Page 2 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Two

Ash rises from the living room couch as I step out of the bedroom of the hotel suite. The studio put up key members of the cast and crew at the Chateau Marmont for the premiere.

About an hour ago, Ash escorted me in through the back entrance reserved for celebrities, his suit jacket draped around me like a cloak. We rode up the private elevator in tense silence.

I've changed into a silk suit in a bold geometric pattern of yellow, purple, and black, designed by a young up-and-comer—someone my ex-boyfriend, Julian, introduced me to early in our romance.

We broke up over a year ago, but Julian’s influence is still evident in so many corners of my life. Just last week, I found one of his T-shirts in my closet. I pulled it to my face, hoping to find a hint of his scent, but there was nothing left.

Ash's gaze runs over my body, quickly assessing my outfit. The suit is not only beautiful, it's also very easy to move in. This I can run in, fight in. I won't need anyone to rip it off me.

"Going somewhere?" Ash asks. He’s in his white dress shirt, tie loosened. The tie pin remains centered on his chest, taunting me, reminding me…that ship with its eagle protector was all I could see.

"Your jacket," I say, dragging my eyes back up to his face. "Let me get it for you." He doesn't respond as I dip back into the bedroom. When I return, he's standing right outside the door.

"Thank you.” I look up, holding out the jacket—I don't need to press it to my nose to smell him. Even after a shower and putting on my perfume, Ash's scent is still burned into my senses.

"Of course.” He takes it from me. "Going somewhere?" he asks again, as he shrugs into the jacket.

"Yes." I nod, holding up my phone. "Hannah texted," I say, referencing the director of the film. "She's having a few people over to her suite. I'm gonna go have a drink." My phone rings, my manager’s name, Mary Genovese, flashing on the screen.

This is not the first time she's called since we reached the hotel, but until now I didn't have the energy to answer.

"I texted Mary," Ash tells me. "And Synthia.

" He reached out to my manager and best friend. I swallow a sudden need to see Synthia and my dog, Archie, who she’s taking care of while I'm here. I miss her smile and his fuzzy warmth.

"That was thoughtful of you.” My voice sounds unsure, but not because it wasn't thoughtful of Ash to reach out to people who care about me. It's that I don't know how to talk to Ash now.

My stark honesty in the car about Ash’s true loyalty didn't go awesomely. Ash's face shuttered. One moment he was an iceberg and the next a solid wall—neither cold nor hot. Just inanimate. I didn't realize how much emotion he was showing until it disappeared. I've felt unsettled since.

Or maybe it wasn't Ash's lack of humanity upsetting me. Maybe I was just having a normal reaction to the terrifying events of the evening. To the intense pressure of the last few years.

I swipe the phone open and press it to my ear, turning away from Ash, wandering further into the living room. "Mary," I say as a greeting.

"Angela, my god, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, fine." The words come out automatically. Assuring the world I'm fine is more important than actually being okay.

"This is terrible," Mary says, her voice pitched high with the drama of it all. "Jeremy sent me a draft statement—I tweaked it and emailed it over to you. We can wait until tomorrow to release it. I'm sure you're devastated."

Was I devastated? No. I felt like I needed to see my friends. Have a drink or two. I wanted to get numb, banish this edgy feeling that made me want to…I don't even know.

I glance back at Ash. A sudden, visceral need to move him washes over me.

I want to shake him, scream at him, break him.

Somehow force him to understand—even if only for a brief moment—how much I resent him.

Make him feel the press of captivity I feel.

Ash holds my gaze, and a flicker of something moves behind his eyes.

Maybe he's as trapped as me. He can't love being my babysitter. The man belongs on a battlefield, not following me around, even carrying me around because of my poor fashion choices.

It’s not the same, though. We may both be trapped, but only one of us is the jail keeper. I turn away, letting my focus fall on the windows, staring out of them unseeing.

"I'll take a look at the statement in the morning," I promise Mary. "I'm going to see Jeremy at Hannah's—she's having some of the cast and crew over for drinks."

"That's good. You should be together. Let me know if you need anything at all. And honey, one more thing. We need to get the necklace back to Cartier. I messaged with Ash about it. He has all the details."

"Of course he does."

