Page 3 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)
Chapter Three
I wake up the next morning, my mouth sandpapery, dry, cottony, unpleasant. It wasn't the light spearing through the curtains that woke me or the sound of the shower, but rather the pounding behind my eyes.
Groaning, I pull the covers over my head, but there is no escaping my overindulgence from the night before.
The shower turns off, and, moments later, the sound of the bathroom door swinging open reaches me under the thick duvet. Footsteps circle the bed and the mattress depresses before a large hand cups my hip through the covers.
"You okay, honey?" Julian's British accent makes me cringe. Fuck. I should have faked that headache last night and saved myself from the one trying to crash through my skull this morning. I also could have avoided sleeping with Julian. Not that I didn't enjoy myself, just that…it's complicated.
"Do you want to come out and have some coffee?" Julian asks, his voice tender, caring, sweet. Why can't the man be an asshole? I groan and curl more tightly into the fetal position. "Should I take that as a no?" he says with a laugh that would be charming if it wasn't so loud.
"Leave me," I say, like a hiker with a broken leg high on Mount Everest as a snowstorm closes in.
Julian laughs again. "I do have to get going." He rubs my hip, bringing his hand down to my thigh and back up again. "My flight to Fiji is in five hours. Need to stop by my house before I head to the airport."
"Fiji?" I ask, my voice a croak. His hand stills, and I realize he told me all about why he was going to Fiji last night.
The reason seeps through my champagne-infused memories, bubbling to the surface. Julian told me he'd been cast in the lead role of a thriller. If things went well, it could be another franchise, something like James Bond. But modern, of course.
What was modern anymore? Time seemed to be folding back on itself, realigning mistakes from the past and nailing them into the present.
I poke my head out from underneath the covers and meet Julian's soft gaze. Worry lines crease his broad brow. "You'll be gone for three months," I say, showing him I remember.
I never used to do this. I was always so controlled.
But the stress has been overwhelming. The pressure, not just of fame, but also of knowing that at any moment my life could be ripped away through violence or scandal.
With the slow deterioration of my rights as a consistent hum in the background.
I feel like I’m on the verge of shattering.
Julian nods, running his knuckles down the side of my face, and I lean into his touch. "You're so beautiful," he says. "So fucking beautiful." His voice is husky, hoarse, hungry.
There's still concern lightly etched across his brow, but his lips have parted.
His breath has quickened, pupils dilated.
More bubbles of champagne-trapped memories surface.
Julian's hands in my hair, my back against the wall.
Him lifting me so easily with just one hand.
The rip of fabric, the intimate fullness.
I swallow. Our eyes remain locked. His hand travels down my neck, thumb caressing my jaw before circling my throat. My lips part, a soft gasp escaping. The throbbing pain in my head abates, distributed to the painful points of my breasts, and a delicious ache between my legs.
"Can I make you feel good one more time before I leave?" Julian asks.
I swallow. It is impossible to deny him. His hand tugs the blanket, exposing my breasts and pulling a quiet whimper from my throat. Fingers tighten at my neck, not cutting off my air, but holding me still as his eyes rake over me.
Julian's always been so good at this. Even better than alcohol at wiping my mind, at making me forget.
Not just about my life, my identity, but my very humanity, my mortality, my singularity.
I close my eyes and sink into the sensation of him.
Slowly, expertly, he devours me, disappears me, dissolves me.
I'm sitting in the living room wrapped in one of the hotel's thick terry cloth robes—its bulk a welcome weight. Sunlight presses against the sheer curtains, flooding the space with diffused light.
My headache is gone, defeated by good sex, strong coffee, and a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and outrageously delicious toast. A cheat meal well worth it.
I'm scrolling through the headlines—there is a piece on the latest candidate to announce a run for president. A woman, Rebecca Levi. I sip my coffee, thoughts dark.
A woman can't win. Let alone a Jewish one. America is too sexist and antisemitic. She will be torn apart.
