Mission: Out of Control (3 page)

Everyone just calm down.
She knew what she was doing.

Although she could admit to being just a little terrified when she found herself on the floor of the club. Being stomped on.

Not that Brody would ever know that.

But she would have survived. It was the one thing she knew how to do.

“And what do you do when you're not standing guard outside someone's hotel room?” Ronie tried to smile, aiming for too sweet when she said it.

He met her eyes. “I work out. And listen to classical music.” No return smile.

Ellie passed him the rolls. “Isn't that lovely. Our family has season tickets to the New York Philharmonic. We just heard them play Brahms, the Second Symphony.”

Ronie wanted to nod off into her potatoes. Maybe a date, forced or otherwise, would have been better—at
least said suitor might be trying to impress her father, and her, in hopes of winning round two.

Brody Wickham didn't seem at all interested in her opinion of him.

Well, except for the moment she'd caught him staring, his gaze lingering on her as he'd pulled out her chair to the table.

As if trying to recognize in her the woman who'd belted him.

Yeah, well, there was more where that came from if he got too close. But, see, that could work, too—more craziness, and perhaps she
would
throw in shopping and nightclubs, drive him insane by making him fetch her coffee and donuts, anything she could do to remind him that, yes, she might just be the high-maintenance diva he'd scooped off the floor.

He'd rue the day he ever agreed to her father's terms. If he thought she was hard to control onstage…

“How long have you been in the military, Mr. Wickham?” her mother asked.

Ah, the woman had caught him midbite. Ronie raised an eyebrow, enjoying the debate in his eyes. Finally, he replaced his fork, fully loaded, onto the plate. “I'm not in the military anymore, ma'am. But I was in for sixteen years.”

“Only four years shy of retirement? That seems a strange time to leave.”

Of course, the senator had to press. Why not? It seemed his specialty had become evaluating people's lives, making them rethink their decisions, embarrassing them…

Brody's gaze went to his plate. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Yes, sir.”

Hmm. The silence after his words had even Ronie clinking her plate with her fork, dividing her asparagus into chunks.

Outside, twilight had descended, shaggy fir trees shifting shadows into the yard, and the cicadas had come out, buzzing in the night. Ronie longed to push away from the table and escape outside into the sultry, thick air, slip off her shoes, feel her toes in the cool grass. If she listened hard, perhaps she'd hear laughter from the playhouse on the far edge of the yard, maybe even see Savannah beckoning to her from the swing set.

Not the Savannah that peered down upon them from the oil on the wall behind her in the dining room, but the one with long brown hair, so soft for braiding, the one who knew all the voices to
Little Women.

“So, I suppose you visited a lot of interesting places in the military?” Ellie to the rescue, still trying to pawn off the rolls.

“Yes, ma'am.” Brody accepted another roll, set it next to his already cut and buttered one. What, was he going to slip it into his pocket for later?

“Have you seen action?”

“Oh, Ellie, don't ask him that.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Brody said, again that strange glance down at his dinner. The entire affair felt not unlike a KGB interrogation. They just needed the bright lights and the toothpicks. For a second, Ronie had the urge to rescue him.

Thankfully, it passed.

“Mr. Wickham's offices are in downtown Prague,
Ellie.” The senator turned to Brody. “Beautiful city, Prague. Went there on my twenty-fifth anniversary, with my wife.”

Ellie looked over at him with a smile, not a hint of warmth in her eyes. “Yes. Very beautiful.”

Her father had finished off his bourbon and switched to merlot. He swished his wine by the stem of the glass. “I saw that you worked for Hans Brumegaarden. Something about a birthday party, and Snow White?”

Was that a blush on Wickham's face? Maybe, but then it vanished and he caught Ronie's eye, straight on. “Yes. Our security firm was asked to dress the part while protecting Gretchen Brumegaarden during her Disney-themed birthday party. I was a dwarf. I'll do anything to keep a client safe. Even if she is five years old and dressed up in some crazy costume.”

What? No, he didn't just call her a five-year-old, did he? Her mouth opened. Oh, she so had words for him. But no, she was a Wagner. She'd keep it to herself.

At least tonight.

“I need some air.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for dinner. I'll see you all in the morning.”

Brody rose from the table. The senator stayed seated. Ellie put out her hand, catching her arm. “Veronica—”

“It's Ronie, Mom. My friends call me Ronie. Or, if you want, Vonya would work, too.” She pulled away and glanced at the Boy Scout. “The tour starts in a week. Try to stay out of my hair until then.”