"You're lucky to have him," Mary says. "But we really need to get you another assistant. Did you look at any of the résumés I sent over?"

"Not yet.”

"Well, nothing to think about tonight. But it is important we find someone before the international tour."

We hang up and I take in a deep breath, then turn back to Ash. "The necklace is in the safe."

He nods. "They are sending over a messenger. I will take care of it. When do you want to leave?"

"Jeremy and Zade are fine, by the way," I say, my voice accusatory.

"I know," Ash answers.

"You didn't feel the need to tell me?" Why am I doing this? Why am I trying to start a fight with him? "Never mind," I say, shaking my head.

Ash doesn't respond. Just stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, shoulders back, posture too damn straight. Always alert, always on duty.

I cross the living room of the suite toward the exit. Ash follows in my wake, speaking softly, informing his team of our movements. The door opens as I reach it, and one of his men, a tall East Asian guy named Chris, nods at me with a serious expression.

I've made him laugh twice, and both times dimples popped on his cheeks that are deeply adorable. He has tawny skin, a smooth, even complexion, and black eyes that are almost always stern.

I think his perpetual seriousness is because his dimples are so fucking cute. Even with his broad shoulders and the twin pistols hiding under his suit jacket, those dimples scream cute. And cute isn't scary.

I give him a flirtatious smile, and Chris presses his lips together even as amusement touches his eyes.

He leads the way down the hall, then me, then Ash, and it feels ridiculous.

How did I get here? How did little Stacy Melon from Kansas end up as one of the biggest stars in the world and a vital asset to US intelligence?

A woman so important she is protected by armed men ready to lay down their lives for her.

Or turn on her if given the order .

At my knock, Hannah opens the door of her suite. She grins at me, her smile wide, lips painted crimson red. Her skin is a delicate, creamy hue. There is a flush across her cheeks and charcoal outlining her hazel eyes.

Hannah's wearing a pair of wide-leg, black ribbed pants and a flowy blouse that hangs off one sculpted shoulder. Her salt and pepper pixie haircut glints in the low light.

"Angela," she says, her tone implying how happy she is to see me, how hard it's been since we last laid eyes on each other, and how important it is that we're together again. Her arms open and I step into them, relaxing into Hannah's embrace.

"Those fuck-heads," she says. "Fuck them." She leans away from me, holding my shoulders. "Thank fuck everyone's okay."

"Yes," I agree. "Thank fuck.” I am truly grateful no one was hurt by the gunman and he was easily subdued and arrested.

"The premiere could have continued," Hannah says, "if he hadn't made that stupid bomb threat. But of course, he knew that. Fucking fear tactics," she mutters, looking over my shoulder. “Hi, Ash, Chris," she says with a tilt of her chin.

I glance back to see them nod. "Evening, Hannah," Ash says.

"Let me get you a drink.” Hannah loops her arm through mine.

"Yes, please," I reply as we walk down the steps into the suite.

There's a small gathering of cast and crew on the couches. Jeremy lifts his hand from where he's standing by the window, holding a martini glass. I wave back. "Julian is stopping by," Hannah says, pulling my focus.

"He is?" I ask, surprised. "I didn't know he was in town." My voice is choked and my cheeks heat.

"Oh god.” Her eyes are pinched with worry.

“Is this going to be weird? I thought it was all fine.” Julian and Hannah are good friends.

She's directed him several times, and they seem to have an older sister-younger brother dynamic.

I suspect he's told her about our relationship, but Hannah isn't the type to gossip.

If they've spoken about us, it would have been about his struggles with my emotional unavailability, not anything torrid or gross. He's ridiculously mature and rational. It's infuriating and deeply attractive, and I may need to feign a headache to get out of here before he arrives.

"Of course it's fine,” I say. “It’s just been a day.” I let out a short laugh.

We reach the kitchen, where the counter separating it from the sitting area has been set up as a bar. "Champagne?" Hannah asks. "Let's not let that asshole ruin our celebration." I nod. She pours two flutes. "We made a great film, and I'm proud of you." She holds the flute out to me.

My throat burns with emotion as I take it.

"Thank you," I say, feeling gratitude for not just the role and her direction, but also for her friendship.