Not even when the incumbent president is also in the headlines for saying that he believes America’s problems are so deep, so intractable, and the media so corrupt, that dictatorship may be our only salvation. As if an authoritarian government ever helped anyone but the oligarchs profiting from it.
Reginald Grand’s latest statements are not the only news about him. Two articles outline the continued investigations he is under.
Unlike past presidents, Grand refused to place his business interests in trust. He kept his international real estate company under his control. And that company, Grand Dominion Properties, recently acquired land in downtown Moscow for far below market price.
This “unusual” circumstance has led to accusations of violating the emoluments clause, which prohibits federal officials from receiving financial benefits from foreign governments.
These new ties to Moscow have resurrected the accusations of foreign interference in our last election. Those accusations are still just that—accusations as a special counsel continues their investigation. But I know they are true.
I know Grand is a treasonous, dictator wanna-be who I had the opportunity to kill and didn't. That's my biggest regret.
If I'd done it—pulled the trigger on that motherfucker when I had the chance—I'd be dead, true. But so would he. And the more time that passes, the more power Grand consolidates, the more I think not killing him was selfish. Horribly selfish.
I've murdered two men, both in self-defense. They coveted my body, craved control, but I wanted it more. Their blood still splashes across my nightmares and haunts the shadows of my mind.
The first was a director—my first starring role. Jack Axelrod invited me to his house to celebrate, drugged me and was about to rape me, when I woke up with just enough consciousness to grab one of his Oscars and bludgeon him to death.
Temperance Johnson strode into that crime scene like most men saunter into a club. Confident and on the hunt. He offered me a deal to save my reputation, to rescue any hope of fame rather than infamy. All I had to do was whatever he asked.
A star at the height of her fame, ensnarled by an unnamed US intelligence agency, forced into the art of espionage. It would make a good movie...
The second man, Vladimir Petrov, decided he would make me his whether I consented or not. He died just as bloody a death as Jack.
Instead of my pulling the trigger on Grand, we agreed not to kill each other.
Not to expose each other. I wouldn't tell anyone how the Russian oligarch, Vladimir Petrov, under the direction of the Kremlin and with Grand's full and willing knowledge, used a sophisticated disinformation campaign to help him win.
And Grand wouldn't tell anyone that I bashed in Vladimir's skull with my vintage phone. Or leak to our enemies that I'm a US asset.
A deal with the devil, combined with raw talent and hard work, brought me here. To this hotel room. To this life. To this golden prison.
My phone pings and a text message alert from Ash flashes on the screen. "May I come in?"
He's probably standing on the other side of the door waiting for my response.
"Yes, I'm just finishing breakfast," I text back.
The door opens seconds after the text swooshes away and Ash enters. My smile is broad and welcoming, last night’s tension ignored and pushed under the rug. I'm good at compartmentalizing, and I'm pretty sure Ash shares DNA with a container store.
Both are gigantic and full of neatly labeled boxes. Though I'd bet money the memories in Ash's boxes are graphic war movies, whereas the container store's boxes are empty of everything but the purchasers’ dreams of organization.
"Checkout is in an hour. Do you still want to head back to Malibu?" Ash asks as he crosses toward me. He's wearing a navy suit today with a pale gray shirt—no tie. Nothing to hang onto. I shake my head at the errant thought.
He stops in front of my table, towering over me, his expression empty. But there is still tension in the air between us. Is this left over from the way I spoke to him in the car, the truth I dropped in pique? Or is it judgment for sleeping with Julian? For drinking so much last night?
"Yes," I answer his question, offering another warm smile—I let my eyes rest on him. We can be friends. "I'm ready to head home." His eyes stay on mine, but he's giving nothing back.
There are not many men who have the self-discipline not to let their gaze drop to the V of my robe.
But Ash is not like other men. Some petulant part of me wants to test him.
Lean forward and let the robe split apart, let my breasts beckon his gaze.
I'd like to see some heat from the man. But I don't do that. I stand, pushing back the chair.
