for as long as possible.
Walters’s voice buzzed in his ear. “Still nothing. Tover wants to know if they should come back to the hotel and help herd cats.”
“No.” Rand kept his voice low, his gaze moving around the room so he could keep track of all the players. “Cole should be back from the airport anytime now. Keep looking. One of those damn devices must’ve caught something.” He put the empty cup on one of the small tables, hoping his personal assistant was bringing more than reinforcements—what he needed was a fucking miracle.
Damn it to hell. His men were well trained and hypervigilant. How had they missed this? How had no one seen a damn thing until it was too late?
Walters rang off just as Ligg, another member of Rand’s security team, beeped in on the other line. Every team, every fifteen minutes. For all the good it was doing. Ron Ligg, with his four, had taken point on the audiovisual in Rand’s suite down the hall, a few doors away from the Presidential Suite where the reception had been held.
Armed with high-speed computers, they were going through all the data from every phone, camera, and video device confiscated from the guests the night before.
All of whom had meltdowns when told to give up their phones. His men had ultimately convinced them all that it was the only way to keep the all-too-damning evidence off the Web. Rand prayed he’d been in time. A picture was worth a thousand lawsuits… .
And just might offer a clue. “Anything useful?”
Ligg’s team was looking at every bit of footage, every image, taken between six yesterday evening, when the wedding ceremony started, and about eight, which was when all hell started breaking loose at the reception. Anything captured after the toasts at about eight fifteen would be completely useless.
Unless, Rand thought grimly, it had been filmed with blackmail in mind. Then someone was sitting on a gold mine.
“No, sir.”
“Keep looking. Record what we need and be sure you wipe the devices. Everyone gets their gear back clean.” Gut tight, Rand disconnected. He wasn’t taking any chances. He caught a brief glimpse of long red hair among the blondes and brunettes across the crowded room and felt a visceral, unwelcome clutch in his chest.
A moment later the illusion was gone, and he breathed more easily. It had been a trick of the light, a figment of his overtired imagination. He thought he’d gotten over reacting that way every time he saw a woman with that distinctive shade of red hair—but apparently not. He had more serious issues than revisiting a ghost from his past.
A dozen conversations were going on around him as he circled the room to gain a vantage point, preferably far from sharp objects and projectiles. As he moved, he felt the weight of collective gazes on his back, as if the guests were sighting collectively down a rifle scope.
“… but God help me, I was
willing
. More than willing!”
The back of his neck prickled—a sure sign of danger—as he passed the bride and groom sitting together on a sofa. The only danger left in this room was the fallout and repercussions from what transpired the night before. But he trusted that itch.
The danger was real and present, and while maintaining a calm façade, inside Rand was coiled and braced for the attack.
He saw his assistant, Cole Phelps, by the suite door. Ex-military, Phelps had ears that stuck out from his short sandy-blond hair, typical jarhead style. His square jaw and even brown eyes tended to project reliability—exactly what Maguire Security needed. At a fairly tame five eight, athletic rather than bulky, his physique wasn’t what made him a good security specialist. The man had a head for details—facts, plans, organization. He was Rand’s right-hand man.