Page 31 of Sawyer
“Vanessa!”
She cackles, then sobers. “You deserve safe and steamy. Don’t sabotage it.”
A wind gust rattles the wisteria leaves, scattering purple petals. I track one drifting onto my thigh. “What if tomorrow goes sideways? What if this person—or people—make their move?”
“Then Sawyer and Beard-Mountain will go full John Wick, and I’ll livestream from a tasteful angle.” She angles her glass. “Kidding. But honestly, the security here is Fort Knox on steroids.”
I glance toward the house. Beyond the French doors I can see one Orange operator—Rae—doing a final walk-through with a tablet. “And yet someone breached twice already.”
Vanessa follows my gaze, then lowers her voice. “There’s still no leads?”
“The flash-bang traced to a surplus show. Paper stock traced to a specialty boutique, but the sales list was hacked. Hartley’s team’s cross-referencing Kingsley ex-employees, but nothing concrete.”
She sighs. “Any other theories? A jealous ex? A rival artist?”
I think of every critic who’s hated my murals, every opportunist who’s courted my father’s approval only to be turned down. None fit the escalating precision of these attacks.
“Could be someone targeting Dad, using me as leverage,” I say. “IPO sharks can be vicious.”
Vanessa tilts her head. “Then they’ll strike when the media’s here—to humiliate him.”
“Exactly. Tomorrow’s perfect. It’s cameras and chaos.”
She reaches over, and squeezes my hand. “Then we’ll be vigilant and still sparkle.” She sits up, eyebrow cocked. “Speaking of sparkle, Sawyer’s been circulating like a comet all afternoon, and you haven’t ogled him once in ten minutes. Are you broken?”
My lips curve. “He’s strip-searching the valet schedule.”
“Hot.” She drains her glass, and stands. “I’m refilling. You?”
“One more won’t hurt.” I watch her glide across the patio toward the French doors, hips swaying. The moment she’s inside, I exhale, rubbing my temple to quell the adrenaline swirl.
Footsteps crunch behind me. My pulse leaps before I even turn. “Speak of professional devils,” I say.
Sawyer steps onto the veranda in slate-gray tactical trousers and a navy polo that fits like temptation tailor-made. Aviators shield his eyes, but I can feel the heat of his focus. “Vendor review complete,” he says, voice low, dipping into a register that brushes every nerve ending. “AV crew double-verified credentials. No anomalies.”
“Good.” I pat the cushion beside me—casual invitation laced with need. “Sit. Take two minutes.”
He glances to the door Vanessa disappeared into, then back. Slowly he lowers onto the daybed, boots flat on the decking,forearms resting on his thighs. Close enough for the sleeve of his polo to graze my arm when I breathe deep.
“How’s the pulse?” he asks.
“Erratic.” I smile. “And yours?”
“Steady.” A beat. “Mostly.”
The word tangles between us. The veranda, shaded and scented with wisteria, collapses into a bubble of charged air. I want to crawl into his lap, forget fear, but the hum of patrol radios floats from the garden.
“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” I murmur.
His jaw flexes. “Me either.”
“That kiss?—”
“Cam.” My name is a warning and a caress. “I need you clear tomorrow.”
“I’m trying, but you’re a walking distraction.”
He huffs a low laugh. “You’re a masterpiece of distraction.”
