"Have you talked with Hunter?"
"Ryan Hunter? Not about this, and I won't. He's got his hands full with something, and I don't want him to feel obligated to cover for a friend."
Riley scowled, thinking of his early conversation with Hunter. "What's he chasing?"
"Who knows? But I figure a man like Damien Stark gets a lot of threats. And you know damn well that Ryan's going to take each and every one of them seriously."
It was a good point. Suddenly Hunter's cushy job for the billionaire seemed a little less cushy.
"I have a few names I could give you. Does Laine have any personality preferences for her security detail?" Most of the celebrity wives he'd dealt with preferred a bodyguard to fade into the background like wallpaper. But Sugar Laine was not most celebrity wives. She had a sweetness and charm about her that set her apart from the crowd.
Lyle's brow furrowed in confusion. "Sugar?" he asked. Lyle was the only one who called Sugar by her given name. Everyone else called her by her surname, Laine. "Oh, no. She's going with me on the tour."
"Oh." Honestly, Riley should have assumed as much. "Then who are you protecting?"
"Natasha," Lyle said, the name sinking like a stone in Riley's stomach. "A couple of things have happened, and I just want to play it safe."
Things?
Riley didn't bother to ask for details. If Lyle was worried, then so was he. Without even being aware he'd made a decision, he snapped his fingers for the driver's attention, then pointed toward the next exit. As the car veered across three lanes of traffic, Riley clutched the door handle. Not for safety, but because otherwise he'd have put his fist through the glass out of worry for Tasha. "Are you at your office? I'm on my way."
"What? Why--"
"I'm staying," Riley said in the kind of voice that brooked no argument. "I'll watch out for Natasha."
Chapter Two
"You're sure you don't mind?" Allison McCray asks. Allison McCray Kealing, I remind myself, though it's still hard to get used to. Aly is my oldest friend, and she and I bonded over twenty-five years ago in nursery school, both at the tender age of three.
"Sweetie, you're pregnant and your husband's out of town. I'll bring you whatever you want." I reach up to adjust the earpiece that is perpetually attached to my head while I'm at work. "Just give me the list."
"You're a doll. I'm not technically on bedrest, but the doctor told me I should stay in bed as much as possible these last three weeks. And of course Ben translates that into a carved-in-stone edict. You know how he is."
The truth is, I don't know how he is. Not really. An attorney, Allison had temporarily moved from Los Angeles to Manhattan two years ago because of some huge corporate case that was eating her life. The case finally settled, and when she came back, she was not only married, but two months pregnant.
Which means that I've only known Ben for the last six months, and during that time my boss's exploding career has been keeping me crazy busy. All I know is that he works on the business side of one of the networks, that he dotes on Aly, and that she's convinced he hung the moon. For the time being, that's good enough for me.
"Got it," I say, after scribbling down the list she rattles off to me, although it's so short I don't know why I bothered. "No ice cream? No pickles?"
"Don't tease the pregnant woman," she warns. "It's like poking a bear. And you might as well throw in some of those fudge brownie bites. The ones in the bakery section."
Considering every item on her list is from the bakery section, the cookie aisle, or the frozen dessert section, I'm thinking that Little Bit is going to share her momma's sweet tooth.
"Should I grab some Peanut Butter M&Ms at the checkout stand?" I ask.
"Oh, Natasha, this is why we're besties."
I laugh. "Who knew friendship could be bought with chocolate?"
"Ha! And seriously, thanks. Just let yourself in when you get here. I'm in the bedroom with my headphones on watching my way through the entire Marvel catalog. Just don't tell my boss. I'm supposed to be reviewing depositions since I'm not technically on maternity leave yet."
"Your secret's safe with me." I check the time and do a quick calculation. "I've probably got another three hours of work here. Lyle's heading to London tomorrow to start the publicity tour for M. Sterious, and I'm buried in checklists."
"Tell him congratulations. I'm all caught up with the Blue Zenith films. I can't wait to see him as M. Sterious. The trailer looks amazing."
