Page 23 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Nineteen

"No press is bad press," Mary assures me over the phone. “At least not the kind that doesn’t scream scandal.” I'm in Rome soaking in a lavender-scented bubble bath. Candlelight flickers off the white marble walls bringing out the thin veins of gold.

The hotel suite’s bathroom is as large as my closet back home. Almost the size of my first apartment. So far beyond where I ever thought I could get and yet where I always planned to be.

"You looked fabulous coming out of the hospital. Very Grace Kelly meets Princess Diana. Who chose the outfit?"

The tweed Tom Ford pantsuit and Hermès scarf paired with giant sunglasses arrived with Lloyd and Zade. I have no idea where they came from—but they are draped over the couch in the bedroom now. I glance at my injured arm, propped on the edge of the tub, the bandage wrapped in plastic.

Mary continues, not waiting for a response. “I’ll ask Lloyd. That man is a dream, don't you think? Especially with how…intense it's been. I'm very impressed with his performance.”

Mary pauses long enough I know I’m supposed to answer her this time. "Yes," I agree. My voice sounds dead—a flat line. Like a woman who's lost touch with her emotions. Someone so traumatized she's cut it all off.

The part of my mind that never shuts down notes a weighted emptiness. If I ever need this feeling for my work I can come back here—to this glittering, perfumed, warm moment that feels like gritty rain-soaked cement is pressing down on me. Holding down a torrent of emotion.

"When are you talking to Jeremy?" Mary asks.

"Plan on calling him next." I pick up the glass of rosé next to the tub and take a sip—it chills and bites my tongue.

I owe a lot of people phone calls. Synthia for sure.

Julian called and texted. Omar sent flowers and left messages.

My eyes slip closed and I slouch further into the tub, careful to keep my arm above the bubbles.

Trying to find comfort but finding only more cement.

"Good. Have you seen the statement Jeremy emailed?"

"Yes, I read it on the flight." The darkness behind my eyes brings no comfort.

"I think it's perfect. Concern for the other people who were injured, while making it clear you're not actually involved in any way. This wasn't about the film. It was about the prince. About conflicts in the Middle East—not contraceptives."

I open my eyes—my toes, the nails painted glossy red, peek out from the bubble-laced water.

Mary takes a breath. I take another sip of rosé.

“Have you looked at the news at all?” Mary asks.

I make a noise that means no.

“The verdict for Providence Trust Bank vs. Consumer Protection Bureau came out.”

My throat constricts. I’m being strangled. Which case is it? There are two major ones in front of the Supreme Court right now.

My brain scrambles to remember. The banking one…Consumer Protection Bureau is the enforcement agency responsible for overseeing compliance with fair banking practices. The other case, the one about property rights, is Summit Crest HOA vs. Equal Housing Opportunity Authority .

“It didn’t go our way.” Mary’s tone is stark, bald. Like this fact has bounced off her armor without leaving a dent. “You need to reach out to Lauren,” she says, referencing my financial advisor. “And Tamara.” My attorney. “I’ll tell you, I’m getting married.”

My heart is beating against the constriction in my throat.

“It’s a lavender marriage—we’ve been friends for decades. The contract will be ironclad, and I’ll keep all of my assets. So will he. His boyfriend is marrying someone else. It just makes sense right now. Better to be safe than sorry.”

A knock at the bathroom door draws my focus. I still can’t breathe. "I have to go," I tell Mary. "Zade is here, I need to get ready."

"All right, honey, you’ll be amazing tonight. You always are.” She sounds motherly now. “If you need anything at all you know you can call me. And let me know what Lauren and Tamara say.”

The door creaks open. It's not Zade. They have never entered a room so slowly—Zade blazes into spaces.

Adrenaline pumps into my system, cracking through the sense of heaviness and forcing me to move. I sit up, my breasts almost breaching the bubbles. Dropping the phone onto the bathmat, I sink my glass under the bubbles, hiding it from whoever is creeping in here. It’s the only weapon at hand.

Ash's bulk appears, his head turned away.

"Fuck," I say. "You scared the shit out of me." I take a breath. A big one.

"Sorry.” His voice is gruff. Ash keeps his back to me as he closes the door. "I need to tell you something." He keeps his hand on the knob—as if he plans to make a run for it any second now.

"Okay." I still grip the wine glass under the water.

Ash’s broad shoulders rise on an inhale. He's removed his jacket and is just wearing the white button-down shirt. It's a few shades darker than the medical bandage at the back of his head—which looks stark even in the flickering candlelight. “Temperance is coming here."

My heart thunders. "When?"

"He will be in your room when you come home from the premiere tonight." Ash’s voice remains even, like he's reporting on the weather but gives no fucks about the impending storm.

