Page 5 of Wilde Secrets

“Right. This is the plan,” he said in a low voice. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Harper. “Here are the contact details of a friend of mine.”

Harper took the envelope and frowned. “A friend of yours?”

She thought she’d go back to their hotel suite, maybe hide out for a few days before heading home to LA. She shook her head.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jacket shifting to reveal the holster and gun. Harper swallowed and looked away.

“I served with West. He’ll keep you safe. I trust him with my life.”

Harper scrunched up her nose. “I don’t understand.” Surely, she wasn't being sent away? She belonged with her sister. Isla needed her.

Are you sure about that? After what you’ve just done?

Harper dragged her teeth over her bottom lip.

“Mr. Holden asked me to get you somewhere out of the way for a few days until this mess blows over.”

Harper barked out a laugh. “Surely it’s not so bad that I can’t just go back to the hotel?”

He didn't answer, instead ushering her through the door and into a waiting car. His expression was serious as he leaned on the open door, and she sobered. “Look at your phone.”

Harper paled but did as he asked. It’s been off for the past few hours, so she turned it on. At first nothing happened, but then the notifications started. And they didn't stop.

Emails. Social media tags. Google alerts. It’s all there. And it wasn't good.

She sagged into the seat. “Oh, shit.”

“Call your dad when you get to the hotel.” He shut the door, hit the roof of the car with the flat of his hand, and stepped away.

“Where—”

The driver turned the car onto the busy road, and she shoved her phone back into her evening bag, not wanting to look. If only she’d ignored that nosy reporter, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Stupid. So stupid.”

“What’s that, Miss?” the driver asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Actually, where are we going?”

“Portland, Miss.”

What? “But Portland’s on the other side of the country.”

“Oh no, Miss,” the driver chuckled. “Not Portland, Oregon. Portland, Maine.”

What? That couldn’t be right. She pulled out the envelope that King had given her and extracted a piece of white paper on the hotel’s letterhead. In neat, heavy block handwriting was written: West, Beaver Lane, Cape Wilde.

What? No phone number. Just five words.

And Maine?

“Maine?” she asked. “Isn’t that just lobsters and lighthouses?”

The driver chuckled. “Something like that, Miss.”

Oh no. What had she done?

ChapterThree

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