What You Can't See (14 page)

“How is she?”

Theatrical. Beautiful. Nuts. “Interesting.”

“I’ve known Ari for a few years,” Lucy said with a soft laugh. “It’s impossible not to like her, isn’t it?”

Oh, he liked her. From the tangle of copper curls right down to her pink-tipped toes and every curve in between, she was imminently likable. “She’s certainly…lively,” he said vaguely, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was still in the bathroom.

Did Lucy, a former CIA agent who ran one of the best security and protection firms in the world, buy into clairvoyants? “Luce, did she tell you that she’s worried about more than just threatening e-mails?”

Lucy was quiet before she answered. “Yes, she did.”

But, being Lucy, she had let her Bullet Catcher get the pertinent information on his own. That was a hallmark of her style and they all knew it. “I’m interested in what you think about it,” he said. “And how her…concerns impact what we’re doing here.”
If
they impacted what he was doing here.

“I think she has powerful intuition and I suggest we listen to it.”

He raked his hands through his hair. Intuition wasn’t clairvoyance, that was just a hunch. A guess—exactly as he had suspected. “How much did you tell her about me?”

“You? Nothing. I wasn’t even sure you were going on this job until late last night, when I talked to Max. I’ve been in meetings all day.”

Maybe Max Roper, the head of the West Coast operations, divulged the background info. “Did he talk to her?”

“No, I’ve handled this one directly. Why?”

“You knew I’d be skeptical of what she says she does, so I’m curious why you sent a scientist for a job that requires someone willing to suspend disbelief in order to help the principal.”

He could have sworn Lucy chuckled. “Don’t suspend anything, Chase. I’m sure a little skepticism is as healthy as a clear head on the job. Just do what you are supposed to do.”

He got the message. “All right, Luce. Can you trace some e-mails for me?”

“Of course. Forward the e-mails to me and I’ll get an investigator on it first thing tomorrow morning. Anything else?”

“That’s it for now. But you’re sure no one gave her my name or background before I arrived?”

She laughed a little. “Absolutely. Just go with the flow, Chase. You might be pleasantly surprised.”

In his experience, surprises were rarely pleasant. Chase clicked off the call, staring at the phone until a soft scent told him she’d made a soundless entrance back into the sitting area.

“What is it going to take for you to believe I’m for real?” she asked.

“What I believe isn’t important,” he said, standing to look at her.

She grabbed a white hooded sweatshirt from the back of a chair and put it on. “Yes, it is. If you don’t believe me, you can’t help me figure out who in that studio is a killer.”

He folded the e-mails into a crisp, clean square and tucked them in his jacket pocket. “I can help you figure out who sent the threats. And we’ll start by investigating the source.”

She scooped up a backpack and then flung it, unzipped over her shoulder. “I know how to make you believe.”

Ignoring the comment, he opened the trailer door to the lot that had grown deserted, holding a hand behind him to keep her back as he scanned the area.

“I’ll just have to figure out your weak spots,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

He stepped down to the asphalt and peered into the shadows between the buildings around them. “I don’t have any.”

Her laugh was light, but her touch was a sudden jolt of warmth as she slid her arms around his waist from the back, her fingers brushing the bump of his holster. He reacted instantly, whipping around and grabbing her under her arms, raising her a foot off the ground before she could so much as make a sound. “Don’t do that unless you want to get shot.”

“I was just looking for your weak spot,” she said, catching the breath he’d stolen.

“And you found my weapon instead.” He held her aloft, his gaze holding a serious warning. “This isn’t a game.” Slowly, he eased her back to the ground.

She tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught in her throat. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to…I just thought I could sort of break the ice.”

The little force field of energy and spunk suddenly looked very small, very vulnerable, and very scared, and the impact was as strong as if she had managed to get her hands all the way around him and squeeze her body against his.

“There are much less risky ways,” he said, his voice sounding gruff, wanting to let her off the hook for the minor infraction, but not wanting to let go of the warmth of her.

“Sorry,” she repeated, a tiny shudder making her quiver.

“You know…” He reached down to the zipper tab of her jacket. “For a girl who promotes ‘closure,’ you don’t really ever finish anything, do you?” He slid the zipper up, the teeth grinding slowly as his hand followed the feminine line of her body. When he reached the hollow of her throat, he let his fingers brush her skin.

