Page 5 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Five

I storm into my bedroom on the far side of the house, slamming the door. It doesn't make enough noise. Some kind of pneumatic stop turns the crack I want into a gentle thud.

Fuck.

A lump of emotion threatens to choke me. Dropping into a plush armchair, I unzip my boots and kick them off. Soft brown leather with a heel designed to kill, the pair sink into the pale lilac shag rug. They look like strange animals in an alien land.

Beyond them my bed is a temple of pillows and puff. I wish I could climb into it and cry.

But I'm way past sad. Crying won’t cut it.

I'm enraged.

And the only way to break myself free is to run. I need to pump my arms and legs, feel my muscles burn, really let my lungs breathe.

I take the two steps down from the lounge area—all on my own, imagine that—to where my king-size bed faces the turmoil of the sea.

Grabbing the clicker from the bedside table, I turn on the TV.

Then I continue toward my closet as the 24-hour news channel sparks to life. The anchor’s voice follows me.

"Rebecca Levi, noted billionaire philanthropist and social entrepreneur, has officially entered the race for president. Levi, who made her fortune through pioneering social ventures in housing, healthcare, and clean energy, is the first…"

I don’t know why I torture myself like this. The news will only feed the yearning inside me. This painful urge to do something when there is nothing to do. No way to escape.

My closet is huge, almost as big as my first apartment when I moved to LA. The clothing hanging in here probably cost more than the house I grew up in. The house I still own.

My grandmother died a year and a half ago, but the modest three-bedroom with its haunting memories and meticulously maintained front yard is still in probate.

The homeowners’ association, taking advantage of new religious freedom laws, has decided to enforce "Biblical male headship" principles. Those bastards claim it is essential to preserve their community’s values. Such bullshit.

Memories of the men who now reside on that board salivating over my teenage body—their eyes roaming over it like I was a landscape to be admired instead of a child to be protected—roils the nausea in my gut. Values. Fuck them.

The new religious exception laws allow the HOA to override state inheritance rules, arguing that property within the community must remain under male stewardship to align with their faith-based covenants.

The fact that my grandmother wasn’t a male doesn’t seem to be penetrating their religion-addled brains. So it’s not about remaining , it’s about taking. They are trying to move the property under a man’s power.

My grandmother lived there because it was the house she could afford, and we attended the local church because it was what everyone did. I never felt my grandmother felt a closeness to God—more that she followed religious rules because she didn’t want to be punished.

The community I grew up in didn’t want women having abortions and was suspicious of any kind of birth control; didn’t think speech should be so free that rappers could say whatever they wanted; and viewed gay marriage as an abomination. They claimed not to hate the sinner, but rather the sin.

And yes, the community believed women should be submissive to men, but the idea of taking their property? No.

But now. Now. My legal right to inherit my grandmother’s house is being challenged. The HOA insists the title must pass to a male family member or be held in trust by the association itself until an acceptable male heir can be identified.

I’m my grandmother’s only living relative—her brothers and sister all died in concentration camps during the Holocaust. My grandfather passed before I was born. And my parents’ car accident happened when I was eleven.

Eleven…tears burn hard at the back of my eyes, the loss of my mom suddenly a fresh wound. I can’t. I can’t.

This shouldn’t be legal! I yank open a drawer. It didn’t used to be legal. I let out a slow breath but my chest remains tight. The Supreme Court will decide within the next month. Just another bomb waiting to explode.

I pull out running clothes and try to slam the drawer back into place. I’m thwarted again by the pneumatic softening, and it closes with a gentled sigh.

I pause, breathe. Close my eyes. Notice the tightness in my chest, the sharp pain throbbing at my temples, the heat behind my eyes. I inhale, cool air passing over my lips. Then I exhale, the breath warm.

Opening my eyes, I'm staring at the sneaker section of my closet.

And I just want to fucking scream. But I reach for socks instead, my hand brushing against an old worn paperback.

I pause, forgetting the footwear and staring down at the edge of the book.

The Twentieth Day of January… a gift from Vladimir Petrov.

I pull it out. On the cover a Soviet sickle and a pistol rest on a spread of hundred-dollar bills.

The pages are yellowed, the scent that classic old book smell.

I read it in one night. It’s hard to believe that was me.

That I am her. The woman who didn’t know.

Didn’t understand the machinations of influence and power.

I swallow the fear that haunted me the first night I read this novel—this gift from a Russian oligarch—about a presidential candidate under the control of the Soviet Union.

Published in 1980, The Twentieth Day of January is a classic spy novel about an American businessman from a wealthy East Coast family who, with very little political experience, and spouting populist rhetoric, manages to win the presidency against far more experienced opponents.

Check.