She was turning away when she heard him mutter, “Which hair?”

And oh, she shouldn't have, but she couldn't stop
herself. In fact, yes, she turned right about five years old as she picked up one of the rolls and hurled it across the table, right at his smug little kisser.

“Veronica!”

He caught it with one hand.

Smiled.

Nodded.

Game on.

Fine. If that was how he wanted it. She turned, ignoring her mother's hand as it tried to catch her.

The moon had lifted above the trees, a spotlight in the sky, skimming over the cool grass. She toed off her sandals, sifting the grass through her feet as she treaded over to the swing set.

She sat on it. Heard the voices of the past.

“When I grow up, I'm going to be a famous actress.”
Savannah's voice filtered from the yellow playhouse, its windows like eyes, dark and empty.
“I'll sing, too—we'll sing together.”

“Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.”

Ronie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened her picture file. She scrolled through the thumbnails, intending to stop on Savannah.

Instead, she clicked open Kafara's picture. Chubby, dark cheeks, a white smile, holding out a pineapple for her right before he cut it in half with his machete. How he loved to bring her treats from his village. She ran her thumb over the photo.
Don't give up on me, Kafara. Because I'm not giving up on you.

She pocketed the phone, found a tune, something from the past. Let the wind take her song.

“Which hair?”
Brody's smug expression, especially after he'd caught the roll, made her push off, start to swing.

Game on, indeed. Yes, he would rue the day he'd agreed to stand in her way.

B
rody Wickham didn't run from crazy. He didn't care what costume Vonya appeared in, what outrageous request she made of him. Didn't care how many times she asked him for a macchiato coffee or food from the craft table. He'd keep on informing her he wasn't a butler—he hadn't been hired to carry her shoes or protect her delicate skin from the harsh sunlight.

And to think the gig hadn't even officially started, although the week spent in New York City watching her rehearse had him second-guessing this gig every day. He couldn't wait for the weekend leave when he'd return to D.C. and check in on his family before leaving for Europe.

Brody Wickham fully planned to outlast her. Figure her out. Win at whatever game they happened to be playing in her head. After all, how was he supposed to protect her if he couldn't predict her moves? She certainly wasn't going to make it easy by, say, cooperating.

She made him want to bang his own head against something hard and cold. Whose brain-dead idea had it been to earn a quick 100K anyway?

“Thank you, Brody.”
His mother's face when he
handed her a portion of the prepayment of services after returning from the meeting with Senator Wagner. He hadn't expected it to feel so good to help his parents.

Or to know that they wouldn't lose the family home.

Or give his brother a shot at a decent education.

And, truthfully, Ronyika—as he'd taken to calling her—did intrigue him.

After all, he'd never seen anyone wearing giant wings during a pop song before, even if watching her dangle fifteen feet on a trapeze swing off the ground as if she might be flying nearly gave him chest pains. Today her hair was baby-boy blue, an almost clownish mop of curls atop her head. And she wore a black Batman mask, perhaps just in case anyone mistook her for the sugarplum fairy.

In truth, she scared him a little with how quickly she morphed from high-society Veronica to Vampy Vonya.

“Is she schizophrenic? Maybe suffering from multiple personality disorder?” He hadn't exactly meant to say that aloud, but perhaps his disbelief at watching her suspend herself from the ceiling as the fog machine filled up the stage simply overtook his brain and he accidentally went audible with his opinion.

Her manager looked up at him and shook his head. “No, she's brilliant.”

“Tommy D” D'Amico reminded him of a man who might greet him at a frat party. Or a used-car sales lot. A full head of blond curly hair, eyes that didn't retain his quick smile, the fast handshake. Shiny alligator shoes that probably cost half Brody's yearly income. What
had Senator Wagner said about someone skimming her profits?

Brody had done a background check on Tommy first, followed by Leah, her pretty assistant. If the black-haired whirlwind gained about sixty pounds of muscle and grew a foot, she just might give Brody a run for his money with all the hovering she did.

Although Miss Ronyika hadn't seen anything yet.

But why was a girl who'd been stalked—in and out of the tabloids—uninterested in having a bodyguard?

More intrigue.

He'd kept his distance this week as he conducted his background checks, went over the accommodations—he'd changed them to decent hotels, thank you very much—and scoured the itinerary. If she wanted to be treated like the pop sensation she was becoming, she needed to start thinking about more upscale lodging, venues…perhaps even attire. But he wasn't touching that.

