Colton's Secret Bodyguard

Audrey drew Rylan forward. “Calvin, you remember Rylan. The art promoter.”

Bree rolled her eyes. “You can drop the act, Mom. Rylan has told me the truth about why he’s here. And Trey knows all about it now as well.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Audrey tucked one hand into Bree’s arm and the other into Rylan’s. “I can stop worrying and relax, knowing that Rylan will be at your side the whole time.”

Bree cast a sidelong glance in Rylan’s direction. Did his lips just twitch? When he looked her way, his expression was all boyish innocence.

“Do you really think he will come here tonight?” Bree asked, as her parents moved away to view the exhibits. The idea that the stalker might be at the show, moving among the guests, bothered her more than she cared to admit. “Hasn’t he scored one victory already with the programs?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Rylan bit out. “Where’s the fun for him if he doesn’t get to observe the impact of all his hard work?”

“Fun?” Bree shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself.

His expression softened. “Sorry. Wrong choice of word. But, in my experience, stalkers like to get up close to their victims as often as they can.”

“Is he a stalker?” Her brow furrowed. “He wanted me to leave because he said the Coltons took advantage of people who were less fortunate. I thought stalking was more about an attraction that had become obsessive.”

“There isn’t a stereotypical stalker,” Rylan said. “Just as there isn’t one type of victim. However his campaign against you may have started out, there is no doubt it has become personal. And what he’s doing is in fact classic stalking.”

They were interrupted by more arrivals. As Bree went to greet them, she tried to push aside the thought that any one of them could be the perpetrator who was targeting her. Even so, as the gallery began to fill with invited guests, there was a constant prickle of electricity down her spine. The sensation of someone watching her refused to go away and, despite everything she said to the contrary, she was glad to have Rylan close by.

Together, they spoke to the group of young artists Rylan had been promoting. Bree was reassured by their obvious gratitude to him for all his hard work on their behalf.

“I may have a proposition for you,” she told the group of six women and four men. “It’s still early days, but I’m in talks with the city council about producing some Banksy-style street art here in the Diamond. If any of you are interested—” She laughed as her words were drowned out by the excited clamor. “Okay. Let’s leave the liaison to Rylan.”

After an hour or two, Bree could officially claim that the show was a success. The gallery was crowded with collectors, critics, artists, students, journalists, Bree’s friends and a few members of her family. She had enlisted the help of a local non-profit African choir and drumming group to add color to the event. Their contribution had been so popular that they were continuing to perform, with some of the guests joining them and dancing to the irresistible beat.

“You think he’s here?” Trey had managed to snag two beers from somewhere, and he handed one to Rylan.

Rylan had been watching Lucas Brewer, who was checking the uplighters at the base of one of the sculptures. He turned his attention to Trey. “Don’t you?”

With their superior height, the two men were able to easily scan the crowd. “It would help if we had a clue—any clue—to his identity,” Trey said.

“Nothing on the email address?” Rylan asked.

“You know how it works. If, while using my usual laptop, in my own home, I open my main email account and send a message to you, the police will be able to determine where it came from with only minimal effort. If, on the other hand, I buy a cheap electronic tablet for cash, take it to a bar, log into their guest Wi-Fi, create a new email account and send the message from that...it’s a different story.”

“Either way, you also have to prove whose fingers were on the keyboard at the time the message was typed,” Rylan said.

“It’s a whole lot easier with the first scenario.” Trey drained his beer. “I’m going to mingle, chat to a few people. You?”