"Not happening," I say firmly. “Out of view, remember?”
The neighbor calls after Rona, curiosity obvious in her voice, but I don't slow down. The last thing we need is a nosy neighbor spreading rumors about Rona and alerting the press.
At her apartment door, I halt her with an open palm while I conduct a security sweep. Living room clear. Kitchen clear. Bathroom clear. Bedroom clear. Only then do I wave her inside.
As soon as the apartment door clicks behind her, she kicks off her heels with a relieved moan that does absolutely nothing good for my sanity.
“I hate wearing high heels,” she whines, sitting down on a kitchen chair and massaging her small, dainty feet.
I try not to stare at those feet. At those shapely calves and at the way her dress rides up her thighs.
"Would you mind giving me some socks?" she asks, nodding toward her bedroom. "Top drawer of the dresser."
I leave, all too happy to get away for a second, and retrieve a pair of thick cotton socks and set them on the sofa arm rather than hand them over directly. Physical contact is not advisable right now.
She turns on the TV while pulling on the socks and immediately gasps as a news channel throws up a screenshot from the video.
"Shit," she whispers, her face going pale.
I quickly take the remote from her and turn the TV off.
"Ignore it," I say firmly. "No point listening to something you can't change."
She gives me a shaky smile, but nods in agreement, then turns to the landline and tries calling her mother. Twice, she gets hervoicemail. My own phone rings, and I frown as I see the caller’s identity. Not Senator Quinn, but Caroline Sparks.
"It’s out in the news," the pixie says without preamble. "Are you secure?"
“We’re in her apartment,” I answer with an even voice, although my mind is running at a thousand miles a minute. “No press sighting and no one followed us from the hotel. I think we’re clear for now.”
"Good. Keep it that way."
The call ends, and I'm left watching Rona stare at the black TV screen like it might explode. She looks young suddenly, vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I possess roar to life.
"I'm going to change," she says quietly, heading toward her bedroom.
I watch the door close behind her and immediately move to the front windows to check the street. What I see makes my blood run cold.
Two camera crews stand on the sidewalk. A gray van is pulling up, and stepping out of that van, looking like a shark who's smelled blood in the water, is Gribble Nix fromThe Sizzle.
Fuck.
The building intercom buzzes three times in quicksuccession.
Rona emerges from her bedroom in jeans and an oversized t-shirt that somehow make her look even more attractive than the designer dress. Her face has lost its earlier sass. Now she just looks worried and scared, those pale-blue eyes wide as she takes in my expression.
"What's wrong?"
I close the curtains with a decisive motion and hand her the hoodie back. Her hands are trembling as she takes it.
"Five minutes," I tell her, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Pack a bag. We're leaving."
She nods, and for once there's no sassy comeback, no mock salute. Just quiet acceptance that makes my chest tight.
"Sir, yes, sir," she says softly.
As she disappears back into her bedroom, I make my decision. I don’t know who is after that girl or why, but I know one thing: she can’t stay here. She needs to get away until things quiet down. The public’s attention isn’t usually long-lasting and the reporters will bore of trying to find her soon enough.
In the meantime, Rona Quinn needs to disappear.
