Page 4 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Four

My heels click on the marble entry floor. The gray and white stone reflects the light of the sun glinting off the ocean.

Another echoing click of my heels, and the couch in my living room comes into view.

My heart pounds and the headache from this morning roars back to life behind my eyes as Temperance Johnson unfolds himself from its deep seat. He's smiling, warmth radiating from his eyes—golden brown tiger stones set above high, elegant cheekbones.

I take an unconscious, unintended step back, the clack of my heel jolting awareness into my body. Ash is right there, blocking me. We don't touch, but an electric spark surges between us, sharp enough to thrust me forward.

Ash follows, the space between us sizzling, as I cross the top of the steps that descend into the seating area. Temperance waits at the foot of the stairs—he only has to tilt his head a little to look up at me. His arm is long enough he can reach out and offer his hand, palm up. Shall we dance?

I let the edges of my lips curl into a smile that borders on a smirk. As if I have a choice.

I lay my hand in his—our palms press together, fitting just fine. I don’t lean any weight on him as I descend the three steps, slowly going from taller than Temperance Johnson to shorter.

He’s a big man. Not as large as Ash but they are about the same height. Temperance is trimmer, less bulked up. He has the body of a swimmer, a shark gliding through water.

Our hands part as we end the charade that I needed his help descending into my own living room—womanhood summed up in one false gesture. Revulsion churns my stomach and burns the base of my throat.

"Can I offer you a drink?" I ask, my voice steady, as if there is nothing uncomfortable about finding him in my home.

“Thanks, I’ll have whatever you're having." His voice is a velvety baritone, not so much familiar as burned into the depths of my brain, wrapped up in all sorts of trauma. All sorts of misery. It's as if the man narrates my nightmares.

But there is kindness in those tiger eyes. He’s pulling off menacing and caring—Temperance could have acted on the screen, but chose espionage, a less public kind of performance. It seems he loves the craft as much as me, but prefers shadows to stage lights.

My heels sink into the thick rug—an abstract geometric design in blues and grays reminiscent of the ocean swirling around the pylons below—as I cross to the bar. I have to give Temperance my back. But that’s okay. Because a large, gold-framed mirror hangs above the walnut credenza.

My gaze flicks up to where Ash still stands, a few feet back from the top of the steps. His expression is blank. He's taken off his sunglasses and stares out toward the horizon. There is no evidence he feels guilt about letting Temperance ambush me.

Dark embers of rage burn in my chest. I'll deal with Ash later.

"Congratulations on the new film," Temperance says, still standing at the bottom of the steps as if waiting there in case any other women might need assistance. "You look lovely in the photos from last night. I'm sorry it ended the way it did."

"Thank you," I say, keeping my voice light as I focus on my task. Sliding one of the credenza's doors aside reveals a wine fridge stocked with drinks.

I bend down to snare a bottle of sparkling water, knowing what my body looks like to the two men standing behind me. Knowing that one glance in the mirror would confirm two sets of eyes incapable of looking away from what they want. Men are too predictable. Why are they the ones ruling the world?

"The premiere is being rescheduled." Temperance's voice does not tip up at the end.

It's not a question. I haven't even gotten a call about that yet.

"The European press tour will be pushed off by a week," he continues as I pour the water.

I turn back to him, holding two cut crystal glasses, sizzling with seltzer.

Crossing the space between us, I let my hips sway. The jeans I'm wearing hug my curves, but Temperance's eyes stay focused on my face. He’s confident of what’s there, doesn’t need to look.

When I'm close, too close really, invading his personal space, he reaches for a glass. I smile and shake my head, a subtle gesture but Temperance doesn't miss it. His hand falls back to his side. "Sit," I say, pointing toward the couch behind him with my chin.

Temperance smirks as if he knows what I'm doing, recognizes how close I'm standing, understands I'm ordering him to dance. A little bit of a quid pro quo, you might say. You came into my house unannounced, the least you can do is what I tell you to.

Temperance glances at the couch over his shoulder and then gives me his back to move toward it. Happy to play your games, Sweetie.

It's only two strides and Temperance is there, with me right behind him, crowding him. When he turns to sit I remain close, but the only effect on him appears to be amusement.

I stand over him, his knees almost brushing mine as he lands on the low, deep couch. It's meant for lounging, curling one’s legs up, and staring out to the sea.

I hand Temperance his glass, leaning over so that my breasts fall together and push at the top button of my blouse.

He doesn't glance at them, but when I turn around, crossing to my chair, I check in the mirror to see his eyes exactly where I expect them to be.

My gaze is drawn back to where Ash stood. He's gone—slipped away quiet as a mouse. Sneaky as a snake. I’ve never caught him looking. Not once. But I don’t doubt the way I affect him. I’m just that arrogant.

I sit in a high-backed chair to face Temperance. The view isn't as good as the one from the couch, and I rarely take this seat. It also makes me feel like a guest in my own home, a feeling I now force away. I belong here. This is all mine. I earned it.

But could I have done it without Temperance Johnson? Probably not. Beating your first director to death—with his own Oscar no less—is the kind of thing that makes others shy away from working with you. No matter how much the director deserved it.

Crossing one leg over the other, I meet Temperance’s waiting gaze.

