Page 17 of Call Back

He tossed my bra onto the bed. “I’ll get it for you.”

I continued folding a stack of T-shirts, trying to hide my shaking hands. Colt was back less than a minute later, a tube of toothpaste in his hand. He dropped it into my bag, then grabbed my arm and pulled me to his chest, tucking my head under his chin. “I only found the one tube of toothpaste.”

I stiffened, but he held me close, stroking my back. One camera. In my bathroom.

They were everywhere.

“I miss you,” he said as he leaned back and looked into my eyes. “Leave Brady and we can move in here together.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“We’re good together,” he continued. “Sex with you is the best I’ve ever had. Tell me you’ll think about it.”

What was he doing? But he’d obviously come up with a plan on the fly. Those improv classes were coming in handy. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

He lowered his mouth to my cheek, trailing a hot line of kisses down my face and neck as his hand slid behind my back and started to pull down the zipper of my dress.

I closed my eyes, taken by surprise by the fire racing through my blood, but then I remembered we were being watched, something of which Colt was firmly aware. He was doing this for a reason—how far did he plan to go? But as soon as he started to push my dress over my shoulders, I jerked away and pulled it back up. “No. I can’t.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and spun me around before he zipped up my dress, slipping his arms around my waist and over my stomach. Butterflies fluttered in my gut as he pressed his chest to my back and whispered in my ear, “I’m here when you need me.” Then he kissed the top of my head and released me. “Let’s go.”

I nodded and then picked up my bag, trying to disguise how much his demonstration had unsettled me—then again, whatever Colt was trying to do, my reaction would help sell it.

But who was the audience? Suddenly it struck me. That was the reason for his performance. If Owen and/or Brady had planted the cameras, I’d likely find out right away. And while I approved of his method, I was unsettled by my reaction. I’d had plenty of make-out scenes in plays before, and I’d never once reacted the way I just had with Colt. I dismissed it as the result of being caught off guard.

Colt took my bag and then ushered me to the door. I saw my laptop on the island and grabbed it before he practically pushed me over the threshold and down the steps. He opened the car door and waited for me to get in before he squatted next to the open door. “Sorry about what happened upstairs. If Frasier’s behind the cameras, he’ll probably confront you sooner rather than later. I would have warned you, but . . . the whole place is bugged. Whoever put the cameras in can see everything. Even in your bathroom.”

I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed. “I caught on to what you were doing pretty quick.” A new thought hit me, and I felt like I was on the verge of throwing up. “Oh, God. Were they there last week? Did they see me in the shower? Changing?”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “No, Mags. The police would have found them during their investigation. Those cameras were put in after they finished, which makes Frasier all the more likely to be the culprit.”

I nodded, still feeling violated.

“No matter what, you can’t stay there until we figure out who planted them.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Do you feel safe spending the night with Bennett?”

I thought about how understanding and sweet Brady had been since my attack. He’d even carried me to the ambulance to get checked out. No, I couldn’t believe that man would ever hurt me. “Yeah.”

“It kills me to say this, but I think you should keep staying with him. Indefinitely.”

After my reaction to Colt a few minutes ago, I was more confused than ever about staying with Brady. “I’ll think about it.”

He shut my door, then stood to the side and watched me while I backed out of the driveway.

It was barely five, which meant I could do some research before Brady got home by six. Besides Colt’s ploy, we hadn’t made much progress, and I had a feeling we didn’t have a lot of time.

I parked in Brady’s parking garage, stuffed my laptop into my bag, and then pulled my pepper spray out of my purse, ready to defend myself if someone was waiting for me. There were shadows lurking in the corners but nothing more substantial. After shoving the straps to my duffel bag and my purse over my shoulder, I pretty much bolted from the car to the elevator bank.

Brady had given me a key, so once I got to the third floor, I let myself into his unit and locked the door behind me.

I had less than an hour to search the internet for information. There was a desk area in his kitchen, and a quick search yielded a paper and a pen for note-taking. I grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and settled onto the sofa, tucking an afghan around my laptop. Brady had given me the Wi-Fi password for my phone, so I logged in to his network.

The first thing I did was search for my father’s name, and it shocked me how many hits popped up on the screen, especially since the internet hadn’t been as much of a behemoth back then. I knew my father had been active in the community—particularly supporting non-profits, but I’d had no idea he was so active in the music industry. There was photo after photo of him at various music events, often standing next to music artists, both legendary—Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson, Reba McEntyre, Trisha Yearwood—and singers who’d never made it past their one hit song—Clint Duncan, Sarah Murphy, Todd Drum. The latter crew hadn’t retained their fame, but they’d been seen as rising stars when the photos were taken.

My mouth dropped when I found a photo of Daddy arm and arm with my former nemesis, Max Goodwin, shyster talent agent, and his partner in crime, entertainment attorney Neil Fulton. The two of them had been murdered weeks ago.

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