Page 1 of Forbidden Confessions, Volume 2 (The Forbidden Volumes #1)

Arlington, Texas

Sophie

T his morning is already hotter than the underside of Hades, but it’s also Independence Day.

My agent, David, insisted that hometown-girl-made-good appearing in one of the biggest parades in Texas is an effective grassroots way to spread the word about my new single and upcoming album, so here I am.

Besides, I’ve traveled the globe for the better part of a dozen years.

It’s comforting to spend a day near home, surrounded by the smell of smoking brisket and the sight of people waving Old Glory.

“Ten minutes,” David proclaims as he sticks his head into the little bathroom at the back of one of the shops at the top of the parade route.

Of course he’s wearing a suit, despite the fact it’s already a hundred degrees. And he looks impeccable doing it. The man is a stickler.

“Thanks.” I check my red lipstick in the dingy mirror.

This is as good as it’s going to get. My sparkling red minidress is an attention-getting showstopper, but the Stars-and-Stripes stilettos really command a double take. I feel a bit like USO Barbie…who suddenly decided to walk a street corner.

Then again, it matches my new image. Gone is my squeaky-clean child-star persona.

Now I’m an adult —and David never misses an opportunity to remind people that puberty hit me hard and fast by dressing me in things that cling to my ass and show off the fact I very definitely have boobs.

It’s annoying…but I can’t argue with the results. It’s working.

I’m just not sure I care anymore.

Another problem for another day .

“I’m ready,” I tell him as I hide my liquid lipstick in my cleavage.

When I look up from tucking the tube between my breasts, there’s a stranger beside David, towering over me and watching my every move. I would feel ridiculous…but with a glance, he knocks out my breath and steals my good sense.

Holy sex drive! I have no idea who this guy is or why he’s here, but he’s as gorgeous as a god, with shoulders almost as wide as the doorframe.

His dark eyes are like midnight. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs the bulges of his biceps and exposes tattooed sleeves down both arms. Black denim and black boots complete the look.

He’s going to swelter in today’s heat…but he’ll look damn fine doing it.

The more I stare, the more my pulse kicks up like I’ve just sprinted a mile in this heat. There’s a flutter low in my belly that has nothing to do with pre-show nerves.

“Hi,” I say stupidly.

He nods. “Ms. Larsen.”

David intervenes. “This is Rand Garrison, your security detail for the parade.”

The name fits him—hard, blunt, almost brutal. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” he murmurs.

The word doesn’t sound like a mere pleasantry. This man isn’t the sort to bother with silly things like decorum or etiquette. I’ve met his type before—very serious and convinced he’s one of the few who stand between order and anarchy in this dangerous world.

His gaze drops to my mouth for just a heartbeat before snapping back to my eyes, and I catch the slightest tightening around his jaw. Is he…noticing me? Not as a public figure; I get that a lot. But as a woman?

“Where’s Rob?” I ask about my usual security detail.

“Tossing his cookies like he’s doing a reenactment of The Exorcist. So you’ll spend the day with Rand, former Marine and most recently a Dallas SWAT captain. Any questions?”

For a two-hour lip-synching gig? “No.”

“Great.” David claps his hands together impatiently. “You look fetchingly patriotic. Shake what God gave you for Uncle Sam, and you’ll do great. I’ll be waiting for you at the end of the route with Graham.”

Graham Normoth, the new British pop sensation with a velvety voice and sensitive face. Women all over the globe swoon and scream for him. Probably because they don’t actually know him as a human being.

“He’s here?”

“He flew in last night. He wanted to surprise you…but jet lag and traffic and whatnot. He told me he can’t wait to see you after the parade.”

“Oh, great.” I do my best to sound chipper, but I’m pretty sure David knows I’m not happy.

“And Rand?” David raises a golden brow at my temporary bodyguard with an expression I can’t quite read. “I trust you’ll take excellent care of our girl here.”

“I’ll guard her with my life.” Rand steps back and into the glow of overhead lights.

He’s even more striking. The wide diagonal scar through his left eyebrow that skipped over his eye and sliced its way down his cheek before stopping short of his mouth only gives him a sexier edge.

Ironically, when he gestures me out of the doorway and into a deserted hall, I find myself gawking like I’m the fan staring at a heartthrob.

David hangs back, watching Rand settle an enormous, furnace-hot hand on my naked skin above the backless dress’s scooped edge. He smiles.

What are you up to?

I don’t have time to ask before Rand hustles me out of the little shop and guides me down the back of the parade route, flanking me as he escorts me to my waiting float, all while maintaining his palm on my bare back. It’s all I can do not to shiver at his touch.

