Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance (6 page)

“There’s also a package, although it’s not clear that they’re related.”

“Did you open it?”

“I was waiting for gloves. I already put my damn fingerprints all over the florists’ card,” I say.

“Welllllll….” he says. I can hear the gears grinding in his head. “If the package seems innocuous, open it. Very, very carefully, in a closed room away from other people. You see a speck of any kind of powder, you stop and leave everything on the table.”

“Got it.”

“I want reports every thirty minutes until resolution,” he fires off. He’s in full commander mode now, and it’s easy for me to fall back into the role of soldier right along with him.

“Sir,” I say by way of agreement.

“Call the manager. Actually, call the cops first, then the manager.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Get to it.”

Harv hangs up and I put my phone away, waving the hotel manager over.

“Do you have somewhere private, a small room I can use? I want to open this package but I don’t want to endanger anyone.”

“Of course. You can use my office,” she offers.

“Great. Karen? Can you stand here and secure the scene? Please call upstairs and get a status report. I want you all to turn on your comm radios, and I want five minute reports until further notice.”

Karen just nods, fishing her earpiece out of her pocket and dialing her cell phone at the same time.

“This way,” the manager says.

Ever so gently, I pick up the package. The weight and density make it feel like a book, as Karl guessed earlier. I quick-walk over to the office where the manager leads me.

“Can you close the door behind me?” I ask. “With you on the other side, no offense.”

She blanches and closes the door on me. I set down one corner of the package and unwrap it with all due caution. When I get the brown paper wrapping off, I find a copy of The Zen Guide to Motorcycle Maintenance.

What in the fuck?

I open it with two fingers, and a note falls out from where it lay pressed between the first couple of pages.

D
ear Elianna
,

I
noticed
you were stressed when I saw you last. I found that this book gave me some interesting perspective on my life, and I thought maybe it would do the same for you.

Best wishes for your tour — Craig and I will be catching a couple of the California dates. We’ll let Artisan know way ahead of time. I know you hate surprises!

X
OXO
,

M
om

I
expel a heavy breath
. This is the real deal. A questionable idea on Lacy Parsons’s part, maybe, but at least I know it isn’t laced with anthrax or ricin or something.

“For
fuck’s
sake,” I groan.

It was just bad timing. Or great timing on the stalker’s part, as it may be.

I take a minute to update Harv via text. Then I call the cops, although I decline their offer to come down. I tell them I’ll send Lawrence down to make a report, rather than draw attention to Elly’s presence in the hotel. I call the manager last, and after his initial panic I manage to talk him down.

“I’m going up to see her now,” I assure him. “Yeah, of course I’ll stay with her tonight. I’m going to let you go so I can get in the elevator.”

True to my word, I head up to her suite, right after I put Karen in charge of getting the flowers bagged up and sending Lawrence to the police station with the evidence. I check in with Bill and Thomas, the final two guards on our team, as I head to Elly’s suite. They’re standing on each side of her door, relaxed and ready.

Damn, sometimes I’m so proud to work with former soldiers
. They can execute whatever task they’re given, flawlessly and effortlessly. I see Thomas touch his ear, hear the soft squawk of his comm radio at work.

“Karen told you what’s been going down?” I ask them.

They both nod. Neither much for words, it seems.

“No need to tell you to be on alert, then.” I mean it; we don’t have to discuss whether they’ll do their job. I know they’ll control the situation.

“I’m going to stay in the suite tonight. Bill, I’d like you to station yourself downstairs on the staff’s floor. I don’t want to take any chances that this guy will strike at someone else on the tour.”

Bill’s already moving toward the stairwell.
Good man
.

I swipe my card and let myself into Elly’s suite. To my surprise, she’s still awake and back on the couch in the living room.

“Hey,” she says with a curious frown. “I can’t sleep. What’s going on outside? Thomas asked me not to leave when I tried to go down to the gym.”

