Sophie

We need to talk.

I stare at the text on my phone, and my rage grows to a black haze that blurs the edges of my vision. My gut churns. That motherfucker still has my number. I’m sorry I didn’t change it long ago. But it wouldn’t have mattered; Martin always finds a way to get what he wants.

My stomach lurches, and I press a hand to it.

I should tell Gabriel that Martin is skulking around the lobby. But I don’t want to. Speaking his name is like calling forth the devil. I don’t want to remind Gabriel of what I did. Of course he knows, but seeing Martin, visually linking him with me, will make it more real. More pungent. Because that’s what Martin is: a foul odor hanging around, stinking up the place. The bastard wants to talk. It takes little imagination to discern about what.

A breeze blows in from the harbor. I huddle down in the lounge chair on the balcony, drawing my knees to my chest. It’s not cold out here, but I’m freezing inside, while my skin burns hot.

“Sophie.” Gabriel’s face hovers in front of me, a frown marring his brow.

Startled, I blink and look around, taking in the dark sea and the lights along the shore. “Yes?”

He sits on the foot of the lounger. “I called your name three times.” “Sorry. I…” I don’t know what to say, so I shrug.

He assesses my face, worrying. “What’s going on in that head, chatty girl?”

“I don’t feel well.” It’s true. I want to climb under the covers and cry. “Too much driving on mountain roads, I guess.”

The cool press of his fingers to my brow almost has me weeping, and I have to blink several times to keep from losing it.

His frown deepens. “You feel warm.”

“And you feel nice and cool.” I force a smile. “Kiss me and make it all better.”

He leans in and kisses my forehead. But he’s on a mission. “I’m serious. I want you to stay in tonight. I’ll text Dr. Stern and have her come look you over.”

“No, don’t,” I say to Gabriel. “I’m fine. I’ll be better off working.”

“Bollocks to that.” Without an apparent effort, he scoops me up and carries me inside. Despite myself, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been carried around, or handled as if I were precious. And though I’m not really sick, his care makes me want to cling to him and cry my troubles away.

He sets me on the couch. “Stay.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute him, but he’s already going into the bedroom.

He returns with a blanket, which he promptly tucks around my body. “There.”

“You’re acting like a mother hen.” Which I love.

“Cluck, cluck,” he deadpans as he picks up the house phone with one hand and grabs the TV remote with the other. I’m impressed by his multitasking; he scrolls through the movie selections and selects a rom- com, while simultaneously ordering a soup and bread basket through room service.

“And a pot of tea,” he adds, finishing up the call.

My poor, battered heart turns to mush there and then. He’s getting me tea. My voice is too thick when I speak. “Italians aren’t known for their tea.”

“It’ll likely be rubbish,” he agrees. “But it will have to do.”

And though I’m all tucked up like a package, he moves me once more, lifting me onto his lap and snuggling us both under the blanket. It’s so much better being held. I burrow against his chest, and his arms wrap around me.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs in my hair. “I’m fine. Really. I can go with you—”

“No.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Even if you aren’t ill, you need rest.

Now, shut up and do as directed for once.” “Bossy.”

“You’re only sorry it’s my turn to do the bossing.”

Unable to help myself, I stroke his chest. Touching him is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. “What was you said about forced relaxation being an oxymoron?”

“I don’t recall that at all. You’ve grown delusional in your exhaustion.” I snort, and he kisses me on the forehead, chuckling.

The movie starts playing, and we fall silent.

“How did you know I love When Harry Met Sally?” I ask softly.

He shifts a little beneath me, propping one foot on the table. “You told me.”

“What? When?”

“The third night on the coach. You were taking a piss at my love of all things Star Trek, and I asked what your favorite movies were. And I still take umbrage that you think Spaceballs is on par with Star Wars.”

I grin at the disgust in his voice, but a small jolt runs through me as I think back on that night. “You remember all of that?”

His hand sifts through my hair, spreading lovely little shivers down my spine. “I remember everything you say, Darling. You talk, I listen.”

I almost tell him I love him then. The words bubble up and dance on my tongue. But my mouth refuses to open. Fear holds me back, as if by saying it I’ll somehow start the beginning of the end. It makes no sense, but I can’t shake the feeling.

I kiss the underside of his jaw, where the scent of his cologne blends with the warmth of his skin, and hug him close.

He holds me until room service arrives. Given the speed at which they show up, I’m guessing we get preferential treatment. A perk, I suppose, of Kill John renting the entire floor.

Gabriel pulls on his suit jacket and tugs his cuffs into place as I pretend to find interest in my meal. But my appetite is gone.

“Don’t poke at your soup,” he says. “Eat it.” “I’m waiting for it to cool down.”

Apparently I’m terrible at lying because he hovers at the end of the couch, peering at me as if he can pull the thoughts from my head by sheer will.

“I should stay,” he says finally.

When he pulls his phone from his pocket as if to start texting, I touch his hand. “No, go. I swear I’m all right. I’m just having an off night. It happens.”

I need him to go so I can hunt down that fuckwit Martin and tell him to eat shit and die—or something to that effect. I can’t do that with Gabriel

around. I’m fairly certain his version of telling Martin to eat shit would probably lean more toward actually kicking the shit out of him.

That would be kind of satisfying to watch, but the idea of Gabriel getting into trouble with the law or having his reputation tarnished horrifies me.

He must see my urgency, because he sighs and leans down to kiss me. This kiss isn’t quick, it’s soft and languid, as if he’s luxuriating in my taste. And I melt under his touch, kissing him back, my hands threading into his thick hair.

High color stains his cheeks when we finally break apart, both of us breathing faster. His forehead rests against mine as he cups my nape. “Sophie,” he says. “My darling girl.”