He could feel her struggle to swallow.

“Then I guess I should be careful what I start,” she said.

“That’s the first completely sensible thing you’ve said.”

She closed her hand over his. “Sensible is boring.”

“Sensible is safe.”

The instant he spoke, a gunshot cracked the night and the trailer rocked with the impact of a bullet.

A
RIANNA LET OUT A SHRIEK
, and Chase shoved her down. Her pack went sailing, the contents spilling to the ground as he pushed her, low and fast, around the back of the trailer.

Her heart clobbered her ribs, the sound of her pulse so deafening she could barely hear his orders.

“Stay down. Move. Now!”

In seconds, he had them hidden deep in the darkness between her trailer and another, then flattened her face forward against the cool metal using his entire body to shield her.

“Someone shot—”

“Shhh!” His demand was harsh, and indisputable. In the distance, she heard running footsteps, then the sound of a golf cart engine revving and fading across the deserted lot.

“They’re gone,” she whispered, her chest heaving against the ridges of the trailer with every tight, terrified breath.

He didn’t move, one hand locking her against the trailer, the other holding a gun. “Maybe.”

“What do we do?”

“Leave. Fast.”

“But…” Her
stuff
. “My bag. The keys to my house. My wallet, my phone.” The
ring
. “My whole life is in that backpack.” That wasn’t even an exaggeration. Without the ring—

“Then you should close it.”

She swallowed a retort, but only because he’d just saved her ass, and was on her like a human bulletproof vest. “I can’t leave without…my things.”

“Yes, you can. We’ll break into your house and we’ll cancel your credit cards and you can get another phone.”

“Someone will have my keys and my ID.” And her
gift
.

“But you’ll be alive,” he growled into her ear, his insistent breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Please.” She tried to catch his gaze over her shoulder, but he held her immobile against the trailer. “I can’t leave it here.”

“You can, and you will. You’ll do exactly as I say, when I say it.”

“Chase, please. There’s something…something I can’t live without in that pack.”

His body tightened in response. “What is it?” Even his jaw sounded like it was clenched.

“It’s something that belonged to my mother.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Real life outweighs sentimental value. When I count to three—”

“It has far more than sentimental value,” she insisted.

He squeezed her a little as if that could emphasize his point. “Money can be replaced, Arianna. Human life cannot.”

“As if I, of all people, don’t know that.” Damn him. She’d get it herself. She gave her whole body a good shake, trying to throw him off. Totally fruitless.

“Nothing is that important.”

Fury, and fear, gave her enough strength to whip partially around, finally getting to see his face. “I can’t live without it.”

Even in the dark, she could see his eyelids shudder. “Without
what
?” Suddenly, he looked left, then right. “Shhh.”

She heard the soft hum of a golf cart motor in the distance, far enough away that there were no lights, but it was definitely getting closer. “Don’t make a sound,” he said. “Don’t move.”

“It might be security,” she insisted.

“It might not.” He yanked her down, pushing her against hard, cold asphalt. “Go under. Now.”

He thrust her into the eighteen-inch wheel space, cinders stabbing her palms. She held her breath as he half dragged her into the darkness, blinking into the gloom, smelling earth and grease and whatever grew under there. He stopped when they were fully underneath the trailer floor.

Arianna peered into the dim light on the other side, where she could see her bag and half its contents scattered around the metal stairs. There was her wallet. Her cell phone. Her keys. And good Lord, there was the tiny velvet pouch she’d stuffed in her pack, right out in the open, where a truck would smash it or someone would find it!

Oh, Mom. I’m sorry.

She’d thought about leaving the ring on, but, as always, she took it off unless she needed it. Now she might lose it. That couldn’t happen. It
couldn’t.

The golf cart was still far enough away that she couldn’t see any headlights. She had time. Without a glance of warning to the man beside her, she shot forward, getting no more than two feet before he seized her thigh.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, dragging her back, her jacket and tank top sliding up so that the asphalt scraped her bare skin.

“You see that little bag, right past the stairs? I’m going to get that. And yes, I am willing to die trying.”

