Star Crossed (15 page)

“Put her on your dad’s list too,” Szymanski suggested.

“I will.” Maybe she shouldn’t have needed it, but the men’s support steadied her. She turned to Martin. “You find a safe room we can convert?”

Martin smiled approvingly. “There’s a walk-in closet off Luke’s bedroom. The armorers come tomorrow to everything-proof it.”

“Good.” Clients didn’t always have the budget to create a panic room, but as high profile as Luke was, it was a smart idea. “I’ll sleep better knowing he’s got one.”

She’d spoken without thinking. Szymanski coughed into his fist. The reaction made her wonder if he’d heard her and Luke join the mile-high club.

“Those ribs were peppery,” he said, taking a swig from his water glass. The twinkle in his eyes suggested that wasn’t the reason for his cough.

Oh screw it
, she thought. If he’d heard, he’d heard. She might not like him and Martin knowing, but if anyone had a right to be informed about her slipup with their client, it was these two.

To her relief, the knowledge didn’t seem to have shaken their faith in her. They were treating her like she could handle this. Before she could stop herself, she gave in to impulse. “I’m glad you guys came out here with me.”

Szymanski grinned. “Our pleasure, kid.”

“Always,” Martin said warmly.

A.J. cleared her throat before it could tighten.

HOLLYWOOD was a ridiculous place to live—overpriced, overhyped, and just plain childish in many ways. Luke adored it all the same, more than anywhere in the world. Tinseltown might have branches around the globe, but its traditional epicenter threw off magic like no other. From sparkling sunshine to swaying palms, LA was a fantasy.

You couldn’t pick a better spot to reinvent yourself.

Mayfair—as Luke’s historic home was known—was the best part of returning from a trip. Composed of equal parts glamour and nostalgia, its amazing ocean vistas offered views through both space and time. No matter how the fame he loved sometimes pressed in on him, here he had breathing room. He used to, anyway. Tonight his house was a police state.

A.J.’s people had invaded.

He stood on the curving terrace outside his bedroom suite. Normally, the sight of moonbeams shimmering on the water soothed anything that ailed him. At this precise moment: not so much. Two guards patrolled his grounds with German shepherds. A third was a silent shape farther down the balcony, his posture that of a soldier at parade rest. Back inside, Szymanski had been posted outside his bedroom door.

Luke could go anywhere he wanted. He just couldn’t go alone.

His biggest source of annoyance embarrassed him. None of guards who shadowed him were A.J. No doubt he watched too many movies. He’d figured there’d be perks to hiring his long-lost flame. Sadly, it looked like the perks he’d gotten were all there’d be. Maybe he should have filmed their quickie on the plane. At least then he could have replayed it.

Snorting to himself made the guard on the terrace shift. If Luke weren’t careful, this situation would drive him around the bend.

Stifling a sigh, he went back inside. It was late, and the tension of the last few days had exhausted him. Because he knew mere exhaustion wouldn’t cut it in his current state, he poured and threw back a short whiskey. Brushing his teeth and reading in bed continued his ritual. Once the last page was turned, he switched out the light, pulled up his smooth Frette sheets, and performed two minutes of slow breathing. He guessed his therapist was right. Consistent habits did help insomnia. To his amazement, he went under with no trouble.

As luck would have it, he slid into his least favorite memory.

*

In the dream, Luke shuddered sluggishly awake. He was a boy again, trapped in the old wardrobe, surrounded by the smell of mothballs and damp cement. He didn’t bother bracing on the wardrobe’s rear to push his tennis shoes at the doors. He’d attempted that so many times he’d almost crippled his back with bruises. The cabinet the woman shut him in was solid. Thick wood. Strong hinges. The sort his dad said people didn’t make anymore.

He’d wasted energy and time trying to break out. Worse, he had even less strength now. Once his captor realized he’d never go along with her, she’d stopped feeding him everyday.

The thick feeling in his head, like steam had been forced into his brain cells, told him she’d drugged his meal again.

At first, when he figured out what she was doing, he’d tried not to eat or drink. That made him weak as well. Now he choked down the endless Chinese food she brought, no matter what she put in it. He was too hungry to resist. That’s what he told himself anyway. Admitting he’d begun to welcome the escape the sedatives provided made him uncomfortable.