I walk over to where she’s sprawled on the couch, wearing this silky white short and tank top set. Immediately, I notice that she’s not wearing anything under it; I can see her nipples standing out under the top, and I feel guilty for even looking. She doesn’t seem to notice my interest, or doesn’t say anything if she does notice. Maybe she’s just so used to people eye-fucking her all the time that it seems normal to her… which is a little sad.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get my fucking head in the game.

I clear my throat and walk over to sit in an armchair across from her.

“You got some roses,” I say, feeling strangely hesitant. Her face is so open and expressive, her gaze sleepy and relaxed. I know I’m about to ruin whatever sleep she would get tonight, but I can’t not tell her. “There’s a chance they might be from your attacker.”

Her face crumpled, amethyst eyes filling with fear and anger.

“Fuck,” she spat out.

“Pretty much. We’re not absolutely sure, but the card sure looks like a threat.” I pull up a photo of it on my phone and show it to her. “Unless this looks like an inside joke from someone you know?”

She reads it and then hands the phone back to me, fingers brushing mine as she slowly shakes her head.

“No. It’s not anyone I know.”

“I figured.”

The stalker’s presence hangs heavy in the air for almost a minute. I’m trying not to stare at Elly too hard, but I’m curious about her reaction. After a minute, she surprises me.

“Um… I’m still pretty aggravated with you,” she says. “But will you stay here tonight? On the couch, I mean.”

“Of course. I planned to anyway.”

She raises a brow, but doesn’t argue.

“I just took some melatonin to help me sleep,” she says, standing up to grab an oversized sweater that’s draped across the other end of the couch.

I try not to stare at her ass as she shrugs into it, and then I try not to be sad that she’s covered up her tits. They looked amazing in that tight, almost see-thru tank top…

“Connor?” she says.

“Huh?” I ask.

“I said I’m going to watch some trash TV. Don’t let me fall asleep out here, okay?” she asks.

“Sure.” I couldn’t care less how she chooses to cope with tonight’s news, as long as it doesn’t endanger her life. Everyone’s got to have a vice, and reality TV isn’t such a bad one.

We fall into silence, and I stare at the TV without seeing anything on the screen. I’m lost in my own fucked up thoughts instead.

I have really got to get my head screwed on straight
.

Elly Parsons is my client, a famous fucking pop star, and my
future fucking step sister
.

If that’s not enough of a reason for my perverted brain, I can think of plenty other reasons why I shouldn’t even be
looking
at her.

I can’t protect her if I’m distracted by my own lust. And even if she wasn’t out of bounds in a dozen ways, Elly could be with anyone in the world. Someone smart and accomplished and powerful, a billionaire software guru or something.

In no fucking world does Elly Parsons hook up with the fucked up ex-soldier who’s supposed to be protecting her. Even less of a chance that she lays a finger on the son of her future step-dad, that would be career suicide.

I wonder to myself if it’s mostly the forbidden fruit thing that makes me find her hot, or if it’s just that she’s got a great face and body. Usually I’m pretty good at killing my interest in a woman if she’s a bad idea. My brain works on a priority system, and I am
always
numero uno on my own list.

So why can’t I get Elly Parsons out of my fucking head?

I
’ve been
on tour with Elly for just over a week, and one question is left burning in my mind:
how the hell does she do it all?

We’re in Boston in a rented SUV, me in the front beside the driver, Elly in the back sandwiched between her ultra-polished Ken Doll of a publicist Brad and her rail-thin redheaded makeup artist Gisella. Gisella keeps shooting me flirty glances and fluttering her eyelashes, without a drop of subtlety.

I wonder if there’s a way for me to shame her into stopping without drawing Elly’s attention to the situation. Then I wonder why I’m trying to spare Elly’s feelings.

“So we’ve done the three radio interviews,” Elly says, holding up her fingers. “Someone remind me that I’m never doing Mike in the Morning again, that guy is a straight
perv
.”