He swore softly. “Don’t move.” He slithered forward like an army guy in the trenches, a gun in his right hand as he snaked toward the stairs.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was bone-dry. Hope grabbed her heart and squeezed as she watched. She
knew
she was right about him. Good all the way down to the bone. Pissed off and pessimistic as hell, but good.

In one graceful move, he grabbed the keys and the wallet. But he still didn’t have the ring. He inched out of the protective covering of the trailer just as the golf cart rumbled from the access road behind sound stage four, a few hundred yards away. In seconds, it would turn the corner and its lights would shine directly on him.

Hurry.
Terrified to look, but unable not to, she glanced in the direction of sound stage four. High beam lights danced on the strip of asphalt she could see from under the trailer.

Chase dove at the bag, seized it, then pivoted without getting up from his crouch. Lunging back under the trailer, he twisted into the tiny space the very second that yellow lights spilled all over the spot where he’d just been.

She reached to him, an exclamation caught in her throat.

“Quiet!” he ordered, shimmying next to her. “I didn’t have time to get the backpack,” he said, the tiny note of apology in his voice touching her more than the act itself.

“Thank you.” She closed her hand around the velvet bag, sending a silent message of apology to her mother. She didn’t dare take the ring out and risk dropping it in the dark, so she pulled the zipper of her jacket down enough to stuff the pouch into the bra shelf in her tank top.

Next to her, he jockeyed for position in the tight space, shoving her wallet and keys in his jacket pocket. The heat of his body and the closeness of the trailer caused her clothes to stick to her skin and her neck to prickle.

There was just enough light to make out a grease stain on his cheekbone, the treacherous set of his jaw. He cut his gaze from the lights to her, his blue eyes penetrating. She touched his face, thumbing the hollow of his cheek, rubbing the streak of dirt. “That was really—”

He slapped his hand over her mouth and shook his head.

Heroic.

“Shhh.” He mouthed the order, his expression serious, and heated. For one second, she thought he might replace his fingers with his mouth, and kiss her.

The lights grew brighter, the engine louder.

In an instant, he slid his whole body over hers, sandwiching her between him and the ground. The impact pushed a shocked breath out of her, but she clamped her mouth closed to stop any sound.

He swept his right arm forward to aim his gun, and the movement gave her a sliver of a view between his shoulder and chin, offering a glimpse of golf cart wheels as they came to a stop directly in front of them.

It had to be security.

Then she remembered the gunshot, the explosive pop as it hit her trailer, so close it had to have been meant to hit her.

It might
not
be security.

At the sight of her dropped backpack and the open trailer door, a studio guard would radio for backup. Any second, they would hear the static, then the voice of MetroNet security requesting assistance at Arianna Killian’s trailer.

But this guard…this
visitor
…said nothing.

She modulated her breaths, taking in her bodyguard’s distinctly masculine scent and the musty stink of the trailer.

Still no radio static.

She could feel the steady, solid beat of Chase’s heart, and his chest rise and fall with each breath. His body pressed as hard on her back as the asphalt that jammed into her hipbones.

She saw the driver’s boots and dark pants as he climbed out of the cart. He reached down to lift her backpack, then her phone, but not low enough to give them a look at his face. He kicked something—her lipstick?—then started toward the trailer.

Chase lifted the gun a millimeter.

At the foot of the stairs the man paused for a second, then the familiar squeak of the trailer door broke the silence of the darkened studio lot. Above them, footsteps moved from one end of the trailer to the other. Slowly at first, then faster.

Was he looking for her? From the sound, he was near her vanity and powder room, then he moved to the seating area in the middle, then all the way to the back, to the wardrobe racks and cot.

Was it the security guard? Or someone else?

The velvet pouch slipped a little between her breasts, and Arianna’s whole body clutched. She inched her left hand toward her chest, dipping her fingers into the sliver of space in her bodice. She could barely get in there, he had her so smashed on the ground, but she managed to find the opening of the pouch and worm one finger into it.

The smooth, familiar band touched her skin. Then she closed her eyes, and waited.

The footsteps pounded right overhead. What was he doing in there? She forced herself to be calm. If it was a security guard, then nothing would happen. If it wasn’t, then something would. At least, in her head.