I haven’t given up
, he swore.
I’ll keep fighting however long it takes to escape.

If
you escape
, the darker self inside him said.

That voice told him to lie, to pretend to be what the woman wanted. The one time he’d tried, she hadn’t believed him. She’d refused to unlock the shackle she put around his wrist when she let him out to use the ancient toilet in the corner of the cellar. She’d stand outside the door, holding tight to the chain’s other end. She didn’t seem to like this arrangement. Luke certainly didn’t. He thought he could convince her to give it up. When he couldn’t, he decided his darker self was stupid. It didn’t know better than the rest of him.

Not about anything
, he insisted.

Luke was only eleven and not tall yet. The wardrobe was big enough to stand in if he kept his head to the side of the hanger bar. He forced himself onto his feet now, to work the muscles he had left even though the simple act of standing made him shake all over. He breathed slowly—in and out, in and out—until he didn’t feel like he was going to hurl. He’d stopped noticing that he stunk. He had bigger worries to concern him.

His arms trembled as he lifted each skinny one in turn. Being able to see them meant it was day outside. A fuzzy line of light filtered between the wardrobe doors Not much light. The beams had to travel from the cellar’s single small window, but his eyes had adjusted. If he ever got out of here, he’d be a mole person.

The dark self inside him laughed.
You hear what you said? ‘If’ you get out of here. You’re not getting out, idiot. You’ve been gone so long your parents have given up.

The anger that roared through him drained every drop of strength. His knees gave out and his head cracked against the wood. He moaned at the sledgehammer pain in his skull. The sound was pitiful, like an animal whimpering.

I’m getting out
, he tried to promise.
I’ll play baseball again. I’ll eat hotdogs. I’ll hug my mom and dad
.

His throat refused to cooperate. All it did was moan louder.

*

Strictly speaking, A.J. didn’t have to check on Szymanski before she went off shift. He was experienced, and this job had a good-size team. If he needed anything, he’d contact another guard. Despite this knowledge, her feet took her to the hallway outside Luke’s suite.

Szymanski stood there, calm and alert. He cracked a small grin on spotting her. “Hey, boss. Come to tuck in Glamour Boy?”

A.J. frowned at his teasing. “Just making sure you have everything you need.”

“I do. And everything is quiet. You ought to grab some Z’s. You’re first shift tomorrow. The maids mentioned Channing keeps farm boy hours.”

“I’m about to turn in.” She rubbed her jaw. “I just wish we’d made more progress on the case side of things.”

“Your dad will keep the ball rolling. Anyway, my wife says sometimes you don’t find your answer until you let the question go.”

“Your better half is quite the philosopher.”

“That she is,” Szymanski agreed fondly. “I don’t know what I’d—”

A low moaning cut him off. The sound came from inside Luke’s rooms. She and Szymanski reacted instantly. He spun and flung the door open. A.J. drew her gun and aimed at the gap. The room was dark. No one shot at them. A.J. took point and slipped in silently. A shape moved swiftly inward from the terrace. Her adrenaline spiked, but within a quarter second she identified the figure as a team member. Nodding at each other, they proceeded to the next room within the suite.

There, lit by moonlight from another window, they found Luke thrashing on the bed, making pain noises. He lay on his back, and his face shone with sweat. Had someone hurt him? Drugged him? A.J. looked around the room. No one was here but him.

“Shit,” Szymanski whispered even as her brain scrambled to identify the danger. “He’s having a nightmare.”

“Jesus,” murmured the other guard, dropping his tension from the false alarm.

Wanting to be sure it was false, A.J. switched on Luke’s bedside light.

His eyes snapped open. He jerked dramatically when he saw the three of them above him. “What the—”

A.J. holstered her pistol. “It’s okay,” she said. In the hope that this would calm him, she sat on the mattress edge. She didn’t touch him. She’d crossed enough lines in front of her colleagues. “We heard you cry out. I think you were having a bad dream.”

He pushed up on the pillows to stare at her. She knew he’d woken all the way when he dragged his hands down his sweaty face. “Fuck. Sorry. My therapist’s insomnia cure works a bit too well. I didn’t mean to send you to DEFCON 1.”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

He choked out a chagrined laugh.

