Page 15 of Gluttony
She took a deep breath. Time for a shower.
Moving to her room, she pulled out a black suit from her closet and laid it on her bed. Next to that, she placed her underwear—a cute blush-pink satin number with a bow between the balconette bra cups. She thumbed through a collection of hanging white dress shirts in her closet and settled on a black one. A white shirt would show her bra, and she felt like a little private luxury under her shirt. She wouldn’t concede to a flesh toned T-shirt bra tonight, especially when her expectations were of a night no doubt dealing with a drunk and intoxicated client. She deserved a little something for her trouble. She didn’t have high hopes that he would stick to his abstinence from booze. Addicts never did. And for some reason, bodyguard was a word synonymous with babysitter in this high-profile world.
How did she get herself into these situations?
Heading to her ensuite, she turned the shower faucet on, undressed and went under the spray.
Tony may have pointed out that it wasn’t her job to investigate the stalker, but she couldn’t let it go. Not only had his comment hit too close to home, but she hated that he was hiding something. Besides, being told not to do something was the quickest way to ensure she did it.
On her way back from his place, she’d not only grabbed a bite to eat, but put in a request with his studio for the security footage near his trailer. Unfortunately, because it was after hours and the indisputable fact that everyone in that industry worked on their own time, she’d have to wait until someone got back to her.
To get to the bottom of the stalker, she’d have to work on discovering what Tony’s secret was. Probably an affair, these things always were. But something else tumbled in her gut... intuition, premonition... an inkling. Call it what you will. She only knew it meant something was not right with that family. She’d known it since Max disappeared on a secret mission for them and ended up with a bomb strapped to his chest.
The part of her brain she’d fostered in the CIA was screaming at her to pay attention, and every cell in her body wanted to investigate further, but she’d promised herself that she’d put all that behind her. No more cloak and dagger business; she was on the straight and narrow. Stick with the stalker. Not everything was some grand conspiracy she had to crack. Being paranoid with life was one of the reasons she got out. She wanted something real. She wanted a nice life, not ruin. After years of loneliness, the Cosmo had started to look too good.
Maybe she was over-thinking things. Maybe Tony wasn’t coming onto her. Maybe he was just being himself, and she didn’t even know quite who that was. There had been an obvious shift in his body language earlier, after he’d accused her of not liking him. It had been more than conceit. He’d been hurt. He wasn’t the person the public saw. He was guarded, obstinate, and perhaps even caring. Despite what he’d said, she knew he’d wanted his sister to work it out with Max. That blush of his had proven it.
Tony was a hopeless romantic.
That last word hadn’t meant to slip out. She held her breath and dunked her face under the hot stream of water. But... while she was at it, she may as well explore those thoughts. She couldn’t very well do her job tonight if she was focused on his good looks. And boy were they good. Better than good. Damned hot. The kind of sexy that shouldn’t exist. The kind that made you lose your words and hold your breath and squeak like a little mouse when he popped the top button on his jeans as you glimpsed a taste of the hard sacrilegious flesh beneath... his lack of perceived underwear.
Good Lord.
Another dunk under the water.
The silver screen didn’t do him justice. She’d watched a few of his films after her first encounter with him months ago. For research. But seeing him in person today, in the hot-blooded flesh, was an experience she hadn’t been prepared for. It was different this time. Last time, he’d stunk of alcohol and acted like a slobbering loser. This time, he had his shit together. She saw the man who earned the multi-million-dollar paycheck. Charming. Charismatic. Playful. From his picture-perfect face, square jaw, wide lips, to eyes that smoldered and made you feel as though you were his whole world—simply by landing on you—he had presence. His shirt had fit his body like a glove. Every ropy muscle, line and curve demonstrated the gym in his trailer had gone to good use.
She shut her eyes. His intense gaze was right there, stealing her breath. Goosebumps erupted over her flesh. Her nipples hardened. Desire bloomed low, and she pressed her thighs together to dispel the feeling.
Maybe if she just… her hand slid down her wet body, bumping over her sensitized breasts and went lower… and then she remembered her interaction with him two months prior, when she’d accosted him in the Lazarus House lobby. He’d been with a woman at the time, but the moment he’d seen Bailey, he’d discarded the model on his arm like she was an afterthought.
Nope. Hell, no.
You will not ruin me, Tony Lazarus.
She stepped out of the stream and shivered. He may not be a cocktail in a martini glass, but he would be an addiction all the same. He was a client. A playboy film star. There were quite literally millions of other women in the world who wanted to be with him, and there always would be. He would chew her up and spit her out. She was better than this.
He couldn’t give her what she wanted.
Packing her lust away—because that’s all it was, run-of-the-mill handsome-boy, lonely girl lust—she turned the faucet off, opened the shower stall door, and froze.
The sound of her fridge door closing filtered through. Glass and metal tinkled. Someone was here.
The shock of revelation drilled down to her bones, petrifying her, and then a muffled bang sounded from somewhere outside the ensuite. Maybe from the bedroom. Maybe still in the living area or kitchen because the bedroom door was open.
Every muscle tensed. Every sound amplified as she reached with her ears. Another boot scuffle. Someone was definitely in her apartment.
And she’d left her firearm on her bedside table.
Shit.
As quietly and efficiently as she could, she grabbed her dusky pink silk robe from the hook and then wrapped herself in it, drawing the strings closed across her waist. Water on her body darkened the silk in blooms of deep maroon, reminding her of blood. Holding her breath, she inched the ensuite door open with a toe and assessed through the crack.
Her gun was on her bedside, locked in its holster. Her laid-out clothes were untouched. Nothing had been ruffled. The big duck-blue pillows were immaculately placed, and not a wrinkle existed on her matching coverlet.
On the count of three, she opened the door a tad more. She waited. The intruder was quiet. Too quiet. As though he’d heard her turn off the shower and lay in wait.
Who would be in her condo?
