Page 10 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)
Chapter Nine
Fear grips me in the elevator as I stand between and slightly behind Ash and Alesana. If something has happened to Temperance, and he’s no longer Ash's superior, then who is? And what about me? Do I even have a handler? Is it possible I'm free? Or have I simply lost my main protector?
I slip my hands into the satin-lined pockets of my wool pants to hide the tremble in them. The two men flank me as we leave through the hotel's secured VIP entrance. Alesana opens the back door of a black Bentley sedan with tinted windows. I climb in, and he closes the door firmly.
The interior is black leather, shining walnut, and copper accents. The carpet at my feet shows lines of a small vacuum. With both hands I clutch my brown leather crossbody purse that holds the compass I’m meant to give to the princess—if that indeed is still my mission.
The other door opens, and Ash slides in next to me. Alesana takes the driver’s seat. The privacy glass—tinted smoke gray—creates an opaque wall between us.
"It's only a ten-minute drive to the Globe Theatre. I've confirmed with the princess’s staff that she will be there. Her grandmother's condition is stable, and she doesn't want to disappoint the children." Ash tells all this to the back of Alesana's head.
I stare at his profile. Silence balloons between us as the Bentley navigates through the congested city in stilted traffic.
"I'm not at liberty to share information with you,” Ash says into the silence, still not looking at me.
"Ash." I reach out and grab his forearm, gripping his suit jacket, uncertainty making me desperate.
He finally looks over at me, but his eyes hold no comfort. Just empty cobalt glass. God, he's good at this. At giving no fucks. Is there anyone in Ash's life who he's spent as much time with as me since we met? This robot of a man has been my most constant companion for over two years.
"Who do you work for?" I ask, not even trying to hide the tears threatening to ease from my eyes. I won't let them. But I don't need to hide these feelings from Ash. Lord knows, he doesn't care.
“Sentinel Security Group.” His voice is even—no hint that he wants to elaborate.
"Can I fire you?" My heart flutters at the thought. If I'm free, then I can hire my own security. People loyal to me.
"You have a contract with my security agency. You're certainly welcome to speak to the office about personnel changes." He looks forward again, as if that finishes this discussion. I stare at his profile. There is a subtle tightness around the eyes.
Ash shifts, his attention moving to his window.
"But I think you'll find that I'm the best man for the job," he says as the car slows to a stop.
In the window beyond Ash, photographers crowd metal barricades lining the path to a set of stairs.
The Globe Theatre looms at the top of them—white and medieval looking. I'm out of time.
"Do I still need to…" My sentence dies.
"Complete the mission." Ash answers my unfinished question, then opens his door. Light and sound spill in. He reaches back for me. Palm open, thick fingers curled gently. I place my hand in his and he traps it, holding me steady as I leave the car.
The Globe Theatre stage is open to the sky but surrounded by curved walls housing private boxes and stadium seating.
Rain gently soaks the thatched roofs. Weak sunlight illuminates the stage and standing area in front of it—the cheap seats.
The Duchess of Balmoral, a princess, third in line to the royal throne, stands next to me on the stage. It all feels surreal.
"When it rains, the actors and anyone in the standing area get wet. No umbrellas allowed," the director of the Young Bards program explains.
The princess's assistant approaches. She's the kind of white woman who exudes proficiency, propriety, and all the other trappings of imperialism that make it so damn insidious. The director falls silent at her approach. Gangly, passionate, and clothed in tweed, he's no match for her.
The princess excuses herself, and the two walk far enough away that their low conversation does not reach us. "This place is amazing," I say, smiling.
"It truly is." He nods his agreement.
"I'm sorry, but I must leave early," Princess Victoria says as she crosses back to us, her low heels clicking on the wood theater floor. Her black pantsuit is misted from the light rain, her hair dewed with it.
"I hope it's not your grandmother," I say, stepping closer, my instincts wanting to protect her from the pain of possibly losing such a close relative.