"I'll get dressed."
"I'll be here," Ash answers.
An hour later we're winding up the Pacific Coast Highway in my Porsche. It's all electric and drives like a silent dream. The exterior color is "Provence"—a rich lavender that does nothing to diminish the obvious power of the sports car.
The top is down, the ocean on our left rolling toward us, crashing against the cliffs below, loud enough we can hear it over the whistling wind.
I'm not playing any music because I love the sound of the Pacific so damn much. It's why I bought my place in Malibu—for that rhythmic, always changing yet always the same behemoth. A reminder of what true power looks like. A reminder that I am tiny and inconsequential.
Ash sits next to me, his seat as far back as it goes, which leaves barely enough room for his long, thick legs. Beyond him hills roll away golden and ethereal.
My phone chimes, and a text from Julian pops onto the screen. An AI voice—male and Australian—reads it aloud. "Remind me why we broke up?" I steal a glance at Ash, who stares straight ahead, the embodiment of silent judgment.
I turn off the volume. The wind rushes around us and unspoken thoughts fill the space.
Ash is probably the only other person in my life who understands why Julian and I broke up.
Because I didn't want to involve him in…
my life. Didn't want him to face any of my consequences. But staying away from him is hard…
"Do you have something to say?" I ask Ash.
"No," he responds simply. The road snakes along the coast; the sound of the ocean pounds against the shore beneath us. "Do you have something you want me to say?" he asks.
"No," I reply too quickly.
Ash nods, as if the issue is closed. Which I guess it is.
My house in Malibu hangs over the beach.
It was built in the sixties when that kind of thing was allowed.
It's a masterpiece of wood and glass with a circular drive that brings me a small thrill of joy every time I pull into it.
This is mine. Mine. I still have my place in the city but am out here as often as possible.
The black SUV carrying the rest of my security team pulls in behind us. I wait as Ash climbs out first, my fingers itching to open my own door. But that's not how things go in my life now.
If Ash had his way I wouldn't even drive anymore. But that's not happening. I need to maintain some autonomy. Giving up opening my door is fine. Giving up driving my Porsche is a hard no.
I flip down the mirror and check my face—my makeup is minimal. Just a tinted moisturizer, light blush, and lip stain. Mascara and a shimmering lid brightener add depth to my violet eyes—a rare gift from my Roma ancestry.
My grandmother told me her sister had the same color eyes. There are no photographs of her or the rest of that side of the family. The Holocaust stole more than lives.
A shadow falls over me, and I look out my window to see Alesana, a Samoan agent who is even broader than Ash.
But unlike that block of ice, he has a twinkling humor in his eyes and a sweet smile.
He opens my door and offers his mitt of a hand.
I take it and let him steady me as I climb out of the Porsche—not that I need the help. But there is a game to be played here.
Even when I stand at my full height with four-inch heeled boots, Alesana still towers over me. He follows me to the back of the car, and then I'm on my own to cross to where Ash waits for me by the twin front doors.
The entrance is grand with thick wood doors twelve feet tall. Ash opens one for me, light spilling out into the shaded portico. Tension twists in my stomach, my intuition trying to warn me about something. I pause, look at Ash.
He's wearing mirrored aviators that reflect me at the center of a fisheye lens. There is a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there in the car.
I glance into my house. The entryway extends into a sunken living room, a wall of curved glass, then a deck that cantilevers over the beach.
The tide is in, so the ocean swirls under the pylons supporting the deck.
From where I'm standing there is nothing but my home between me and the vast horizon.
"Everything okay?" I ask Ash.
"Yes," he answers. It doesn't sound like a lie but it feels like one—something about his tone just isn't right. The other agents are dispersing. Alesana drives my car toward the garage, the SUV following. So it's just Ash and me standing at the threshold.
The scent of the ocean surrounds us, its rhythmic rushing close enough that the air is heavy with salt. Ash waits silently. And somehow, some way, I know he's hiding something from me.