She rubbed the gold of her mother’s ring and focused on its power.

Five, ten, fifteen seconds ticked by. Each footfall sounded a little more desperate as the intruder clomped back and forth over their heads. Something dropped with a thud and Arianna jerked, but Chase held her still.

Glass shattered, and a chair leg scraped.

She slipped her finger deeper in the ring. Who was it? What did they want?

A fine, familiar chill snaked down her spine. She arched into it, vaguely aware that the man on top of her responded by grasping her tighter with every unrelenting muscle he had.

She ignored him, stroking the gold and coaxing her sixth sense forward.

Like a black-and-white slide show, the images came as stills. Rain. Asphalt. Tires. Not a cat, a silver hood ornament. Darkened windows. The crash. A guardrail giving way. The free fall into blackness. Glass and rain and blood. The end.

She slipped her finger from the ring and the slide show stopped.

But she had the answer she sought. Directly above them, tearing her trailer apart, was a murderer.

“Chase,” she whispered, but he smacked his hand over her mouth again, forcing her desperate breaths from her nose. In a minute, the trailer door closed and booted feet appeared again, jogging down the steps.

She had to know who it was. She squirmed and made a tiny moan into his hand. The feet froze. He’d heard her! She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for gunfire.

Suddenly, the intruder jogged to the golf cart, flipped the ignition switch, and in less than two seconds the beam of headlights disappeared into the darkness of the studio lot.

Only then did Chase release his seal over her mouth.

“He’s the murderer.” Arianna blew out the words. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

Slowly, he rolled off her. “What?”

“I had the vision. That person is a killer, and you just let him drive away.”

“Yes, I did. Because my job is first and foremost to keep you alive. What was I going to do? Leave you here? That won’t happen, Arianna. Ever. You never risk a principal to get an assailant. Protection 101.”

“He’s a
murderer,
” she insisted.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes. I. Do.” She bit the words out.

His expression melted into disbelief and disgust. “Let’s get out of here.”

She opened her mouth, but he placed his hand gently over her lips, to make a point. “We do this my way. No debate.”

“You aren’t going to go into the trailer? He tore the place apart.”

“It won’t look much different,” he said. “But, no. I’m not. I’m going to check to see if the area is clear, then I’m going to get you off the premises as soon as humanly possible.”

“But what was he doing in there?”

“He was looking for something. That was obvious. Copies of the e-mails, maybe. Something incriminating. Something of value. Do you have something someone might want enough to shoot at you, so that you run away and leave your trailer unlocked?”

Her heart pounded against a soft velvet pouch. “No,” she lied. “Nothing I can think of.”

“Brace yourself,” Arianna said as she pushed open the six-foot-high wooden gate that led to the steep stairs along the side of her house. “It’s eighty years old, tiny as a shoe box, but it’s—”

“A bodyguard’s nightmare.”

“Home,” she finished.

He reached the edge of her pine deck, looking at the surrounding brush and the direct drop down the hillside that overlooked Chateau Marmont and the never-ending stream of car lights that snaked along Sunset Boulevard.

“It was good enough for Judy Garland,” she said defensively, sliding her fingers into her front jeans pockets. “She lived here when she was starting out.”

He didn’t look impressed. In fact, he shrugged as if only an idiot would take up residence somewhere so precarious. “There’s no railing and a direct drop down a steep hill. One drink and somebody could topple right over.”

“I keep my drunken guests inside,” she said. “And avoid the edges.”

“The brush should be cut back. It’s a fire hazard.”

“It gives me privacy.”

He pulled her keys from his jacket pocket. “Alarm code?”

Oh, boy. “It’s, um…I keep meaning to get it changed. It kept going off in the middle of the night, and it’s disabled right now.” Stupid for a woman getting nasty e-mails, but she had hired a bodyguard. She wasn’t a total fool.

“We need to get it a new code ASAP.”

When he unlocked the sliding glass door she waited for a moment, letting him enter, imagining her three-room hideaway through his eyes. What she saw as an inviting and warm sanctuary, all celery silk and cream velvet, a precious collection of crystals and candles, Mr. Look at the Bright Side probably thought was a tinderbox.