Читать книгу Mission: Out Of Control - Susan May Warren - Страница 11

Brody Wickham didn’t run from crazy. He didn’t care what costume Vonya appeared in, what outrageous request she made of him. Didn’t care how many times she asked him for a macchiato coffee or food from the craft table. He’d keep on informing her he wasn’t a butler—he hadn’t been hired to carry her shoes or protect her delicate skin from the harsh sunlight.

And to think the gig hadn’t even officially started, although the week spent in New York City watching her rehearse had him second-guessing this gig every day. He couldn’t wait for the weekend leave when he’d return to D.C. and check in on his family before leaving for Europe.

Brody Wickham fully planned to outlast her. Figure her out. Win at whatever game they happened to be playing in her head. After all, how was he supposed to protect her if he couldn’t predict her moves? She certainly wasn’t going to make it easy by, say, cooperating.

She made him want to bang his own head against something hard and cold. Whose brain-dead idea had it been to earn a quick 100K anyway?

“Thank you, Brody.” His mother’s face when he handed her a portion of the prepayment of services after returning from the meeting with Senator Wagner. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good to help his parents.

Or to know that they wouldn’t lose the family home.

Or give his brother a shot at a decent education.

And, truthfully, Ronyika—as he’d taken to calling her—did intrigue him.

After all, he’d never seen anyone wearing giant wings during a pop song before, even if watching her dangle fifteen feet on a trapeze swing off the ground as if she might be flying nearly gave him chest pains. Today her hair was baby-boy blue, an almost clownish mop of curls atop her head. And she wore a black Batman mask, perhaps just in case anyone mistook her for the sugarplum fairy.

In truth, she scared him a little with how quickly she morphed from high-society Veronica to Vampy Vonya.

“Is she schizophrenic? Maybe suffering from multiple personality disorder?” He hadn’t exactly meant to say that aloud, but perhaps his disbelief at watching her suspend herself from the ceiling as the fog machine filled up the stage simply overtook his brain and he accidentally went audible with his opinion.

Her manager looked up at him and shook his head. “No, she’s brilliant.”

“Tommy D” D’Amico reminded him of a man who might greet him at a frat party. Or a used-car sales lot. A full head of blond curly hair, eyes that didn’t retain his quick smile, the fast handshake. Shiny alligator shoes that probably cost half Brody’s yearly income. What had Senator Wagner said about someone skimming her profits?

Brody had done a background check on Tommy first, followed by Leah, her pretty assistant. If the black-haired whirlwind gained about sixty pounds of muscle and grew a foot, she just might give Brody a run for his money with all the hovering she did.

Although Miss Ronyika hadn’t seen anything yet.

But why was a girl who’d been stalked—in and out of the tabloids—uninterested in having a bodyguard?

More intrigue.

He’d kept his distance this week as he conducted his background checks, went over the accommodations—he’d changed them to decent hotels, thank you very much—and scoured the itinerary. If she wanted to be treated like the pop sensation she was becoming, she needed to start thinking about more upscale lodging, venues…perhaps even attire. But he wasn’t touching that.

He’d conceded, also, to the fact he’d have to involve the rest of the Stryker International crew—Artyom and Luke—if he wanted to prepare for contingencies at the concert venues. Thankfully, the Stryker staff jumped at the work, also bored with their mandatory R & R.

Now if he could just figure out Vonya’s mind. It was not unlike trying to get a firm grip on Jell-O.

“You know she did two years in Harvard’s MBA program for international business, right? And can speak four languages? She’s a genius with this stuff.”

Really? Because how much genius did it take to sing “Your love gives me wings, makes me sing, on a swing”?

Still, four languages? Could one of those possibly be Klingon?

“I have to admit, she looks like she could just about fly if she wanted to.” He winced, however, at how high she swung. Hopefully the grips would make sure the trapeze was secure, or he would. She might be hard to catch.

“The wings are her design, as is the swing act. It’ll be a hit.” Tommy patted him on the arm as the director stopped the scene. The recorded music died in the speakers.

An air-conditioned chill collected in the warehouse, despite the tepid June air outside. Vonya must be freezing in her light blue leotard and tights. However, she seemed the consummate professional, hitting every cue. And, if someone put him under the bright lights, he might even admit that she exuded a sort of Marilyn Monroe beauty that wasn’t completely unlikable.

Tommy clapped as she finished her song, the stage crew lowering the swing so she could hop off. “But you’re right, no one can pull off the wings like Vonya. We’ll add in the special effects for the video and sweep at this year’s MTV Awards.” He turned to Brody, white teeth showing. “You’re the lucky one—you get to watch her premiere the live act as part of the tour.”