“I can’t believe he grabbed your ass,” Gisella giggles, talking to Elly but glancing at me.

“He won’t be grabbing any asses anytime soon,” I inform her.

“I thought you broke his hand for a second,” Brad says, tossing his head back to jostle the lock of blond hair that always lays across his forehead.

“Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, Brad,” I say, my tone heavy with sarcasm. “Just doing my job.”

“No, no! I think it’s really selling the whole relationship angle. Mike might be a jackass, but he has a big mouth. This is going to help spread the story we’ve set up,” Brad says.

He sounds way too happy about that. I swear this guy only thinks in tabloid news headlines; I’ve already caught him on the phone with TMZ three times this week, feeding them bits of made-up gossip about Elly.

The object of Brad’s outright lies shifts in her seat, splaying her hands out over her knees as the driver takes a too-sharp turn. She leans into Brad with a laugh, and damn if Brad doesn’t look a little too pleased.

Is this guy gay or is he just playing the long game with Elly?
I wonder for the tenth time. I can’t quite puzzle Brad out, which is driving me fucking nuts.

Shit, maybe he’s some weird sexual orientation where he’s just attracted to dollar signs.

“Can we get back to today’s schedule?” Elly says. “We have a
Elle Does Athletics
event, right?”

“Yeah, in about two hours,” Brad says, consulting his phone. “Then you’re doing a meet-n-greet at the mall. Then a very, very quick photo opp with the mayor…”

“And somewhere in there you have to fit in your workout,” Gisella says, giving Elly a pointed look. “Since you went off book last night at dinner. I’m pretty sure margaritas aren’t allowed on your diet, Miss Thing.”

“I only had one!” Elly protested. “A single, small margarita.”

“No excuses!” Gisella says, poking Elly with a finger. “You’re supposed to be pop perfection, remember?”

I squint at Gisella. I’m pretty sure Gisella had about eight margaritas herself, considering that she insisted that I carry her to the SUV afterwards. She seems perfectly fine now, but this morning Gisella didn’t look so hot until after she washed down a handful of mysterious vitamins with a massive almond milk latte.

Brad, on the other hand, doesn’t drink. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him eat either. Maybe he really is a Ken Doll under those clothes and can’t piss out a pitcher of beer.

“—you need to be at the arena at six…” Brad continues ticking off the unending list of events on Elly’s schedule.

The SUV pulls up outside the hotel and I jump out first, clearing the sidewalk and then opening the door to usher everyone out, passing by me. Elly’s lips twist as she passes me, a weird quirk of amusement. I wonder if she’s thinking of the multiple arguments we’ve had about the proper way for her to get in and out of the car.

She thinks I’m being a dick, but loading and unloading a vehicle is one of the highest-risk moments for her.

For anyone, actually
—
just ask all the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan who lost limbs and lives trying to do something as simple as transport medical supplies through supposedly friendly territory
.

The thought jumps out at me, unwanted and unexpected. I left the Navy when I was twenty three, so it’s been two years and I still get these goddamned unpleasant reminders of my service.

A flashing light on the subway. The sound of a man’s shout from across a crowded street. A gust of hot air hitting me as I step into a department store in the winter. It doesn’t take much to send a familiar tingle of anticipation down my spine, make me break into a light sweat as I cringe, expecting…

Something that never happens. An IED that never hits, an air raid siren that never sounds.

“Connor,” Gisella says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Wake up, dude.”

“I’m watching that guy down the block,” I say, nodding at a guy in a trench coat. It’s not a lie, exactly. I am watching him, and he is acting very strangely. He’s not at all interested in Elly, though, so he’s not really a target.

“Oh,” Gisella says. “Well, we need to get moving.”

I close the car door and brush by her, moving up behind Elly and shadowing her as she moves into the hotel. The tour has a whole floor reserved for staff, plus Elly’s suite upstairs. Brad and Gisella get off on floor seven.