"How can I help you?" I ask, keeping my voice light, as if I'm only mildly interested.

The crystal tumbler looks almost small cradled in his large hands. "I need you to deliver something for me."

I sip my seltzer. The headache throbbing behind my eyes is starting to form talons. In the last few years Temperance has only asked that I listen and report back to him on all the rumors swirling in my world. He’s directed me to attend parties, to accept roles.

“You need me to deliver something?" I prompt when he doesn't continue.

"You'll be in England for the press tour. You'll attend a party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Balmoral for the Globe Kids Trust. I need you to give something to the Duchess."

I blink a few times. I'm not surprised Temperance knows about my connection to the Globe Kids Trust—a nonprofit associated with the famous Globe Theatre in London that gives access to theater training to underprivileged youth.

When I set up something similar, though much less prestigious, in my home town, their program director was very generous in sharing insights with my team.

Victoria Elizabeth, the Duchess of Balmoral, is a major supporter of the Globe Kids Trust. She's always had an interest in the theater.

Her husband was an actor before giving up his career when he married into the royal family.

Benjamin Arthur isn't the first one of my profession to sidestep into royalty.

The news here is I'll be attending an event that, to my knowledge, I have not been invited to yet. Before the gunfire at my premiere, my schedule wouldn't have allowed for it.

A tickling at the back of my neck makes me wonder if the attack on the theater last night was somehow orchestrated to revise my schedule, allowing me to act as Temperance's courier.

Silence draws out. Should I say it? Or just let it go? “That’s convenient for you,” I say, broadening my smile. We are in on the same joke.

His eyebrows go up. I don ’ t get your meaning.

“My schedule changing the way it has, works out for you.” I push the point.

He shakes his head a little and drops his gaze to his glass, as if just now understanding my meaning. A soft sigh eases out of him. Now I ’ ll have to say something I didn ’ t want to say. “I did warn you.”

The ridges of cut crystal dig into my hand as I tighten my grip on the glass. He warned me not to accept this role. Warned that it would make me a target.

“I don’t regret it.” I had to do something.

“Yet,” he says, his eyes rising to mine. There is sympathy in the swirling depths. “You don’t regret it yet.” Temperance isn’t threatening me. He’s warning me. Again.

I don’t respond. Can’t. Have nothing to say. Nowhere to go. No one different to be.

Temperance reaches into his pocket, all casual predator. He leans forward to lay something on the glass coffee table. It’s bronze and round with a coiled chain. I resist the urge to scoot to the edge of my chair and get a better look. It looks like an old pocket watch from where I’m sitting.

Silence descends. The ocean crashes against the shore. "Is there anything else?"

Temperance shakes his head. He leaves his glass on the coffee table and rises. I settle deeper into my seat, sipping my drink. "I guess you can see yourself out, then." My tone is droll. You showed yourself in, after all.

He offers me a subtle yet infuriatingly arrogant smile in return. "Yes, of course."

His unannounced presence was all just a mind fuck. A reminder of who holds the power. As if I could forget. Tears of rage burn my eyes but I blink, forcing my body back under control, taking a slow breath and letting a satisfied smile spread across my lips.

You wasted your time, I'm not intimidated by you. I know my body does things to yours that you can't control. You're not the only one with power in this room.

Temperance ascends the stairs out of the sunken living room, his broad shoulders square. He crosses the marble entry to the towering front doors, his shoes quiet on the hard surface.

The door he chooses closes behind him with a soft thud and a second later the lock automatically thunks into place.

I take a few breaths, looking at the closed doors, then stand. Crossing to the coffee table, I put my glass down next to Temperance’s and pick up the object he left.

The chain uncoils as I lift it. The whole thing is smooth bronze, no inscriptions or decorations. There is a button at the top and when I press it the lid pops up, revealing a compass. I run my thumb over the glass protecting the face.

Slipping it into my back pocket, I stride purposefully into the west wing of the house, my heels clicking a sharp staccato. It’s time to deal with Ash.

I pass the gym, a glass box cantilevered over the beach with a magnificent view of the ocean. I pass the closed bedroom door of my housekeeper, Madeline, and push into Ash's room without knocking.

He's standing by the bed with the shimmering ocean and cloud-crowded sky behind him. Ash is wearing workout clothing, a black pair of loose shorts with spandex peeking out underneath. Tattoos snake from the tight material, drifting down his thick thighs.

His tank top is made of the same shimmering moisture-wicking material as his shorts. Ash's bulging shoulders are also patterned with tattoos that twine down and around his massive biceps. The man is an inked, muscled giant.

My breath is coming fast, and I take a moment to let it settle. We both wait in the silence. His expression is blank. The sound of the ocean pounds against the closed windows at his back.

"I understand that Temperance is your boss," I begin.

Ash doesn't move. No agreement. Not a nod, not a flick of his eyes. He just stares at me with that cold, cobalt gaze.

"But if I ever find him in my home again without warning," I take a pause, take a breath, drop my gaze to Ash's chest rising and falling. I wait for a slow inhale, a measured exhale. Time stretches. He still doesn't speak.

I meet his gaze again. "I will kill you." The promise comes from my gut, from my heart. It is a promise from my very fucking soul. I take another breath. He does the same.

And on the exhale, Ash replies, "Understood."