Page 32 of Stay Close
“We should go out for dinner,” she says, picking at the soup. “You know, just to be unpredictable.”
It’s the smallest pass. I could pretend it isn’t one—that it doesn’t come with a glancing invitation to find another part of the palace to hide away in for the better part of an hour. I could pretend that I don’t want to go.
I could pretend that once, but I can’t pretend it for two more weeks.
“We have to keep our focus on the job,” I say, far harsher than I need to. Her hand stills, and her spoon drops from her fingers.
A hot blush slips up her cheek. “No, of course.”
“You need to achieve your goals here,” I remind her, trying to soften my words.
Easier said than done. The more I reach for her, the more she spins out of my grasp.
“I want to support you,” I say.
Her eyes shutter, and I ball my hand into a fist.
“No, of course,” she says, inching her way off the bench. “Speaking of…” Her smile is thin. “I have some work to do.”
“You want me to join you?”
She shakes her head and looks toward the exit doors. “I have calls to make.”
I nod. Cool, cool. I’m blasting my chance of ever dating Edie Spencer out of the sky. What was I supposed to do? Security work is about keeping the client safe. Anytime anything else tries to attach itself to that mission, it has to be scraped off. Keep the client safe. Don’t think about how you know a great place for chips and salsa. Don’t think about how right it feels to have her dozing off over a heavy book, mere inches from where you’re sitting. Don’t get so caught up looking at her that you stop watching for threats.
I escort her to her room and continue on to the security area. When passing the gym, I hear voices from a pick-up game of indoor soccer bouncing over the walls. I nearly bump into Caroline when I turn a corner. She hovers on the edge of an observation window craning her neck forward.
Over her shoulder, I see the players, a mix of security guards and palace flunkeys running in a sweaty pack. Crown Prince Noah, wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, lobs a nice pass down the truncated arena, the ball landing within shooting distance of the goal.
The striker fails to find the back of the net, insults are traded, and the game continues.
“Do you play?” I ask the queen’s secretary.
Caroline emits a surprised squeak and crashes down on her heels, but when she turns to face me, she’s regained her poise. “I played in school. Everyone does. Was the Kevlar vest to your liking?” she asks, escorting me down the hall. I feel like I’m being hustled away from the scene of a crime.
“It fit my client perfectly.” My client. I wonder if Caroline buys my nonchalance any more than I buy hers. She was definitely checking out one of the players.
I drop my gear off and head to the break area to scavenge ridiculously fancy cheese and crackers from the kitchenette.
While I snack, I mull over the security problem. What would I do if I was nursing a grudge against a specific target, being hunted by law enforcement officers, possibly eating survivalist meals in the woods, and running out of time?
I’d carry a weapon on me. I’d be poring over announcements and social media feeds. I’d be turning up at every event I thought she might attend. I’d look for an edge—cornering her where I was familiar with the territory.
I hop on the phone. “Scotty, I need intel.”
“I got you,” he says. In my head, Scotty lives in a darkened room with walls and walls of screens, a spider in the web.
“I need work history and social affiliations for Cor van Pelt. I’ve identified him as a person of interest on the Spencer case.”
The sound of typing starts up right away. “We have an old resume, but you might have to do some old-fashioned sleuthing.”
“Why?”
“I’m sending you the details.”
I open the laptop and pull up the document. “Got it.” Obviously, it’s in Sondish.
“Don’t mind the titles. Do you see the gaps?” he says. “He hasn’t held a steady job in more than a decade.”
