Page 15 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)

This was it. The big day. The make-or-break moment.

Sloane stood before the full-length mirror, not sure if she should smile or frown.

A half dozen makeup artists and hairstylists had left her room less than five minutes ago after slathering on cosmetics and styling her hair to within an inch of its life.

The results were stunning, though the clothes they’d chosen for her to wear were a little “too” for her liking: too bright, too tight, and the stretchy pink blouse showed way too much cleavage, especially with the padded pushup bra that felt more like armor than attire.

But the point was to mimic Sierra’s style, and her staff had definitely nailed it.

The first time she looked at the finished product in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself.

She only hoped the dozen or so paparazzi camped out by the front gate would believe she was actually Sierra. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass the actress, tarnish her employer’s reputation, or become internet famous in a way that would follow her for the rest of her natural-born life.

The plan was to keep the photographers far enough away that they wouldn’t pose a safety concern, but also so they couldn’t get close enough to notice the differences between the two women, such as eye color, Sloane’s wider hips, and Sierra’s much larger chest. Her cheekbones weren’t as pronounced as Sierra’s, though the miracle of makeup had made it nearly unnoticeable.

Lost in thought, Sloane lifted her finger to her mouth, but stopped herself at the very last moment before she bit the nail and ruined a perfectly good manicure.

“Stop it,” she told her reflection. Now wasn’t the time to worry about things she couldn’t control.

It wasn’t productive, and she didn’t have time for that nonsense.

Pushing the negative thoughts from her mind, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and stared straight at the mirror.

For added effect, she sucked in her cheeks and pursed her lips the way she’d seen Sierra do at a number of red-carpet events.

There, much better.

She’d been asked to do this job for a reason, and she refused to let her doubts—or anybody else’s—get in the way of performing her duties to the best of her ability.

After hours upon hours of practice, she could imitate most of Sierra’s movements as if they were her own.

And when the job was finished, her bank account would be a whole lot healthier.

If there was enough left over once her bills were paid, she might even treat herself to that new phone she’d been eyeing for months.

Considering all the time and effort she’d invested, she deserved to splurge on something nice for herself.

A knock on the door put an end to her internal pep talk.

“Come in,” she called out.

The door opened, and the sight of Jackson’s smiling face took the edge off her nerves. He stepped inside, and then froze mid-stride. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I was told this was Sloane’s room.”

The glint of mischief in his eyes made it clear he was pulling her leg.

She raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. “You know I’m not Sierra.”

“Yeah, but when you’re all gussied up like that, I swear you look just like her. It’s like you were separated at birth.”

It was nice of him to say that, but they both knew it wasn’t true. Despite her best efforts, insecurities crept back into her thoughts. “Well, I hope the photographers outside share your opinion.”

Concern creased Jackson’s brow. He closed the door behind him and moved farther into the room. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” No, she wasn’t. Every time she built up a scrap of confidence, her anxieties tore it back down.

It was ridiculous, irrational, but she couldn’t help the way she felt.

“Actually, no, I’m not fine. I’m scared I’m going to screw this up, I want to chew my nails but if I do it’ll mess up my manicure, and it doesn’t help that your buddy thinks I’m going to get us all killed. ”

Jackson offered a comforting smile as he nodded with understanding. “I get where you’re coming from, I really do. This job has pushed you far outside your comfort zone. But trust me, you’re doing just fine. I mean it when I say you look like Sierra’s twin.”

Sloane let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

“Ain’t nothing to thank me for. It’s the truth.

And don’t you worry about Navarre. He’s one of those guys who games out the worst-case scenarios for every situation.

It can be a buzzkill at times, but he always busts his butt to make sure those scenarios don’t become reality.

It’s what makes him one of the best in the business. He’ll keep you safe no matter what.”

“Do you trust him with your life?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

As expected, he nodded again. “When things go south, there isn’t a person alive I’d rather have watching my back.

I’ve never met anyone as calm under pressure.

It’s like he’s got a kill switch for his adrenaline.