"Thank you for telling me." My voice doesn’t waver. I sound fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.

"Well," he says, a note of teasing coming into his voice. "I didn't want to die."

A huff of a laugh escapes. I’m safe. No one is actually strangling me right now. "I didn't want to kill you."

Silence falls, the subtle pop of bubbles the only sound in the echoing space. The tension in me torques. Ash nods, as if he's made some decision and then pulls on the doorknob.

"Wait," I say. He freezes, body stiffening.

God, I want to break him. Snap his control so badly. Gain some kind of power right now. “Can you pass me a towel?" I ask, the burning question of every ingenue.

Ash takes a breath before he answers. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

His forehead rests against the door with a subtle thunk. "You know why." That pain I saw in his face this morning in the hospital—the one that convinced me something had changed—is in his voice now.

"Tell me."

"Angela." My name is a groan. And I fucking love it.

"I wanted to kill—" I don't realize I'm speaking, that I'm about to spill that terrifying truth until I'm halfway through the sentence. I clamp my jaw shut on the rest of it. I was about to tell him about Martin. About my sick fantasy. That I can't stop thinking about. That I can't stop wanting.

The muscles in Ash’s back bunch as he turns so I can see his profile. But he’s still not looking at me. "Who?" he asks, his tone pure menace. I will kill them for you.

Attraction wracks through me so rough it steals my ability to answer. Ash’s jaw ticks with impatience. He swallows, breathes, visibly relaxes—gets himself back under control. Fuck.

My phone vibrates on the bathmat. I tear my gaze from Ash to check the screen. It's Synthia.

Ash opens the door and disappears through it. Not so fast that it's fleeing, but a hell of a lot quicker than he came in here. I pull the dripping wine glass from the bubbles, placing it back on the rim of the tub.

The phone quiets as I’m grabbing my own towel—which was in very easy grabbing distance if we're being totally honest. Wrapped in the thick terry cloth, my hair pinned up so that it didn't get wet, my skin dewy from the humid air in the room, I swipe my phone open and return Synthia's call.

"Angela," she answers on the first ring.

"Hey," I say, tears suddenly choking me. Fuck. The adrenaline broke through the numbness, and I don’t have anything to stop this now. But I don’t have time to lose it.

I have the Italian premiere, and I cannot put Zade in a position where they have to deal with puffy eyes and throat bruises. It's just not right.

"Oh sweetie." The tenderness in her voice undoes me.

I sniffle, trying to hold back, but there is no stemming this tide.

Tears well, blur my vision, and then release; heat tracks down my already hot cheeks.

"It's okay," Synthia says. "I'm right here, you go ahead and cry.

You deserve a good cry." Synthia's voice fuzzes, and her next words are lost. Then silence. The phone dropped the call.

I try to contain the sob welling in my chest but it breaks free, loud, ugly, honest. The part of my mind always focused on my craft takes note of how deep in my body the pain welled up from, how sore my chest is from the ache of holding it back, and how good it feels to let it out.

The sound echoes in the marble space, loud and undeniable. A bundle of tangled emotions exploding like a bomb.

The door flies open, hitting the stopper built into the marble floor hard enough that it bounces back and knocks Ash's forearm. He takes up the entire doorway, eyes etched with concern and fully focused on me. Candlelight plays across his features.

I'm startled into silence. Standing on the bathmat, one hand holding the phone, the other clutching my towel to my chest. We stare at each other. His eyes track the tears on my cheeks, find the pain in my gaze.

It only takes two long strides for him to be so close I have to tip my head to look up at him. Without my shoes, Ash towers over me. His eyes flick across my face, his expression looks at once fierce and lost.

The man wants to solve this problem and he isn't sure how. "I'm okay," I say. He shakes his head, refusing my lie.

My lip trembles, the emotions welling again. He startled them to a pause but they are still there, and they want out. I want to scream, to tear at something. I want to feel blood pouring over my hand while I steal a man ’ s life.

I blink and tears fall. Ash reaches up, swiping at them with his thumbs, cradling my face like he did last night.

His hands are so big, so gentle. I refuse to believe I'm not safe with him. Does he know that he is loyal to only me now? He nods as if answering my question.

I close my eyes, unleashing more tears. Giant arms come around me, sweep me up so that I'm cradled against Ash's chest. Held firmly yet my injured arm is free—the burn and its bandage are not pressed to anything, even as the rest of me is engulfed.

His lips brush my forehead and the tenderness is what gets me.

What lets the emotion break all the way free.

I grip his shirt and the storm hits. Sobs wrack me. Ash’s hold is tight and tender. "I'm here," he promises me, his voice rumbling under my ear. "You're safe. I'm right here."