Tears threaten. He’s too tender. Too wonderful. I close my eyes, run my thumbs in circles along his temples. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Making a sound of agreement, he kisses me once. Then once more.

Gentle, kisses. Kisses that feel like love.

“Sophie, I…” He takes a breath, shaking his head. When he steps back, I feel the loss of him like a cold hand to my skin.

He tugs his cuffs in place once more and searches my face. I don’t know what he sees, but his voice is soft when he finally speaks. “Be well.”

“I will.” But my promise is empty; because this sickness won’t go until I make a stand against Martin.

Gabriel

I HATE MEET AND GREETS—the inane parties both before and after each concert, where press, fans, fan club runners, other people of fame, and record industry heavy hitters all congregate into one, boring, who’s- looking-at-who cluster. They’re the bane of my professional existence.

Over the years, I’ve perfected a remote look that keeps people at arm’s length during these torturous hours. Only the very brave or the very stupid approach me. The very brave have my respect and are usually intelligent enough to converse with briefly. The very stupid are easily dealt with.

It is inevitable, however, that I must talk with people throughout the night. And this night is extremely long. I’ve forced myself not to text Sophie more than once, lest I “mother hen” her. But I want to.

I don’t like the wan, yet agitated expression she had earlier, or the way she trembled in my arms, even though she clearly wanted to hide her upset. Something is wrong. Something more than the carsickness she claims.

Whatever the problem is, I want to make it better. It is imperative that I do. My entire life has been dedicated to looking after people I care for, and she sits at the top of the list now.

I should have stayed with her. I’m feeling…possessive—yet another emotion I don’t any familiarity with.

Men can’t go around introducing their woman as, “Mine; Touch her and lose a finger.” Can they? I doubt Sophie would appreciate being labeled as such. Or perhaps she would if I told her to label me in the same manner?

“Scottie, dude, you’re drifting.”

“Pardon?” I find Killian standing next to me.

“Completely spaced out.” His grin is annoying. “I guess the vacation did the trick.”

“I’m cured of the compulsion to check my phone every two minutes,” I tell him grimly.

“Uh-huh, that’s exactly what I was referring to.”

I ignore his smug look. “It was…” The best time of my life. “…I enjoyed it very much.”

Killian makes a noise of amusement. “Good to hear.”

He doesn’t say anything further, but he doesn’t move away either.

Sophie believes I should try harder with them. I clear my throat. “I’m thinking of taking Sophie to the chalet for the New Year. Would you and Liberty like to join us?”

I grimace. That probably sounded as stilted coming out of my mouth as it did in my head. By the way Killian’s lip twitches, I am correct. Bugger.

But he answers before I can say another word. “Liberty and I would love that.”

“Shouldn’t you ask her before committing?” I know that much about women.

“No need. We have mind-melded.” He leans in. “Besides, she’s behind you.”

Startled, I step back and find Liberty grinning so wide, her cheeks bunch. “Hey, Scottie.” She gives me a punch on the arm. “Can we go skiing, and eat fondue, and do other James Bond-type things?”

“Such as jumping off cliffs and deploying parachutes with the Union Jack on them?” I drawl.

“Yes. But I need stars and stripes on mine. It’s my patriotic duty.” “I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

“Hee!” She hugs me before I can get away. “This will be the best New Years ever!”

Killian laughs, but then looks around. “Anyone seen Jax?”

I disentangle myself from Liberty and nudge her in Killian’s direction. “Not since the concert ended. He was a little off tonight.”

Killian scans the room. “He looked like shit. And now he’s gone.”

When Jax disappears, we all worry. It is an automatic reaction now, no matter how trustworthy he seems. Instantly, I’m alert, my lower back clenching.

“When did you last see him?” “Walking off stage.”

“That was…” I glance at my watch. “Forty-two minutes ago.”

Killian waves over Whip and Rye. “You guys seen Jax?” Our worry is contagious. Rye frowns. “No, man.”

“I saw him go into the bathroom when we got off,” Whip says.

Rye jogs away to search the bathroom, while Killian heads for Kip, our head of security.

I move that way as well, and reach them just as Kip tells Killian he saw Jax go upstairs, hanging on to a groupie.

“And some guy,” Kip adds.

“A guy?” Killian repeats, confused.

“Yeah, kind of sleazy looking. He had Jax by the other arm. But Jax waved me off.” Kip shrugs. “So what could I do?”

Do your bloody job and tell me what was happening, I think with a silent snarl.

Killian’s gaze darts to mine. “Jax is not into dudes.”

“I know that,” I snap, then take a breath. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on; we’re simply being cautious. And I do not want to call attention to us, so let’s calm down.”

Killian’s jaw tenses, but he nods.

“Keep on with your duties,” I tell Kip. “Come with me, Killian.”

Rye finds us as we walk across the room, his expression is grim. “Not in the bathroom.”

“Apparently he went upstairs,” I say. “Stay here and be you.” He knows exactly what I mean, but he doesn’t appear happy.

“Some days it sucks being the class clown. Text me when you find him, or I’m gonna be pissed.” He salutes us and runs off, jumping on the couch between two women. “Ladies, who wants to do shots?”

Liberty is with us, and I touch her elbow to slow her down. “Go tell Whip to stay down here. If we all go, people will notice.”

Killian and I fall silent as we wait for the elevator. “We have no real reason to worry,” I tell him.

“He’s probably fucking some girl.” “Right.”

A row of numbered lights track the elevator’s descent to our fifth floor level. Killian and I both watch it.

“Why do I feel like it’s something more?” Killian whispers, staring at the lights.

My heart gives a pained thump. “I don’t know.” But I feel the same.