No matter how bad things get—bullets flying, buildings exploding, people dying all over the damn place—he never loses his cool.

He just shuts it all out and keeps going.

Saved my life more times than I can count.

He’ll say I saved his life as many times or more, but the scales ain’t close to equal. ”

That gave her comfort from a security standpoint, but it didn’t do much to quell her concerns about the friction between them. They’d reached an unspoken truce last night, and she didn’t want to do anything that might trigger a return of hostilities.

“Any tips for how to handle him?” she asked.

“Just don’t let his grumpiness get to you. He’ll come around soon enough. In the meantime, come find me if you need anything. You got my number, right?”

She held up her phone. “Yep, sure do.”

“Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a few.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Sloane gave the room one final inspection to confirm there wasn’t anything she’d forgotten to pack.

Assured that everything was tucked in her bag, she sat on the edge of the bed and shoved her feet into black knee-high boots.

They were pretty, but they squished her toes.

Thankfully, the heels were only two inches high, so she didn’t have to worry too much about falling flat on her face and breaking her neck.

If given the choice, she’d rather wear her own shoes, but Sierra wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of ratty Chucks or combat boots.

Bag in hand, she exited the room, closed the door behind her, and went down the hall that led to the staircase.

Halfway down the stairs, she caught sight of Navarre and Jackson in the main living area, their heads bent close in murmured conversation.

What they were talking about, she had no idea, but the looks on their faces gave her the impression it was something important.

Navarre glanced up at her approach, and something shifted in his expression that she couldn’t quite identify.

If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was heat, but she knew that wasn’t the case.

Regardless of what he’d said by the pool, guys like him didn’t go for women like her.

That kind of thing only happened in books and movies.

He reached for her bag, and when his fingers brushed hers, a zing of electricity shot up her arm. “Sierra doesn’t carry her own luggage. I’ll put it in the back with the rest.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

He pulled a set of keys from his pants pocket as they reached the front door.

He paused, his hand on the door handle. “Remember, Jackson will walk with you to the car. Wait for him to open the door for you. Don’t thank him, don’t smile at him.

Don’t make eye contact. Just get in the car and let him close the door.

If you hear anybody yelling Sierra’s name or asking questions, ignore them. ”

“Got it.” Sloane slid on a pair of blue-tinted designer glasses that were identical to the ones Sierra had been photographed wearing yesterday at the airport. But they were more than a fashion statement; they also made it difficult for anyone to notice her eye color didn’t match Sierra’s.

“You got this,” Jackson reminded her.

She let out a shaky laugh, even as her heart rate kicked up a notch. “Yeah, I got this.”

Navarre opened the door, and sure enough, Sloane spotted a small group of people clustered around the front gate, each carrying what appeared to be professional camera equipment.

At the sight of who they assumed was Sierra, they fired off a volley of questions that ranged from innocuous to downright insulting.

“Sierra, how are you feeling today?”

“I love your boots! Where did you get them?”

“Is that a baby bump, or are you putting on weight for a role?”

“Can you confirm you’re in talks to star in the next Galaxy Dominion movie?”

“Sierra, are you pregnant with Dax’s child? Will you confirm or deny reports you’re secretly married?”

Following instructions—and damn, that was a lot harder than expected—she refused to acknowledge the questions and waited for Jackson to open the back door of one of the two large black SUVs parked out front.

She slid inside, and as soon as the door closed behind her, she pushed out a breath and slumped against the seat, relieved the vehicle’s dark-tinted glass shielded her from view.

Moments later, Navarre slid behind the wheel, while Jackson claimed the front passenger seat. They exchanged a brief glance—sharp, assessing—and then Navarre started the vehicle, the engine’s deep growl breaking the silence.

His gaze caught hers in the rearview mirror as he reached for his seat belt. When he spoke, his voice was all business. “How are you doing back there?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Some of those questions were rude.”

She shrugged, though the motion felt stiff. “They’re easy to ignore when you know they’re not meant for you.”