Oh, yes, lucky him.

“She won two awards last year, you know. One for a music video, and she was up for best album, too. A real coup for an indie band. But she’s headed toward the big-time—even international stardom with this tour.” Tommy D shook his wrist, checking his diamond-encrusted watch, shiny under the spotlights. “I just hope you’re up to this.”

Brody raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, the last bodyguard her father hired ended up in the hospital. Heart attack.”

Really? Brody nearly put his own hand to his chest watching her swing in the air.

“Heart attack, huh?”

“The first time we were in Zimbala. She had just walked into a refugee camp. Of course, the man spent more time at the craft table than in her shadow, but yes. Heart attack. Could have been much worse.” Tommy patted him again, a habit that just might cause him to lose a hand. “But she’s not on any goodwill trips this tour, so probably you’re okay.”

“Goodwill trip?”

“Oh, it’s Ronie’s weakness—she’s got the heart of Mother Theresa. Can’t pass up a child in need. We have to visit every refugee camp, every orphanage. But I told her, no bleeding-heart stunts this time.”

Yes, he’d read that, but honestly, he thought it more publicity than fact. She intrigued him, this woman of numerous personalities—and, apparently, layers.

After she had left the dinner table the other night, he’d spied her in the yard nearly an hour later, swinging on an old swing set, humming.

She’d seemed so forlorn, for a crazy second he’d almost pitied her. After all, even he had felt the chill at the dinner table between Mrs. and Senator Stuffy. It didn’t take a psychologist to see open wounds.

Not that he could hide his so much. He remembered more staring at his cold pork roast than was good for him.

Maybe, suddenly, he understood the Vonya act, just a little.

He took another sip of his black, industrial-strength coffee. “Listen, Tommy, I need to know if she’s going to do any more crazy stunts like she did at the D.C. club.”

“Like?” Tommy D raised an eyebrow.

“Like throw herself into the audience? Maybe climb on top of a speaker and dive? I mean, look at her—she’s flying. I think she’s got a Superman complex.”

Indeed, now that the stage crew had finished lowering her to the stage, she balanced atop a baby grand.

“She’s a bird—you know, flying?” Tommy shook his head. “You bodyguard types haven’t a creative bone in your body.”

Hello, but yes, he did. Just…okay, he liked his creativity confined to Sunday morning omelets.

“Just how creative is she? I mean, do I have to watch out for her turning into a clubbing diva and sneaking out to paint the city?”

Tommy’s mouth quirked. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She’d rather stay in her hotel room and hang out with Lyle.”

Lyle?

But Tommy moved away, shouting directions at the director.

Lyle. Brody tried to ignore the Idiot! ringing in his head for not knowing about her boyfriend. He took another sip of coffee, already mentally texting Artyom for a background check. Just when he thought he’d crossed all his t’s.

It was this kind of oversight that got people killed.

He watched as she crossed her blue legs and leaned forward, puckering her lips. A photographer grabbed the shot.

Anyone who could keep up with Vonya’s attention span must be an interesting guy. Brody took another sip of coffee, then threw it in the trash, reaching for his phone.

Artyom texted him back almost immediately, apparently holed up in a hotel in Berlin while Luke met with the security team at the Klub, Vonya’s Berlin venue.

How are the Prague and Amsterdam venues?

All set in Prague. Heading to Amstdm next.

Brody closed his phone. Vonya had hopped off the piano, helped herself to juice and was leaning against the wall, possibly reading her mail on her iPhone.

Like a normal person. She just might be the most gifted master of disguise he’d ever met, because she appeared comfortable in every persona she donned.

But she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about Lyle, had she? Clearly, if he hoped to get her to open up, to let him truly protect her, he’d have to play her game.

“You don’t even like me.”

The words pinged inside him for some reason.

He wasn’t paid to like her. But if he had to pretend to get her to cooperate, well, no one ever accused him of not being willing to sacrifice for his job.

And he wasn’t exactly lacking in the charm department. He’d had his share of women on his arm.

He pocketed his phone, swung by the table, filled a plate with grapes and cheese, and brought it over to her.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, the sadness in her blue-painted eyes stopped him cold. Were those—

Yes. She lifted her hand to swipe it across her cheek, then stopped herself and blinked the tears away. He could recognize a forced smile when he saw it. “Can I help you?”

Wow, he wanted a glimpse of what might be on her screen that would elicit that response. “You need to eat.” He handed her the plate and leaned over a bit.

She stared at the food plate as if it might be a bomb. “What’s this?”

“Grapes. And I think that’s Gouda.”

She considered him a moment, then glanced at the phone. “Uh…”

“I can hold that for you.”