He'd conceded, also, to the fact he'd have to involve the rest of the Stryker International crew—Artyom and Luke—if he wanted to prepare for contingencies at the concert venues. Thankfully, the Stryker staff jumped at the work, also bored with their mandatory R & R.

Now if he could just figure out Vonya's mind. It was not unlike trying to get a firm grip on Jell-O.

“You know she did two years in Harvard's MBA program for international business, right? And can speak four languages? She's a genius with this stuff.”

Really? Because how much genius did it take to sing “Your love gives me wings, makes me sing, on a swing”?

Still, four languages? Could one of those possibly be Klingon?

“I have to admit, she looks like she could just about fly if she wanted to.” He winced, however, at how high she swung. Hopefully the grips would make sure the trapeze was secure, or he would. She might be hard to catch.

“The wings are her design, as is the swing act. It'll be a hit.” Tommy patted him on the arm as the director stopped the scene. The recorded music died in the speakers.

An air-conditioned chill collected in the warehouse, despite the tepid June air outside. Vonya must be freezing in her light blue leotard and tights. However, she seemed the consummate professional, hitting every cue. And, if someone put him under the bright lights, he might even admit that she exuded a sort of Marilyn Monroe beauty that wasn't completely unlikable.

Tommy clapped as she finished her song, the stage crew lowering the swing so she could hop off. “But you're right, no one can pull off the wings like Vonya. We'll add in the special effects for the video and sweep at this year's MTV Awards.” He turned to Brody, white teeth showing. “You're the lucky one—you get to watch her premiere the live act as part of the tour.”

Oh, yes, lucky him.

“She won two awards last year, you know. One for a music video, and she was up for best album, too. A real coup for an indie band. But she's headed toward the big-time—even international stardom with this tour.” Tommy D shook his wrist, checking his diamond-
encrusted watch, shiny under the spotlights. “I just hope you're up to this.”

Brody raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, the last bodyguard her father hired ended up in the hospital. Heart attack.”

Really? Brody nearly put his own hand to his chest watching her swing in the air.

“Heart attack, huh?”

“The first time we were in Zimbala. She had just walked into a refugee camp. Of course, the man spent more time at the craft table than in her shadow, but yes. Heart attack. Could have been much worse.” Tommy patted him again, a habit that just might cause him to lose a hand. “But she's not on any goodwill trips this tour, so probably you're okay.”

“Goodwill trip?”

“Oh, it's Ronie's weakness—she's got the heart of Mother Theresa. Can't pass up a child in need. We have to visit every refugee camp, every orphanage. But I told her, no bleeding-heart stunts this time.”

Yes, he'd read that, but honestly, he thought it more publicity than fact. She intrigued him, this woman of numerous personalities—and, apparently, layers.

After she had left the dinner table the other night, he'd spied her in the yard nearly an hour later, swinging on an old swing set, humming.

She'd seemed so forlorn, for a crazy second he'd almost pitied her. After all, even he had felt the chill at the dinner table between Mrs. and Senator Stuffy. It didn't take a psychologist to see open wounds.

Not that he could hide his so much. He remembered
more staring at his cold pork roast than was good for him.

Maybe, suddenly, he understood the Vonya act, just a little.

He took another sip of his black, industrial-strength coffee. “Listen, Tommy, I need to know if she's going to do any more crazy stunts like she did at the D.C. club.”

“Like?” Tommy D raised an eyebrow.

“Like throw herself into the audience? Maybe climb on top of a speaker and dive? I mean, look at her—she's flying. I think she's got a Superman complex.”

Indeed, now that the stage crew had finished lowering her to the stage, she balanced atop a baby grand.

“She's a bird—you know, flying?” Tommy shook his head. “You bodyguard types haven't a creative bone in your body.”

Hello, but yes, he did. Just…okay, he liked his creativity confined to Sunday morning omelets.

“Just how creative is she? I mean, do I have to watch out for her turning into a clubbing diva and sneaking out to paint the city?”

Tommy's mouth quirked. “I don't think you have anything to worry about. She'd rather stay in her hotel room and hang out with Lyle.”

Lyle?

But Tommy moved away, shouting directions at the director.

Lyle. Brody tried to ignore the
Idiot!
ringing in his head for not knowing about her boyfriend. He took another sip of coffee, already mentally texting Artyom
for a background check. Just when he thought he'd crossed all his
t
's.

It was this kind of oversight that got people killed.

He watched as she crossed her blue legs and leaned forward, puckering her lips. A photographer grabbed the shot.

Anyone who could keep up with Vonya's attention span must be an interesting guy. Brody took another sip of coffee, then threw it in the trash, reaching for his phone.