“Do you know where I’m supposed to go?” I ask to cut the tension.

“Yes.”

“Do you know the parade route?”

“Yes.”

“Did David arrange for you to ride the float with me?” It’s a must since I’ve had a few unnerving incidents over the last couple of years.

“Yes.”

Clearly, Rand Garrison isn’t a talker.

“Anything else I should know?”

“No.”

Rand watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

He’s probably the most attractive man I’ve ever met—and that’s saying something—but I have no proof he has anything beyond professional interest in me.

Between the people I meet in this business and the internet, I get propositioned a lot.

I’m rarely tempted. Now that I might be… he’s not. Just my luck.

It doesn’t matter. After today, I’ll never see this guy again. I just need to perform for the next couple of hours and get on with my life.

“I’m sorry you got stuck babysitting a pop princess today. I’m sure you have more dangerous things to worry about.”

Around us, people finish the last-minute details for their floats and their accompanying performances. Rand turns watchful. Tense. He looks at everything and everyone with suspicion. “I don’t.” He pauses. “You’re not what I expected.”

Something in the way he says it makes me wonder what he means, but before I can ask, his attention shifts back to scanning the thickening crowd.

He’s on the job, and he takes work seriously. I get it. I’m still nervous before the start of every gig, too… But he acts as if every minute could be life or death. Then again, in his world it might.

“I appreciate you putting up with me in the crowd and this heat.”

He doesn’t reply until we reach the float.

Then he fits his hands around my waist, his palms spanning almost the entire width of my torso, and lifts me onto the float like I weigh nothing.

For a moment I’m suspended in his grip, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine.

My hands instinctively flatten against his chest for balance, and the muscle beneath his shirt is granite-hard.

“You making it to the end in one piece is thanks enough.”

Suddenly, he’s beside me on the float, a red, white, and blue spectacular celebrating America’s past and future with a pair of flags and a stage between them. Once he hands me up to the platform, I’m surrounded by a troupe of dancers in patriotic costumes.

Rand positions himself behind them, doing his best to blend into the background, but he still stands out.

This dress leaves no room for my phone, and I can’t wear a watch with this getup, but from the crowd and the flurry of activity, I surmise it’s nearly time.

Frowning, I glance around for the microphone prop that’s supposed to be waiting. Finally I spot it, then take the familiar shape in hand.

A middle-aged woman dashes by and looks up at me, clipboard in one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. “Thanks for joining us today, Ms. Larsen. It’s an honor. Are you ready?”

“Thanks for inviting me. I am.”

“Don’t forget, when you cross that intersection there”—she points—“your music will begin. You’ll sing for that block and part of the next, then your music will drop off. All you have to do after that is smile and wave until your float rounds the last corner.”

I haven’t done a ton of parades, but I’ve played arenas all over the world. This should be a piece of cake. “I understand.”

The woman stops looking harried long enough to smile at me. “Really, thanks for doing this. Our parade is always popular, but you coming back to your hometown today with us has probably tripled our spectators. We’re so excited!”

“I’m happy to be here.” The good food, the community atmosphere, and the friendly people all remind me why I miss Texas.

The organizer moves on, and the humid air stands absolutely still as I wait, wishing I could get my long hair off my shoulders and claw off at least half the makeup the stylist put on me less than an hour ago.

It seems like forever before the parade begins and the floats in front of me lurch forward, crawling down the parade route. Then mine follows suit, dragging across the black asphalt. The heat is oppressive, shimmering off the road in waves under the pounding sun.

I look down at Rand, standing silent and stoic, feet apart, hands at his sides. Coiled tension pings off of him. There’s nothing restful about the man.

It’s almost as if he’s expecting trouble.

But I can’t ask why because the crowd is too loud and we’re quickly approaching the intersection that will mark the beginning of my music piped through the overhead speakers.

So I quell my worry, grip the microphone, smile for the folks lining the parade route, and get ready to look like I’m giving the performance of my life.

Everything is great as the float creeps through the intersection. The intro to my latest single cues up. My stomach tenses; it always does before a performance. Then I’m dancing my way through the opening bars of the song and enjoying the crowd’s enthusiasm.

I’m halfway to the bridge when I notice Rand’s posture change.

His shoulders go rigid, and he takes a step closer, his head turning toward something in the crowd I can’t see.

I tense when his hand moves to his waist—where I assume he keeps a weapon.

For a split second, his eyes lock with mine.

There’s a warning in his black eyes, urgent and sharp.

Then gunshots erupt and all hell breaks loose.