She moved her thumb over the screen, then handed over the phone and took the plate. “Thank you?”

He nodded, smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“It doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know.” She picked up a grape, popping it in her mouth.

“Heaven forbid.” He glanced at the phone. She’d closed out her screen, of course.

“I wanted to ask you about Lyle.”

She raised one eyebrow, popping another grape into her mouth. “Lyle? Why?”

“Apparently he’s an important part of your life. I think I need to meet him, especially if he’s going to be hanging around during the tour.” That was nice and casual, not a hint of annoyance in his voice that she hadn’t even once mentioned the man.

“I’m not sure he’s going. Leah hasn’t decided yet.”

What did her assistant have to do with her boyfriend’s decision to join her? “Why not?”

“He’s got school.”

Lawyer? Doctor? He didn’t exactly know why this bothered him. “What is he studying?”

A slow smile slid up her face, almost like a shark pulling back its teeth. “Gym and lunch are his favorite subjects, I think.” At this, she winked and finished off the last of the grapes. “I’ll make sure he stops by later. I do think it’s time you met my son.” She handed him the plate and took back her phone, leaving him standing there with a big pile of stinky cheese.

Oh, the look on Brody’s face had been priceless. So worth accepting his goodwill grapes.

Even if, technically, she’d had to lie. Although she considered Lyle her son. He’d been living with her every summer and holiday since she’d found the four-year-old curled up on the park bench her freshman year of college at Columbia University where she did her undergraduate work.

Which, of course, led to her meeting his sister, Leah. And arranging for his schooling with their mother, at least until the day the cops found her dead in Central Park.

Now Leah had official custody.

And Brody had looked like she’d belted him again.

See, no one pulled a fast one on Vonya.

“Ronie, are you okay in there?”

Ronie could picture Leah just outside the door, her kinky black hair wild around her face, dressed in a peasant’s shirt, tied at the neck. Leah’s appearance, head to toe, matched her personality—friendly, fun, honest. She’d turned into an exceptional assistant, and Ronie couldn’t imagine a Sunday morning without pancakes with her and Lyle.

Ronie wiped her face, toweled off her hair. “I’ll be out in a minute. How did your interview go with Brody Wickham, aka the Boy Scout?” She wiped the mirror with a washcloth, a swipe as large as her hand that revealed her streaked, formerly made-up face. Rehearsals for her tour seemed even more grueling today, and instead of showering at the studio, she’d raced home to her own digs.

“Wick—that’s his nickname. He seems nice. And genuinely concerned for your safety.”

“Yeah, too concerned if you ask me.” She would need another layer of remover to wipe the last of the indigo blue from around her eyes, but finally, she’d begun to see hints of her real self. Unremarkable hazel-green eyes, brown hair chopped short, the color of prairie mud, now knotted in a mass from a brisk towel-rubbing. A few freckles formerly concealed with powder. And pale yet plump lips that others probably envied, but on her it looked like too much effort for too little result.

“This coming from the woman who still winces when she moves her arm.”

Ronie lifted her left arm, letting the mirror reveal the purple-black bruise encircling the top of it. It still hurt to move it; tears still sprang to her eyes when someone bumped it.

“There’s no such thing as too concerned. I think Brody Wickham is the real deal. I saw him watching you all day—I’m telling you, if you had slipped from that swing, he has arms that could catch you.”

“I think he’s just as likely to let me hit the ground.”

“He’d take a bullet for you. I can see it in his eyes.”

Perfect. Just what she wanted—another person dying because of her.

Okay, yes, maybe she couldn’t dislodge him from her brain—especially that smug expression as he tried to catch a glimpse at her phone.

Good thing she’d deleted the text. See, a person shouldn’t save text messages on their phones—not in the new age of spy games.

No, she’d just have to keep his attention diverted while she played out her extracurricular activities.

“I thought rehearsals went okay today, didn’t you?” She peered in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes, a few gathering wrinkles around her mouth. Okay, she shouldn’t be quite so hard on herself. With the right makeup, she could turn the head of a photographer. At least as Vonya.

“I think you’re brilliant. I love the swing song.”

She thought it was one of her cheesier pieces, but the crowds loved it. And Vonya vamped it up well, although it was one of the few songs that felt most like one Ronie might sing. All the same, it didn’t matter what persona she played onstage, as long as it opened doors. As Vonya she’d held a concert for the troops overseas, she’d raised money for UNICEF, she’d visited the refugee camps in Africa…

All, of course, Tommy used for the good of her career. She used it for the good of her heart.

And in Zimbala, she’d met Kafara Nimba, a nine-year-old orphaned boy who had captured her heart.