Artyom texted him back almost immediately, apparently holed up in a hotel in Berlin while Luke met with the security team at the Klub, Vonya's Berlin venue.

How are the Prague and Amsterdam venues?

All set in Prague. Heading to Amstdm next.

Brody closed his phone. Vonya had hopped off the piano, helped herself to juice and was leaning against the wall, possibly reading her mail on her iPhone.

Like a normal person. She just might be the most gifted master of disguise he'd ever met, because she appeared comfortable in every persona she donned.

But she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him about Lyle, had she? Clearly, if he hoped to get her to open up, to let him truly protect her, he'd have to play her game.

“You don't even like me.”

The words pinged inside him for some reason.

He wasn't paid to like her. But if he had to pretend to get her to cooperate, well, no one ever accused him of not being willing to sacrifice for his job.

And he wasn't exactly lacking in the charm department. He'd had his share of women on his arm.

He pocketed his phone, swung by the table, filled a plate with grapes and cheese, and brought it over to her.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, the sadness in her blue-painted eyes stopped him cold. Were those—

Yes. She lifted her hand to swipe it across her cheek, then stopped herself and blinked the tears away. He could recognize a forced smile when he saw it. “Can I help you?”

Wow, he wanted a glimpse of what might be on her screen that would elicit that response. “You need to eat.” He handed her the plate and leaned over a bit.

She stared at the food plate as if it might be a bomb. “What's this?”

“Grapes. And I think that's Gouda.”

She considered him a moment, then glanced at the phone. “Uh…”

“I can hold that for you.”

She moved her thumb over the screen, then handed over the phone and took the plate. “Thank you?”

He nodded, smiled. “You're welcome.”

“It doesn't mean we're friends, you know.” She picked up a grape, popping it in her mouth.

“Heaven forbid.” He glanced at the phone. She'd closed out her screen, of course.

“I wanted to ask you about Lyle.”

She raised one eyebrow, popping another grape into her mouth. “Lyle? Why?”

“Apparently he's an important part of your life. I think I need to meet him, especially if he's going to be hanging around during the tour.” That was nice and casual, not a
hint of annoyance in his voice that she hadn't even once mentioned the man.

“I'm not sure he's going. Leah hasn't decided yet.”

What did her assistant have to do with her boyfriend's decision to join her? “Why not?”

“He's got school.”

Lawyer? Doctor? He didn't exactly know why this bothered him. “What is he studying?”

A slow smile slid up her face, almost like a shark pulling back its teeth. “Gym and lunch are his favorite subjects, I think.” At this, she winked and finished off the last of the grapes. “I'll make sure he stops by later. I do think it's time you met my son.” She handed him the plate and took back her phone, leaving him standing there with a big pile of stinky cheese.

 

Oh, the look on Brody's face had been priceless. So worth accepting his goodwill grapes.

Even if, technically, she'd had to lie. Although she
considered
Lyle her son. He'd been living with her every summer and holiday since she'd found the four-year-old curled up on the park bench her freshman year of college at Columbia University where she did her undergraduate work.

Which, of course, led to her meeting his sister, Leah. And arranging for his schooling with their mother, at least until the day the cops found her dead in Central Park.

Now Leah had official custody.

And Brody had looked like she'd belted him again.

See, no one pulled a fast one on Vonya.

“Ronie, are you okay in there?”

Ronie could picture Leah just outside the door, her kinky black hair wild around her face, dressed in a peasant's shirt, tied at the neck. Leah's appearance, head to toe, matched her personality—friendly, fun, honest. She'd turned into an exceptional assistant, and Ronie couldn't imagine a Sunday morning without pancakes with her and Lyle.

Ronie wiped her face, toweled off her hair. “I'll be out in a minute. How did your interview go with Brody Wickham, aka the Boy Scout?” She wiped the mirror with a washcloth, a swipe as large as her hand that revealed her streaked, formerly made-up face. Rehearsals for her tour seemed even more grueling today, and instead of showering at the studio, she'd raced home to her own digs.

“Wick—that's his nickname. He seems nice. And genuinely concerned for your safety.”

“Yeah, too concerned if you ask me.” She would need another layer of remover to wipe the last of the indigo blue from around her eyes, but finally, she'd begun to see hints of her real self. Unremarkable hazel-green eyes, brown hair chopped short, the color of prairie mud, now knotted in a mass from a brisk towel-rubbing. A few freckles formerly concealed with powder. And pale yet plump lips that others probably envied, but on her it looked like too much effort for too little result.