A CIA operative discovers the plot and realizes that the Kremlin is in control of the President-elect. This creates a crisis for the intelligence agency: let a man with hidden ties to the Soviet Union become President, or create a possible Constitutional crisis by exposing the plot?

Check.

A no-win situation. The book, however, has a satisfying ending. The President-elect’s wife is shown the compromising materials being used to blackmail her husband and confronts him. Overwhelmed with shame, he commits suicide before his inauguration.

Grand’s wife is his biggest supporter—in the real world, the morality of women can’t save us. Too many of them stand by her man even as his boot presses on her neck.

Vladimir left this short book on my apartment door in a black bag—something you’d expect to find jewelry in, not an out-of-print spy novel that seems to be the basis for a Russian plot that was unfolding. Unfolded. It’s done now.

Petrov is dead, I cracked his skull open. But like any good evil monster, it just grows another head.

Chris looks up at me as I start down the steps to the beach. The wood is warm under my bare feet. The wind whips, pressing my shorts and T-shirt flush. Chris's eyes bounce from my hips to my breasts and finally to my face. Our eyes meet.

I saw you looking.

Chris clears his throat, and his cheekbones flush pink. The ocean wind toys with his pitch-black hair and presses his blazer tight to his side, exposing the outline of a gun beneath.

The beach spans away on either side of him. The tide has pulled back and while the strip of beach in front of my house is still narrow, it widens where the newer zoning keeps the homes at bay.

"Good afternoon," Chris says with a wary smile. He's not sure what I'm doing down here in my jogging clothes without a security agent to escort me.

"Hey," I say, my tone friendly. "I'm going for a jog."

His brows raise. "We're not prepared for that. But if you give me just a few minutes I can arrange it."

I don't wait.

Chris starts to follow as he speaks into his comms unit. "The Golden Bird is moving."

Actually, a smirk steals over my lips as I reach the wave line, I’m running.

Taking off at a sprint, my bare feet dig into the cold hard-packed sand. A wave froths over my toes, swallowing up to my ankles. I run through it—cold wet grit splashing up my calves.

I don't slow, I don't stop. Each wave surges and I relish the drag, relish the challenge.

Chris can't keep up. It's not his fault. He's in business attire. He's wearing shoes. He shrinks every time I look back.

But then over the pounding of the ocean I hear an engine. A dune buggy buzzes in my direction, the wide tires eating up the beach. It slows to pick up Chris and then, sand spitting in its wake, churns toward me.

I keep running and the whine of the engine closes in, clamoring as loud as the sea. But then it slows, settling into a rumble before falling silent. I glance back.

The dune buggy sways as Ash swings out of the driver's seat. A black baseball cap shadows his eyes but I still know when our gazes touch. Something like raw fear seizes my chest with an electric jolt.

I run faster, focusing on the beach ahead, heart hammering, adrenaline pounding through me. The rumble of the dune buggy starts up again.

It closes in. Then it passes me. Chris stares stoically ahead, allowing me the privacy I so obviously crave. He continues up a hundred yards and then starts to match my pace.

Ash follows thirty yards behind.

The panic subsides and embarrassment creeps over my cheeks. Ash isn't hunting me. He's trying to protect me. That could change. But right now, I'm safe.

My pace slows to a steady jog. Ash and Chris keep their distance. No one tries to hurt me—or stop me.

Forty minutes later when I turn around to head back, so does Ash. And glancing behind me, I see the dune buggy switching directions to follow. Clouds block out the sun and the chilled wind coming off the ocean keeps my heated skin from burning.

I'm steady on the way home, my mind settled into that place where my breath and the waves fill my consciousness, all my fears and worries buried under the present moment.

Ash slows a half mile from my house—which is a reasonable thing to do. I should walk to cool down. But the idea of following his leadership makes my skin itch.

So I keep running, closing the distance between us. I have a childish urge to shove him from behind, maybe knock him into a wave. It would be real fun to knock Ash Fraser off balance.

He glances back and then picks up his speed to match me. I can almost hear his thoughts—something technical about the importance of cooling down after exertion, but I'm not sure I can ever cool down again.

The world is slipping into a ditch—I have so much power but not nearly enough. And it feels like I’m burning alive.

Ash waits for me at the bottom of my steps. The tide has receded further, the beach wider. Sun pierces the cloud cover and hits the horizon line. It glows suddenly gold.

I turn from the water line toward the house. The sand is deep and soft. My legs burn and my lungs are scorched. But I keep my pace steady.

Ash scans the surroundings, looking for threats. When I'm ten yards away and still running, his focus finds me. Ash's expression doesn't change. He doesn't take a step back to give me more space or move forward to block my path. He doesn't start up the steps ahead of me.

The man just watches me come.

When I run past him my shoulder brushes his bicep. He doesn't flinch. And neither do I.