He made a curt nod of his head. “I’ll phone you as soon as you arrive, set up a time that’s convenient.”
“Three minutes, Ms. Hart!” one of the stagehands called out.
Stern made another curt bow of his head. “Until Atlanta,” he said, turned, and walked away.
She wasn’t completely sure why she felt such a wave of relief. Ethan uncrossed his arms and moved toward her.
His dark gaze followed Stern’s movements until he disappeared, then returned to her, sliding over the necklace and down her body, a trail of fire that licked over her skin. The tension she’d been feeling returned, different now. Not nerves, just burning sexual heat.
“The diamonds suit you,” Ethan said mildly, though there was something hidden in his words. “You look like you were born to wear them.”
She studied his face. “I lived on the street, remember? One lesson I learned—there are a lot of things more important in life than diamonds.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He flicked a glance to where Stern had disappeared. “You sure?”
He thought she was interested in Jason Stern? Not hardly. She smiled. “Positive.”
His broad shoulders relaxed. “Good to know.”
“You’re on, Valentine!” Daniel motioned her toward the stage and she hurried in that direction, not daring to look back at Ethan. She knew she would see the desire he worked so hard to hide.
Taking a deep breath, she took her place in front of the curtain and pasted a smile on her face. She reminded herself she was Valentine Hart and started striding down the runway.
Ethan heard the scuffle, the thud of heavy blows, and the sound of a muffled curse. He flicked a glance toward the stage, but Val was already finished. The necklace had been safely returned and she was back in her dressing room. Beau was nearby, along with a dozen other security people.
He headed toward the sound of men arguing, saw Pete Hernandez standing in front of two hard-looking biker types at the end of a dimly lit hall that opened into a room where stage sets were built.
A man with shaggy brown hair pulled into a ponytail wore jeans and a cutoff T-shirt that showed his ladder abs. The other man, taller, even harder, had tats running down both arms. Ethan wondered how the hell they’d gotten in.
The ponytail bobbed as the first guy swung, connected with Pete’s lip, and blood sprayed into the hallway. Pete threw a solid punch that landed hard, knocking the guy a few paces backward into the construction room. The guy stayed on his feet, crouched low, and got ready for more as Hernandez followed him in.
The room was full of equipment: commercial saws, hammers of every shape and size, plywood tables, sawhorses. The smell of freshly cut wood rose up from the inch of sawdust covering the floor. The ponytail guy threw a straight-from-the-shoulder punch that hit Pete squarely in the jaw, knocking his head back. Pete staggered, tipped over a worktable, and went down like a stone.
Swearing softly, Ethan stepped into the fray. Catching the guy by his cutoff T-shirt, he spun the man around, grabbed his arm, and cranked it up behind his back, then slammed the guy’s head into a half-built fake window. The man slid down moaning and didn’t get up.
The guy with the tats stepped in front of his friend, arm cocked back. Ethan ducked the punch, tripped the guy, and he went sprawling, but he was too dumb to stay down and scrambled back to his feet. He growled as he charged, ramming into Ethan’s middle, carrying him backward into the wall.
Ethan grunted, threw an underhanded punch to the guy’s midsection that lifted him clear off his feet, one more for insurance, then shoved him away.
“Time to end this, buddy,” Ethan warned.
“Fuck you, asshole.” The colorful tats blurred as he swung a blow that would have been painful if it had connected. Ethan sidestepped, caught a tattooed wrist, and dragged the man forward, bent him over a wooden sawhorse in the corner, and dragged his arm behind his back. Sliding a plastic tie onto his wrist, Ethan dragged the other arm back and secured it as well.
It was over.
In seconds, he had the two men cuffed and sitting on the floor, their backs propped against the wall. When he looked up, he saw Val standing in the doorway in her stage robe, her eyes wide, a silentOon her lips.
“Everything’s under control, Val. Go back to your dressing room.”
Her gaze swung to Hernandez, who sat up on the floor with a groan. “What . . . what about Pete?”
He was only a little surprised she knew Pete’s name. She seemed to have a way of connecting with people, didn’t matter where they were in the food chain.
Pete unfolded himself and started rubbing his temple, his lip swelling, his jaw already turning purple. “You don’t need to worry, Ms. Hart. I’m okay.”
“Let me take a look. You might have a concussion.” She moved toward him, careful not to look at the two men on the floor. Ethan pulled out his radio and keyed it, called for backup from Dirk, told him to get the show doc, and inform the police they had intruders subdued in the set-building room off the east wing.
“Sorry, Ethan,” Pete said as Val knelt next to him. She took the hem of his T-shirt and dabbed it against his bloody lip. “They got the jump on me. I didn’t get a chance to use my radio. I’d just checked the room a few minutes earlier.”
