Page 3 of Lone Spy

"Yes." I nod, holding up my phone. "Hannah texted," I say, referencing the director of the film. "She's having a few people over to her suite. I'm gonna go have a drink." My phone rings, my manager’s name, Mary Genovese, flashing on the screen.

This is not the first time she's called since we reached the hotel, but until now I didn't have the energy to answer. "I texted Mary," Ash tells me. "And Synthia." He reached out to my manager and best friend. I swallow a sudden need to see Synthia and my dog, Archie, who she’s taking care of while I'm here. I miss her smile and his fuzzy warmth.

"That was thoughtful of you.” My voice sounds unsure, but not because it wasn't thoughtful of Ash to reach out to people who care about me. It's that I don't know how to talk to Ash now.

My stark honesty in the car about Ash’s true loyalty didn't go awesomely. Ash's face shuttered. One moment he was an iceberg and the next a solid wall—neither cold nor hot. Just inanimate. I didn't realize how much emotion he was showing until it disappeared. I've felt unsettled since.

Or maybe it wasn't Ash's lack of humanity upsetting me. Maybe I was just having a normal reaction to the terrifying events of the evening. To the intense pressure of the last few years.

I swipe the phone open and press it to my ear, turning away from Ash, wandering further into the living room. "Mary," I say as a greeting.

"Angela, my god, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, fine." The words come out automatically. Assuring the world I'm fine is more important than actually being okay.

"This is terrible," Mary says, her voice pitched high with the drama of it all. "Jeremy sent me a draft statement—I tweaked it and emailed it over to you. We can wait until tomorrow to release it. I'm sure you're devastated."

Was I devastated? No. I felt like I needed to see my friends. Have a drink or two. I wanted to get numb, banish this edgy feeling that made me want to…I don't even know.

I glance back at Ash. A sudden, visceral need to move him washes over me. I want to shake him, scream at him, break him. Somehow force him to understand—even if only for a brief moment—how much I resent him. Make him feel the press of captivity I feel. Ash holds my gaze, and a flicker of something moves behind his eyes.

Maybe he's as trapped as me. He can't love being my babysitter. The man belongs on a battlefield, not following me around, even carrying me around because of my poor fashion choices.

It’s not the same, though. We may both be trapped, but only one of us is the jail keeper. I turn away, letting my focus fall on the windows, staring out of them unseeing.

"I'll take a look at the statement in the morning," I promise Mary. "I'm going to see Jeremy at Hannah's—she's having some of the cast and crew over for drinks."

"That's good. You should be together. Let me know if you need anything at all. And honey, one more thing. We need to get the necklace back to Cartier. I messaged with Ash about it. He has all the details."

"Of course he does."

"You're lucky to have him," Mary says. "But we really need to get you another assistant. Did you look at any of the résumés I sent over?"

"Not yet.”

"Well, nothing to think about tonight. But it is important we find someone before the international tour."

We hang up and I take in a deep breath, then turn back to Ash. "The necklace is in the safe."

He nods. "They are sending over a messenger. I will take care of it. When do you want to leave?"

"Jeremy and Zade are fine, by the way," I say, my voice accusatory.

"I know," Ash answers.

"You didn't feel the need to tell me?" Why am I doing this? Why am I trying to start a fight with him? "Never mind," I say, shaking my head.

Ash doesn't respond. Just stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, shoulders back, posture too damn straight. Always alert, always on duty.

I cross the living room of the suite toward the exit. Ash follows in my wake, speaking softly, informing his team of our movements. The door opens as I reach it, and one of his men, a tall East Asian guy named Chris, nods at me with a serious expression.

I've made him laugh twice, and both times dimples popped on his cheeks that are deeply adorable. He has tawny skin, a smooth, even complexion, and black eyes that are almost always stern.

I think his perpetual seriousness is because his dimples are so fucking cute. Even with his broad shoulders and the twin pistols hiding under his suit jacket, those dimples scream cute. And cute isn't scary.

I give him a flirtatious smile, and Chris presses his lips together even as amusement touches his eyes.

He leads the way down the hall, then me, then Ash, and it feels ridiculous. How did I get here? How did little Stacy Melon from Kansas end up as one of the biggest stars in the world and a vital asset to US intelligence? A woman so important she is protected by armed men ready to lay down their lives for her.

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