Page 6 of Always Been Mine

“Beatrice,” Doug said. His eyes were sympathetic, but his lips were twitching.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned. “Damn Eric.” She whipped out her phone and called him. She got his voice mail. Just as well. She didn’t want to talk to him, just leave him a message. A warning.

“Eric. Beatrice. Call off your fans. You and I? Not happening again. Get that through your damn head. The next time I get attacked or harassed, youwillnot like what I’ll do to you.”

She ended the call. Doug sighed.

“What?”

“You threatened your ex over the phone.”

Beatrice paused.Shit.

“That’s not the way to keep yourself out of the tabloids.”

“Damn it,” Beatrice hissed.

“Come on,Carrie, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Beatrice grunted.

“You’re lucky they didn’t use pig’s blood.”

She grunted again.

They were making their way up the steps when Beatrice felt a shiver go up her spine. She stopped and looked around.

“What’s wrong, honeybee?” Doug occasionally used that annoying endearment on her, but right now, Beatrice’s attention was riveted to her surroundings.

“I feel like . . . I feel like someone’s watching me.”

“You’re just spooked by the attack,” Doug reassured her. He was probably right. He put his arm around her and she leaned into its comfort as they walked into the lobby together.

The Mayflower CharityBall was a black-tie affair, but Beatrice decided to forgo the formality of a limousine. Too much fanfare to pull up at the entrance of the trendy Larkspur Manor in McLean. At the moment, she preferred to remain inconspicuous, asking Doug to pick her up in his low-profile Toyota sedan. Some part of her hated how she seemed to be hiding, but the ugly scene in front of her condo earlier only proved the prudence of her decision.

Pulling up by the valet, a doorman opened the passenger door and assisted her from the car. Beatrice was wearing a simple satin sheath gown. Its platinum color set off her creamy skin tone. She set her hair in big curls and gathered them in a sophisticated off-center ponytail. Doug offered hisarm, and together, they walked the short distance to the main entrance. They veered to the side walkway, which led to a discrete door that guests who preferred anonymity used during such events.

“Your hands are clammy,” Doug murmured. “Are you still shaken from this afternoon?”

“I wish I could blame the incident earlier,” Beatrice replied, “but that’s not it.”

“Don’t tell me fearless Beatrice Porter is afraid to face down this crowd?”

“Of course not.”Lie. But that wasn’t it either. The idea that she was being watched had been festering for weeks now. The mess with Eric Stone had thrown some white noise into her intuition, and she could not, for the life of her, determine what was causing her all this disquiet.

The door opened to reveal a brightly lit, opulent ballroom.

Showtime.

Beatrice excusedherself from the huddle of diplomats and lawmakers to get another drink. She had sent Doug off to eavesdrop on another conversation of a rival security consultant.

A dark-haired woman with a pageboy bob, dressed in a tacky emerald-sequined gown, waylaid Beatrice on her way to the bar.

Kelly Winters. Her nemesis and the main society reporter for the DC Tattler.

“Beatrice.”

“Ms. Winters. I didn’t know they allowed barracudas in these functions.” Beatrice’s voice was glazed with saccharine sweetness.

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