Page 7 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)

Sloane paced the length of her tiny apartment, her nerves buzzing, neck knotted with tension, as a raging case of imposter syndrome chipped away at her self-confidence.

Now that the day had finally arrived, she couldn’t remember what possessed her to believe she could pull off the body double act for a celebrity that had graced the covers of almost every major magazine on the planet.

Had she lost her freaking mind? Sierra Page was poised, elegant, and sophisticated, a designer purse you could only buy at the most exclusive establishments, while Sloane was a cheap knockoff you could buy from a booth at the local flea market.

“Stop it,” she muttered as she rubbed the knots in her neck. There wasn’t enough time to call things off. Too many dominoes had already fallen, and backing out now would inflict irreparable damage to Six Points’ reputation. She’d made a promise, and she’d be damned if she let anybody down.

Besides, this weekend would be like a mini vacation.

She’d never set foot in a mansion or flown in a private jet before.

And once they touched down in North Carolina, she’d get to relax in a sprawling estate perched on a secluded hillside with every amenity known to man, wear ridiculously expensive clothes and eat ridiculously expensive food, all while getting paid double time with a big, juicy bonus at the end.

And in return, all she had to do was look enough like Sierra Page to fool the paparazzi.

Hell, they wouldn’t even get all that close to her, so she really didn’t have anything to worry about, right?

A sharp rap on the front door yanked her out of her mental pep talk.

She took one last deep, fortifying breath and crossed to the foyer.

A check of the peephole revealed Navarre in the hall, and her heart skipped in a way that she didn’t want to even think about, because she had no intention of allowing that kind of complication into her life.

Dressed in all black, from the baseball cap on his head to his combat boots, with a bulge in the left side of his jacket that hinted at concealed firepower, he exuded an air of formidable authority that left zero room for doubt.

He was a man on a mission, confidence personified, and Sloane couldn’t help but feel a twinge of apprehension at the sight of him.

“You got this,” she told herself as she unfastened the chain, flipped the bolt, and opened the door.

Navarre’s gaze bored into her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her. “Where’s your hat?”

Her stomach lurched. Damn it, she knew she’d forgotten something. She grabbed the cap from the hook by the door and jammed it onto her head. “Better?”

The plan was for her to enter Sierra’s estate dressed as a member of the security team, because most people—especially press photographers—didn’t pay attention to the help.

Black pants, black shirt, black athletic shoes, and not an ounce of makeup on her face, because the last thing she wanted to do was stand out.

But she’d forgotten the black baseball cap with the Six Points logo, which was meant to downplay her now platinum-blonde hair in case anybody was actually watching.

Navarre’s response was a disapproving shake of his head. “We should have sent you in with the cleaning crew.”

Every last bit of her nerves dissipated, replaced with a flare of annoyance. “Why, because nobody would believe a woman could work security?”

He, of all people, should know that was a load of crap. Rosario and Vogel blew that outdated assumption straight out of the water. Too bad neither of them could pass for Sierra.

Navarre’s silence spoke volumes as he turned from the door and headed down the stairs. With a frustrated sigh, she snatched her sunglasses and overnight bag, and locked the door behind her. She hurried to catch up with him in the stairwell and tried—well, she mostly failed—not to check out his ass.

Descending to the parking lot, her lips curved at the sight of Navarre’s car gleaming under the mid-morning sun, a vintage royal-blue beauty amid a sea of drab modern sedans and SUVs. She’d never been much of a classic car enthusiast, but the Plymouth Barracuda was a work of art.

”Nice car,” she said.

“Thanks.” Expression unchanged, he used his key to unlock the passenger door before rounding the front to the driver’s side.

Sloane got in, and it felt as though she’d stepped into a time capsule.

Like the outside, the interior had been completely restored to its original glory.

The dashboard contained an assortment of circular gauges, toggle switches, and horizontal levers.

Not a digital readout in sight. The seats were covered with light-brown, butter-soft leather, while the doors had old school locks and window cranks.