“We’ll meet you in the lobby at three, okay?” Brad tells Elly. “Don’t be late.”

“Am I ever?” Elly says, looking affronted.

“Jared isn’t going to be on tour until Chicago, so you’re going to have to get yourself to the gym,” Giselle says. “He’s whipping a Kardashian into shape.”

“Fine,” Elly says with a shrug.

“Well, he’s been texting me to make sure you’re on top of your game plan.” She reaches out and holds open the elevator door. “So you need to do at least an hour of cardio and twenty minutes of light weights. And when you eat lunch, Jared says you need to lay off the carbs. Sashimi tuna, salad greens with lemon, ice water, black tea. Okay?”

Elly’s face fell.

“Okay,” she says. I can see the bright energy she had all morning falling away.

“All right, enough,” I say, prying Gisella’s fingers from the elevator door. “I’m sure you have some work to do yourself, huh?”

Gisella makes a sour face but steps back, and the doors close in her face. It’s satisfying as fuck; I’m already tired of her backhanded compliments and pretentious bossiness.

We ride the elevator up to Elly’s floor and head for her suite. As I swipe the key card and let her into the suite, checking to make sure the room is undisturbed, a thought occurs to me.

“Hey. You should change into jeans,” I say.

Elly gives me a puzzled smile, pausing on her way to her bedroom.

“For the gym? Sounds uncomfortable.”

“Blow it off,” I say. “You have two hours to do whatever you want.”

“Oh…” she says with a frown. “I have to work out and have lunch.”

“Let’s go out for a bit,” I suggest. “I’ve seen you on stage; you dance your ass off. You’ll get your workout there. Why not go do something new while you’re free?”

She wavers for a moment. I can see the interest on her face. She’s not a dull person, but after the attack and the mystery roses last week, she hasn’t ventured outside her hotel suites except for press events and concerts.

“Is it safe?” she asks at last.

“Yeah, of course. You and me and Karen? Pshh, we can take on the zombie apocalypse if we have to,” I joke.

“Jared will be mad,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “But I haven’t eaten anything except raw tuna and salad in
days
.”

“So let’s do it,” I say. “Fuck Jared.”

Elly laughs, running a hand through her dark hair. I can’t help but think that it looks so soft. My fingertips tingle with the impulse to walk over and catch a strand. Just to find out if I’m right.

Quit being a dickhead
, I snarl at myself.

“All right,” she relents. “I don’t know anything about Boston, though. Where will we go?”

“Just get dressed,” I say.

I pull out my phone and text Alejandro, Elly’s driver, asking him to pull the car back around for us. I also notify Karen that I’m going to need her, though she’s just outside in the hall doing a passive round of duty.

Last, I contact an old buddy of mine who lives in Boston now, asking for a good recommendation. He comes through surprisingly fast with a list of great places for local food — though I won’t be considering the ‘great sushi place’ he’s offered.

I thank my friend and then pocket my phone, a mental image making me crack up a little.

I have the most perverse desire to watch Elly eat a huge cheeseburger
. She’s always so tightly controlled, by herself and everyone around her. I just want to see her shake it off, even just for a few minutes.

I want to meet Elly Parsons, human being, instead of just Elly Parsons, pop star
, I realize.
But why?

I don’t get the chance to think on it more, because Elly reappears in this short white cotton dress, with a tight denim jacket and red flats.

“I’ve never seen you out of heels,” I say, thinking aloud.

Elly actually blushes.

“My feet hurt. Is this okay?” she asks, waving her hands to indicate her outfit.

I want to say,
how in the fuck do you have to even ask that?
Instead, I just shrug.

“Sure. Comfortable is good.”

Her lips tip down at the corners for the barest second, and I realize that she thinks I insulted her. I almost compliment her, then I stop myself. I’m not trying to woo her. We’re taking a lunch break from our respective mutual jobs, end of story.