"Yes, but it's good news. I can't share it with you, of course you understand." She reaches out for my hand as if we are old friends who might touch each other for comfort or when asking for understanding.
I squeeze her hand. "Completely. Please, don't allow me to keep you."
She turns and leaves me alone with the director. Our tour continues. I can't pay attention to anything, not the museum in the basement with its exhibits about costumes and blueprints of the theater. Not the view from the private boxes down onto the stage. My mind is churning over my problems.
How will I get the compass to the princess now?
What the fuck happened to Temperance?
Should I try firing Ash? They will probably set someone else up in his place. He knows I'm supposed to finish the mission. Or he may know nothing and just be acting on a noble belief that a mission should never be left unfinished.
We're walking down a cement hall on our way to the classroom where we'll meet with the kids before they start their dress rehearsal. My heels echo; Ash and Alesana flank me as we follow the director.
A crash followed by shouts comes from somewhere close. Alesana is suddenly in front of me, Ash behind. His hand grips my hip and he's pushing. I follow the pressure as he swings open a door and herds me into a tight dark space.
He slams the door shut, blocking out all the light. Cleaning products scent the close space. He pushes me behind him, placing himself at the door.
My heart beats like a trapped hummingbird.
The wire in Ash's ear crackles but I can't understand what the voice is saying.
My eyes begin to adjust. There is light spilling under the door, illuminating the outline of Ash's shoes and the bottom of his pant legs. Soon I can make out shelves and the rest of his looming figure.
"They are doing a security sweep," he says. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes. They think it was a prop mishap."
I nod even though he can't see me.
"You okay?" he asks.
"No." The honesty shocks us both, I think, because his body goes still and mine gets flaming hot. "I'm not okay, Ash. Are you kidding me?"
He turns fully to me, his broad shoulders a black line in the darkness, his face nothing but shadows. I have an insatiable urge to strike out at him. My hand flies, aiming up at his face. Ash catches my wrist, his finger shackling it.
I strike out with the other hand, just as sloppily. He catches that one too, just as easily.
A sob sticks in my throat. Ash lessens the pressure on my wrists, as if asking if I can be trusted. When I stay still, he releases. My skin feels branded from his.
I swallow the emotion in my throat as I lower my hands. They’re shaking. Anger wells up again, and it's like someone else is in charge of my body when I lunge at him.
Ash captures both wrists again. I struggle, thrashing in his grip. "Stop it," Ash seethes, his hands like manacles. I kick out, hitting him in the shin. He grunts. I kick him again.
Using his hold on my wrists, he pushes me sideways until my back knocks into one of the shelves, then he presses close, not so that he's touching me but so that my kicks don't have any power.
My chest heaves with each breath, my wool sweater brushing the button of his suit jacket.
"If you want to hit me, I'll let you. But realize that if you slap my face right now, I will walk out of this closet with your handprint on me. Is that what you really want?" His voice is so cold it burns.
My breath saws, tears burn. I lean my head back against the shelf, all the fight draining out of me. There are photographers out there.
Fuck.
He releases my wrists and fumbles briefly by the door until an overhead light blares to life. I close my eyes against the glare.
Digging my nails into my palms, I try to use the pain to ground me. It doesn't. I am a tornado of emotion trapped in a body. "Ash." My voice shakes.
He's standing by the door, a few feet away. Breath rougher than normal.
"I don't want to fight you." I swallow. It's so true.
"I don't know why you do."
My eyes fly open. He's half turned toward the door, giving me his profile. "Are you kidding? You seriously don't understand why I want to slap you?"
"My mission is to keep you safe." He doesn't look at me.
"For them!" I scream-whisper, pushing off the shelves behind me and pointing an accusing finger at the closed door, at the world outside this closet, at the forces pulling my marionette strings.
The same ones pulling his. "Your mission could change to killing me, Ash. " My voice drops to a true whisper.
He turns to me, leans forward, his quiet response loud in the intimate space between us. "I will keep you safe." There is no warmth in his tone, no tenderness in his eyes. But there is grim determination in both.