Page 1 of Lone Spy

ChapterOne

At the endof the press gauntlet waits Ash Fraser, impossibly tall, impossibly broad, impossibly dangerous. Head of my security, he’s trusted by my handler, Temperance Johnson, to keep me alive.

Ash stands in the shadows beyond the red carpet, looming larger than any of the other security. At six-foot six-inches tall, with short-cropped brown hair and cobalt blue eyes, he's an imposing figure. A scar on his chin cuts a white line through the dark stubble. The rest of his face is sun-burnished from our regular runs on the beach in front of my house in Malibu.

Ash tracks me with a cold, calculating gaze, until I get close, then the barest hint of warmth enters his eyes.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

I take in a deep breath and my ribs press against the boning of my gown. It’s a gorgeous shimmering gold with a mermaid silhouette that hugs me in all the right places, but the corset top doesn’t leave much room for breathing. And if I tried to take a full step, I’d rip the seams. It wasn’t my favorite of the options, but the stylist convinced me Ihadto wear it.

“They went well,” I say, nodding, convincing myself the photos and interviews did in fact go well.

Ash nods as if he knows something about this, which I guess he does. After two and a half years of being my bodyguard and overall head of my security, Ash knows the drill.

He has always shown me the same deference as other celebrities' security. But underneath the guise of civility and subservience, we both know he works for Temperance. We both know where his allegiances truly lie. And they are not with me.

"I don't like these protesters," Ash says, jutting his chin toward the small crowd beyond the reporters. The moment it was announced this film was being made, the religious zealots came out of the woodwork. They grabbed a spear and started stabbing the dead horse of Hollywood corrupting the youth.

The Benefactoris a biopic of Katherine McCormick—the philanthropist who funded the research for hormonal contraception. So these protestors are protesting birth control.Birth control.I’d laugh if this wasn’t President Reginald Grand's America.

"Well," I say, keeping my attention on Ash—the protesters don't deserve even a glance from me. "I doubt they will do more than shout about promiscuity or heathenism."

Ash shakes his head. The suit he's wearing is obviously well made, but the man's body just isn't meant to be collared. It looks almost like a costume. Almost.

His tie pin glints just below my eye level. Without my heels I'd be looking up at the enamel ship with billowing sails, an eagle rising up behind it like some mythical creature. But in my stilettos, the top of my head reaches Ash’s collar bones.

"We may need to leave," Ash says, his voice a low rumble of warning.

I let out a half laugh. "You can't be serious. I amnotleaving my own premiere."

"I just have a bad feeling," he says, his eyes dropping to meet mine. And there is real worry there. The man is usually a wall of confidence—secure in his size, his instincts, and his ability to keep me safe.

I reach up and squeeze his bicep. The thing is hard as stone—his body strung tight. "Don't worry," I say, my tone turning teasing. "I have you to protect me."

He frowns. The familiar pop of a gun rings out and I'm slammed up against the wall with Ash's giant body blocking mine. All I can see is his tie pin—the eagle's beady black eyes glinting with what I can now see are chips of onyx.

Ash's focus is behind us, his head turned round and left wrist raised as he speaks into his sleeve. His other hand is on my waist, circling half of it. All around us people are screaming and running. Totally freaked out. Which makes sense, someone is shooting at us.

Rage bubbles up in my chest. Those puritanical shit bags trying to run everyone else's lives. My corset digs into my sides as my lungs desperately try to expand.

I didn't always curse. My grandmother made it clear my language mattered and should be modeled after hers. But I've done a lot of growing in the last few years, and I'm learning to own my rage. Own my language. And whoever just shot at us is a piece of shit.

Ash looks down at me with narrowed eyes. Spots are starting to dance in my vision. This stupid fucking dress. Never again will I agree to wear something this constricting.

"Fuck," he says quietly to himself. Then his hand on my waist scoops me up and his other arm snakes under my legs—the move is effortless. I let out a small, sharp sound of surprise. Ash is carrying me like I'm a damsel in distress, and because of this stupid dress and my inability to say no to it, I guess I am.

Ash takes off at a run. My breath is caught in the confines of the gown. My heart is pounding. I wrap my arms around his neck and try to hold on. Try to breathe. All I can see is his tie pin. All I can smell is Ash's scent: raw cedar wood, leather, and citrus.

He’s running down a hallway, the lights flashing in spears as we pass under fluorescent bars. I can't get enough air. We're barreling past people—they're all a blur in my peripheral vision.

There is shouting—inarticulate words lost behind us as Ash sprints. I'm nestled against the chest of this giant man, here to protect only me. It doesn't feel right. I'm not a helpless damsel. I'm a trained agent.

I killed a man as large and dangerous as Ash. No, not as dangerous. Because Vladimir Petrov underestimated me. Ash wouldn’t.

He spins and my fingers dig into the back of his neck, cresting over the collar of his shirt and touching hot skin slicked with fresh sweat. My vision darkens at the edges, his tie pin the center of my universe.

Ash smashes his back against an emergency exit and the alarm blares as we break out into the dying light of the Los Angeles evening. A roaring engine, then squealing brakes. Ash hefts me into one arm and my face is pushed higher up his body, my cheek on his shoulder, my nose in the hollow of his throat. His scent is all I know as I pull it raggedly through my lips.

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