“Really,” she assured him. “This is mild compared to some of the stuff we stumble into with clients.”

The guy from the terrace took this as his cue to withdraw. “Returning to my post,” he announced. “Glad you’re all right, sir.”

“You want us to stay a minute?” Szymanski offered like the future dad he probably ought to be. “Sometimes you gotta throw off a dream before you can sleep again.”

“I’m okay,” Luke said. “But that’s kind of you.”

She saw Szymanski had amused him—or maybe he was laughing at himself.

“You’re shaking,” she said, noting the fine tremor in his limbs. If his jaw hadn’t been clenched, his teeth would have clacked.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” she disagreed. “Walk it off with me. Our job will be easier if you’re not sleep deprived.” He gave her a look, but she dug in her heels. “Seriously. No one wants to learn what you’re like when you’re cranky.”

“I’m charming under all conditions,” he assured loftily.

“Then be charming under this one.”

His brows lowered a moment before he relented. “Fine.”

She tensed as he pushed the covers off abruptly. To her relief, he wasn’t naked. Yes, his chest and abs were exposed, but he wore silk pajama bottoms. Pictures of Minions from the animated movies covered the drawstring pants, bright yellow and goggle-eyed.

Naturally, Luke noted her attention. He enlightened her with a smirk. “Joke gift from Naomi last Christmas. Normally, I sleep bare-assed.”

“Uh boy,” Szymanski muttered with a head wag. “I’ll leave you two to settle this.”

She had to let him. They didn’t both need to walk with Luke.

“Inside or out?” she asked once he’d splashed water on his face.

He thought. “Inside. You’ll worry about me less. Unless you’ve decided my live-in staff are psychos.”

He was teasing—though somewhat acerbically. “That’s to be determined. My dad has more digging left.”

Luke grimaced. A.J. decided he’d had enough crowding for the time being and allowed him to set their path. Mayfair’s architect had been eccentric. His house rambled up and down as well from side to side, little sets of steps leading between levels. If she hadn’t memorized the blueprints, it would have been easy to get confused. She observed her companion did relax as they went. His tremor faded and his jaw unclamped, his steps regaining a more natural bounce. They met one other guard on patrol, after which they progressed alone.

Finally, they descended a set of stairs to the lowest floor, a Gosford Park-type cellar beneath the big kitchen.

“You’re heading somewhere in particular,” she said.

He nodded and smiled slightly. “My favorite room from the original house.”

He pushed through an unmarked door. She sensed a large space behind it as cooler air blew toward them. Luke reached sideways to push an old button-switch on the wall.

A.J. gasped in astonishment. This hadn’t been labeled on the plans. “It’s a bowling alley!”

It was a
big
bowling alley, with six hardwood lanes, plus a colorful mural of a sawmill on the ceiling. Fancy deco fixtures flooded the space with light, reminding her of when cinemas were palaces. Instead of plastic seats for waiting players, small velvet chairs clustered. Unavoidably fascinated, she tested the seat of one with her palm. The upholstery was dusty but comfortable.

She looked back at Luke, who was enjoying her reaction.

“They threw bowling parties back in the day,” he said. “Apparently, whoever got low score had to set the pins. I have a photograph of Gary Cooper and Myrna Loy acting as pin boys.”

“You’d think they’d have servants handle that.”

“I guess doing it themselves added to the fun.”

She wandered to one of the hardwood lanes. The narrow strips were patched here and there, but the gutters appeared sound. “Do you use it?”

“Occasionally. I hired a specialty firm to reproduce the wallpaper panels, but the pins and balls are vintage.”

“Can I try a throw?” she asked, succumbing to temptation.

“Of course.”

She’d only bowled a couple times as a kid. Street hockey was more the thing in her neighborhood. She took a moment to remember how to stick her fingers in.

“Swing straight back,” he advised, seeing her unsureness. He mimed the motion with the grace of a born athlete. “Slow and smooth. Bend your knees and release the ball along the floor at the forward end of your stroke.”

She tried to be as smooth as him, but she used too much force. The ball clunked loudly when she let go. “Shit,” she said, afraid she’d cracked the wood.

Luke stepped closer to reassure her. “It’s okay. Look, you’re going to hit the pins.”