No console between the bucket seats, only the gear shift for the manual transmission that likely doubled for an anti-theft device.

She fastened the seat belt, surprised a car this old came equipped with shoulder harnesses. Perhaps they’d been added during the restoration process.

After sliding on a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses, Navarre turned the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life like a wild jungle cat.

“Did you fix all of this yourself?” she asked. She already knew the answer. People talked in the break room, and she couldn’t help but catch a few tidbits while she got her lunch from the fridge.

“Yeah.” He backed out of the parking spot and drove toward the exit.

“It must have taken a lot of work.” That was an understatement.

Every aspect of the car’s restoration was a testament to Navarre’s craftsmanship and attention to detail.

From what she’d heard, it barely ran when he bought it at an auto auction, and sounded even worse.

But each week its condition had gradually improved, at times by just the tiniest of increments, until it looked better than it probably had when it rolled off the assembly line.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Monosyllabic.

So much for conversation.

Eyes still fixed on the road, he switched on the radio and turned it to a classic rock station, which kind of fit considering the car, but she interpreted the act as his way of telling her to shut the hell up. It raised her hackles, because she really hated that kind of passive-aggressive garbage.

“What did I do to offend you?” she demanded, her voice loud enough to carry over the music.

His gaze flicked to her and back to the road. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re acting as if I gave your best friend an STD.”

He made a low noise as he changed lanes. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh, really?” She hated it when people tried to gaslight her. She knew damn well what he was doing, and she wasn’t in the mood to let him get away with it. “So what, this is your default setting? No wonder you’re single.”

A grimace tugged at his lips. At the next red light, he lowered the stereo’s volume and turned his head to face her.

“It’s nothing personal,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact. “But untrained operatives in the field are a recipe for disaster.”

Sloane bristled at the implication. “I’m not an operative. I’m a decoy.”

“You’re an operative acting as a decoy.” An edge crept into his words. “Look, I’m sure you’re great in front of a computer, but you have absolutely no training for this kind of job. That makes you a liability to everyone working around you. You’ve never even fired a gun, have you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

The urge to lean over and smack him upside the head was growing stronger by the minute.

Teeth clenched, she said, “I’m a celebrity impersonator, plain and simple.

Bodyguard isn’t anywhere in my job description.

I don’t understand why you’re holding me to a ridiculous standard that nobody else has established. ”

Before Navarre could respond, the traffic light turned green. A car honked behind them. He hit the gas with more force than necessary, and the tires squealed as they shot through the intersection.

He shifted into fourth and kept his right hand on the gearshift. “Inexperienced civilians in a volatile environment have a way of getting good people killed.”

He said it as though he spoke from personal experience.

Perhaps he did. His personnel file indicated he’d spent considerable time overseas while serving in the Army, including multiple deployments in active combat zones, though the details had been heavily redacted.

He’d received more than two dozen awards and commendations, including a Bronze Star and Purple Heart.

It made her wonder about the secrets that lay beneath that stoic exterior, the experiences that had shaped him into the grouch he was today.

But their situation was entirely different from anything he’d faced in the military, and she simply refused to let him make her feel bad about herself. She’d put up with enough of that in her youth to last a lifetime.

“This isn’t a volatile environment,” she said. “We’re spending the weekend at a celebrity’s home, not airdropping into Fallujah.”

“No, but it’s impossible to predict how or when a situation will go from ho-hum to holy shit. When it does, your chances of survival are a lot higher if the person watching your six knows what the hell they’re doing.”

“Austin doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. Are you saying the boss is wrong?”

“Not at all. From a tactical standpoint, this job carries a low level of risk. The ex-boyfriend is a point of concern, but he’s mostly being a pain in the ass and hasn’t made any threats to Sierra’s safety.

” He hooked a right into the office park where the Six Points building was located.

“But you never know when things will go sideways. When it does, there’s no time to prepare.

You have to rely on every ounce of your training, which, I’ll point out again, you lack. ”