For fuck’s sake, quit staring at her fucking tits.
Then,
I am broken, I swear to fucking god.

“Whatever, let’s just get moving,” I tell her.

Disgusted by myself, I’m a little more brusque than I need to be as I get her to the SUV. I climb in the back seat with Elly, earning the briefest curious glance from Karen as she takes the front. I give Alejandro the address after searching for the restaurant on my phone.

“Where are we going?” Elly asks as the

“Just relax, will you?” I say, sliding a glance over at her.

Her lips thin and she looks away out the window, watching the old Boston brownstones pass by. I don’t mean to be an asshole, exactly, but she is too used to having her whole life laid out in hour blocks.

What’s next, what’s next, what’s next?
It’s exhausting. I’ve only been on the tour for a week and I’m already mystified as to how she even gets out of bed every day.
Must be some fat fucking paychecks to deserve that level of hustle
.

We ride in silence, and Elly doesn’t speak again until the car pulls up out front.

“Alive & Kicking Lobsters?” she reads from the sign out front. “That sounds… terrifying.”

“You really do need to learn to chill,” I tell her.

“Me?” she huffs as I climb out first and have her slide out on the sidewalk side. “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, holding out a hand to stop her from entering the restaurant, scanning the crowd first. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Umm, this?” she says with a laugh. “I know you’re doing your job, keeping me from getting murdered—”

“Don’t say that. It isn’t funny,” I grouse as we walk up to the counter. Me in front of Elly, Karen behind, Alejandro in the car with the engine running.
Just in case
.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “My point is that you must live with some really intense paranoia to even
think
like that.”

“Like what?” I ask. I pick up a laminated plastic menu and hand it to her. “My friend promises that this place has the best lobster rolls on the planet.”

“Mmmm,” she says, rolling her lower lip between her teeth as she scans the menu. “Oh god, cheese fries with lobster…”

The temptation in her eyes is too much for me to handle. I grab the menu from her and step up to the counter.

“Two lobster rolls, plus cheese fries with lobster,” I say, lifting a brow at Elly, challenging her to say a word otherwise. “And two regular Cokes.”

Her mouth forms a horrified O and I grin at her. She’s really easy to rile up, that’s for sure.
And here’s me, who absolutely loves to give people shit. It’s like candy from a baby
.

I grab the two huge sodas that the guy behind the counter hands over, and let her take the little metal placard with our order number on it.

“You were saying?” I ask as I lead her over to a rickety little plastic table.

She eyes it for a moment and then brushes her chosen seat off and sits down.

“Um. Just that you’re always looking around for a terrorist or an exit or something,” she says. “Look, you’re doing it right now!”

I blink.
Was I?

Probably.

“And?” I ask. “It’s definitely ingrained from my days in service.”

“Right,” Elly says, taking one of the Cokes. She takes a big sip and then gives me a half smile. “It’s good. I haven’t had a soda in ages, much less a full-fat one.”

“Full fat, huh?”

Her cheeks tinge with pink.

“My point was that you probably walk around thinking about violence and danger all day,” she says, pushing the Coke to the side. “Is that really so different from me thinking about work all the time?”

I watch her for a long moment, trying to decide how much I should say.

“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says, looking put off that I even asked.

“The thing is, it kind of seems like it’s not
you
that’s worried about all of it.” I shake my head. “It seems like you have all these… I don’t know,
employees
… They act like they’re your friends, and yeah you’re friend-
ly
, but they are paid to keep you in line.”

“That’s… not…” she says, then stops and scoffs. “No. I mean… Gisella and Brad are my friends.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say.” I drum the tabletop; this conversation is already getting into dangerous territory. “I mean, I don’t know, I guess it’s not my place.”

Elly’s expression goes stormy just as our food arrives. Two small lobster rolls, bread piled high with butter and seafood, plus this huge plate of fries covered with a heart attack’s worth of cheese and lobster.