This trip, she’d bring him home.

“Is it okay if I take off? I left the Thai food on the counter. And Tommy said he’d be by later to check on you and go over the itinerary.”

Ronie cinched the towel around her and opened the door. “Are you picking up Lyle or am I?”

“I’ll go—we’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. Listen, you’re all packed, you just need to get yourself there on time. No more holding the plane while you run through security.”

“They didn’t believe I was Vonya—what could I do?”

“That’s your fault for traveling as yourself.”

Yeah, see, no one recognized her when she simply played…herself. Not even her, anymore.

Leah hadn’t moved from the door, and Ronie stilled. She closed her eyes when Leah said softly, “I’ll be praying for you. For the record, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

Her feet clicked on the cork floor down the hallway. Ronie pressed her hand to the foggy mirror and pulled it away, watching her handprint. The right thing.

Yes, eventually it would be.

A half hour later, her face scrubbed clean, wearing her green Hulk pajama pants and an oversize Harvard sweatshirt, she found the Thai food in the kitchen in the middle of an otherwise empty countertop.

The entire apartment on the top floor of her building in SoHo reflected Vonya’s eccentric style, thanks to Tommy D’s vision for who she should be—at least for the various magazines that wanted an “insider look” into her life. The past year and a half, she’d risen in popularity so much she barely recognized the woman who just loved to write songs in the quiet of her room. From the S-shaped workspace suspended on cables in the middle of the kitchen, to folding Japanese screens that separated the spaces, to the two-story windows overlooking the skyscape of New York, the place exuded the artistic, eccentric flare of Vonya.

The only room Ronie claimed for herself—and she’d practically had to throw her body over it—was the tiny library with the round window that overlooked the rooftops of her neighbors’ buildings. Yes, she could be accused of sitting in the darkness, watching people as they stargazed on their rooftops or sometimes serenaded the city. She often grabbed her guitar and played along.

Her library contained her books, a white shag carpet, a chaise lounge she’d picked up at an estate sale and re-covered in lime-green, her old acoustic guitar, and a pile of lined music sheets and notebooks filled with her handwritten songs.

Not that any of them would be sung by Vonya. Even if Ronie did bring them out into the light, they’d die under the bright glare of Tommy D’s criticism.

Aw, she didn’t really want to be a blues singer anyway, did she?

She’d definitely picked the wrong song to sing on Talent Night at the Harvard Business School. Wow, talk about getting in over her head.

Ronie brought the Thai food to the white sofa, curled up on it, and flicked on the television. She avoided the entertainment and fashion channels, ignored the soaps, and finally settled on a cooking show. Bizarre foods. Could be fun to eat fried squid on a stick, right?

The phone rang and she gave herself permission to let it go to the machine. Probably just Tommy, letting her know he’d be late.

“Veronica Stanton Wagner, this is your father, and if you’re there, I expect you to pick up.”

Ronie caught a long noodle with her chopsticks.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to say…” He cleared his throat. She paused, her food halfway to her mouth. “Have a good trip.”

Oh, see, now that was nice—

“Please try to stay out of the newspapers. And don’t drive your bodyguard mad. We’ve paid him good money to keep an eye on you.”

Ronie sucked in a breath.

“And your reputation.”

He hung up.

Ronie caught a piece of baby corn. Perfect. Just once, she’d like to hear his daddy voice instead of the senator voice, but frankly, it had been so long she probably wouldn’t recognize it.

She stirred her food, then set it down. If only she could have figured out another way to raise money other than go crawling back to her father.

Maybe she shouldn’t have given away quite so much of her money to charity. But she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help—after all, she had so much to make up for.

She clicked off the television and stared at the glittering lights of the city, fatigued to the bone.

From inside her messenger bag next to the door, her cell phone buzzed. She put down her carton of food, got up and retrieved it.

A new text message. From Bishop.

Keep your promise, I’ll keep mine. Good luck.

It came with an attachment. She opened it, her heart racing.

Kafara. She knew him like her own handprint, despite the grainy image. He stood with three other boys about his age in a field next to a green truck. They wore dirty green pants and black shirts, their eyes dark and solemn.

Gravel filled her throat.

Each one of them held a black-as-night AK-47 on his hip.

She sank to the floor, ran her finger over Kafara’s twelve-year-old face. She knew it, she just knew that when his letters stopped, when she’d heard of the raid in his village, that General Mubar had “recruited” Kafara into his private army of enforcers.

Please, God, don’t let him have been used for minesweeping, or to murder someone.

Her hand shook as she saved the picture to her files. Yes, she’d most definitely have to shake Brody Wickham off her trail, whatever it took.