Page 22 of A Very Rossi Christmas
Sloane packing her books into a bag that looked like it had definitely seen better days. She was scowling, her moves jerky and quick, but she was also alone.
Unharmed. Un-kidnapped.
The guy in question was nowhere in sight, and I wondered for a split second how she'd gotten rid of him so quickly... and then stopped wondering.
The dull glint of gunmetal in her bag, visible for only a second as she slid a book into it, told me exactly how she'd gotten rid of him.
So shewascarrying a gun with her. She was very stupidly by herself, without any type of security in the middle of a crowded restaurant, but she was at least armed.
"Good girl," I breathed.
I wondered what she was packing, and then I wondered if it was the little gun I'd bought her as a graduation present. The tiny North American Arms mini that looked like something out of the Wild West if they'd been building those guns for a woman rather than a man.
The gun I'd slipped her in that café right before my father's men found us.
Still. That gun carried two bullets—if she had it fully loaded—and if someone was following her and meaning to do her harm...
I glanced out the window, wondering what had happened to the guy who'd been snarling at her, and then looked back down at Sloane herself, and the fury on her face.
So she definitely knew the guy, and she must know he was following her—or at least making an effort to run into her in random places.
Why the hell didn't she have backup in case he wanted to do more than just grab her wrist?
And why the hell hadn't she taken it more seriously when I told her she had a guy on her tail?
She yanked her bag up over her shoulder, gestured to one of the waitresses—a friend, I supposed, and probably the reason Sloane had free rein to take up an entire table at this swanky place with her books—and then scooted out the front door, one hand resting inside the bag and, I hoped, on the handle of that tiny gun.
I glanced back at the wine still sitting on the bar, hesitated... and then followed her out of the restaurant.
Sloane Brennan wasn't my problem, and she'd told me to leave her alone. But I didn't think I'd ever be able to forgive myself if I let this go and she ended up getting hurt.
So for tonight—my last night in LA—I wasmakingher my problem.
13
JOSEPH
HOME ALONE
To Sloane's credit, she went right home rather than fooling around with any other field trips.
At least I assumed this was her home.
If it was, the place was fucking gorgeous, and I was betting Irish had given her the money to get it.
We were just off PCH in Malibu by the time she finally pulled her flashy car—which I'd had trouble keeping up with—off into a driveway on the right. I pulled over on the shoulder of the road itself, watching the driveway she'd pulled into and biding my time.
She didn't know I'd followed her, and I didn't want to blow my own cover by going in right after she had. I didn't know if that was a driveway to her house or a road to several houses, and it just wasn't worth the risk. No, I wasn't worried about what she'd think of me following her.
I just didn't think I was the only one who had. And if that other guy was here, I wanted to catch him in the act. It was the only way I could think of to finally convince Sloane that he was trouble.
Risky? Yes. Potentially problematic if he had a twitchy trigger finger? Absolutely.
But when it came right down to it, I wanted to have this out tonight. I was going home tomorrow, and the more I thought about it the less I liked the idea of leaving town with this guy still on the loose.
I waited until the glow of Sloane's headlights faded, then turned off my own car, got out, and locked the door.
She'd see the headlights if I drove up there. If I walked, though...