"The movie's even better," I say before we end the call. Then I drop my phone on the desk and roll my chair to the bookcase so I can grab one of the rough cut DVDs. I know Lyle won't mind if I give my friend an advance peek, but just to be safe, I lever myself out of the chair, grab my portfolio, and cross the open area to the closed door of his private office.
The condo was originally Lyle's residence, but he converted it to an office when he moved to Venice Beach. Now the entire living room/kitchen combination is my domain, and since we're on the thirtieth floor, my desk has a stunning view all the way to the Pacific. Can you say job perk?
Even without the stellar view, I'd still love this office. Not only is the interior roomy and inviting, but as part of a high-end development in Century City, the building has great security. And that's something I've begun to appreciate lately.
A lot.
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts back into the dark little corners of my mind where I store all my unpleasant thoughts and memories. Yes, some creep has clearly taken a liking to me, but LA is a town full of creeps, and as Lyle's assistant, I'm bound to get some of the fallout from his merry band of groupies, right?
Besides, one creepy postcard and an icky email does not a stalker make.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
I rap on the door to Lyle's private office--formerly his bedroom--then enter when he calls back for me to come in. It's lined with bookshelves now and a large desk fills the space, along with two guest chairs that face the desk and a comfy couch tucked in front of one of the bookshelves.
Usually, it's only Lyle in this room. But it's set up to be a comfortable meeting space, too.
I stand in front of his desk, then hold up the DVD. "Okay if I give this to a friend who's a fan? Normally I wouldn't ask, but she's knocked up and on bedrest, so..."
"Are you kidding? You should know you don't even need to ask."
I do know, but I figure it's a good work policy to never take anything for granted.
"Actually, hand it here," he says, grabbing a Sharpie off his desk. "All pregnant fans on bedrest get autographed DVDs."
I laugh. That's another reason I love my job. Even though Lyle's a total A-lister, he's a great boss, without any of the typical celebrity ego and bullshit that often comes with the Hollywood package.
Not that he doesn't have a dark side--he does, as pretty much the whole world recently discovered when he and Laine got caught up in the kind of scandal that keeps social media hopping. But at his core, he's one hundred percent solid, and one of the best guys I know.
"So what can I help you with?" I ask as he signs the DVD. He gives me back the movie, then scans the desk before glancing up at me with a shrug, obviously realizing there wasn't a thing he needed to do at the office.
My lips twitch. "I told you that you didn't need to come in today. I already sent everything you need to the house yesterday. And," I add with a nod to his computer, "you could have answered all those emails at home."
He frowns, looking slightly abashed, and more than a little charming. It's that combination of farm boy looks and serious sex appeal that helped rocket him to the top.
What I also notice is that he looks a little guilty, too.
"Oh, no, you didn't," I say, dropping into one of the leather chairs opposite his desk. "Please tell me you didn't come all the way to the office just to keep an eye on me."
"You know you can still change your mind and come on the tour."
I slide my port
folio onto his desk before leaning back and crossing my arms. "One, the flight arrangements are already made. Two, half the studio PR department will be there to take care of you. Three, I have big plans for plowing through the insane pile of work I never seem to get to because my boss is so high maintenance."
He rolls his eyes at that. Lyle is so not high maintenance.
"Look," I continue, before he can grab control of the conversation, "it's really not a big deal. You're acting like I have some psycho stalker after me, but it was just a creepy postcard and an email." I congratulate myself on sounding convincing. Because yes, I am a bit wigged out. But I also know it's probably nothing. Even so, I'm not going to jog by myself after dark or do a hop-skip routine down an abandoned alley. I'll be smart, and I'll be fine.
And the more I repeat that to myself, the more I believe it.
Bottom line, Lyle is not altering his plans because of me. And I'm not altering mine because some jerk has put me on edge.
"Just an email and a postcard? Did you forget that someone tagged the hood of your car?"
I wave that away. There was no reason to believe that was personal. More likely some teens acting out. A conclusion I've told him at least half a dozen times.
"Just do me a favor and stay here. The couch folds out, and it's comfortable."