I almost say no until I realize this could be the last runway show of my career. Despite the strict and “boring as fuck” diet, the endless hours of workouts, the long shoots under hot lights, this job has given me so much.
“I do,” I say and offer her a genuine smile. “Don’t take a single minute of this experience for granted. Soak it all in, and when you have to show up on set at 5:00 a.m. because some photographer wants the ‘perfect’ light or when you’re wearing a bikini on the beach in January and freezing your ass off, remember how you feel right now.”
And then Donna’s calling Jill’s name, and the young woman beams at me and heads out for her spotlight.
By the time I’m back in the care of Marina’s capable hands, I’m almost calm. Happy even. If this really is my last show, I need to give it my all and enjoy every second of it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Griff
Even in the front row, I can’t make out what’s being said about each of the models. My glasses don’t do shit in a crowd this large—or this boisterous. Between the applause, the conversations happening all around me, and the music pumping loud enough I canfeelthe beat, my normally silent world is now filled with a dull, constant roar.
Until Sloane emerges from the wings. I can’t take my eyes off her. The outfits? They’reinteresting.Most show off a fair bit of skin, more now that apparently the show’s transitioned from daytime to evening wear. Pretty sure that negligée she wore for her last appearance was held up by string and prayers.
Whenever Sloane isn’t on stage, I text back and forth with Austin and Ripper—the other computer genius out in Seattle.
Ripper: Got a lead on Rodney Carriger. He moved down to Mexico not long after Sloane signed with the Ulstrum Agency. He paid for a new identity—name of Ricardo Cortez—and was living mostly off the grid. Only reason we found him at all? His dental records matched those of a dead body found outside of Cancun two weeks ago.
Shit. Another one of Volkov’s victims? As one of the blond male models I saw at the cocktail party the other night walks the stage wearing a pair of billowy pajama pants and a cropped silk shirt, I thumb out a reply.
Any sign of Volkov anywhere near Cancun?
There are only two models left before Sloane’s final appearance, and though she’ll need to stay and mingle at the cocktail party immediately following the runway show, I’ll be by her side. Every hour that passes without another threat—or a confirmed location on Andrei or Volkov—grates on my nerves.
Ripper: Nope. But I doubt the man does his own dirty work. The guy who broke into Sloane’s house? Based on her description and traffic cameras in the area around the time of the attack, he’s not affiliated with anyone. Local muscle for hire. Inara and the new probie are headed down to San Diego. They’ll make sure the asshole knows to stay away from Sloane if he wants to continue breathing.
The idea of Sloane returning to the place she was attacked has my every protective instinct flaring to life. Austin and Dax thought we’d have Volkov by now, that my assignment would end with the gala party tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving Sloane’s side with any threat to her safety still out there.
The beat of the music changes, and the lights dim, a spotlight on theBeauty and StyleCEO behind the microphone. It takes all my concentration to read his lips.
“And now, dressed in the very gown that she’s wearing on the cover of our beloved Christmas Book, our darling star, Sloane Sanders!”
The second she emerges, I stop breathing. Red silk crosses over her breasts, wraps around her shoulders, and tapers down to her waist. The gown billows with every step, and Sloane spins, showing off one long, toned thigh before continuing to sashay down the runway.
She’s an angel in crimson, sparkling silver heels glinting in the lights, and the audience bursts into applause so loud, it fills the room, even to my damaged ears.
At the end of the stage, Sloane curtseys, spins one last time, and joins the rest of the models who’ve all come out to applaud her. The CEO says something—I can make out the timber of his voice, but not his words—and the world behind me dissolves into a sea of flash bulbs.
* * *
The ten minutesit takes Sloane to make her way off the stage are the longest of my life. “You amaze me,” I say in her ear as I embrace her. I can feel the vibrations in her chest as she says something in reply and add, “My glasses don’t work with the music this loud.”
When she draws back, the light in her eyes, even through the contact lenses, brings a peace to her entire being I don’t know that I’ve seen in “Sloane Sanders, the model.” All through the cocktail party, the press conference, and even during her first walk down the runway, she’s been guarded. Acting the consummate professional while practically falling apart on the inside.
But now, she’s different. Happier.
“I need some water—or sparkling cider. The lights take a lot out of me. But, I need something else first.” Before I can ask what, her fingers stroke the back of my head, and she’s kissing me. The intimate contact settles me, giving me the peace I’ve craved my entire life but didn’t know it.
This woman is it for me. The urge to tell herright fucking nowis so strong, I don’t know how much longer I can wait. She takes the lead, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips, and I let her in, let her control the speed, the urgency…all of it.
Flashbulbs explode around us, and I can feel the press of bodies getting closer. Sloane stiffens and breaks off the kiss, and the only thing in her eyes now? Fear.
“Hands around my neck, sweetheart. Now.” Scooping my right arm under her knees and using my left as best I can to support her back, I rush her to the far side of the room where the security guards who refused to admit me to the dressing room stand at attention. “Hey. If the two of you want to do your fucking jobs, you could make sureBeauty and Style’sstar model isn’t crushed to death by the media.”
They stare over my shoulder at the approaching mob of photographers, and after a beat, leap into action. One radios for backup, and I escape out the double doors to the Pavilion with Sloane still held in my arms.
“Are you okay?” I ask when we’re safely out in the hall where the air’s cooler and it’s quiet enough for me to lower Sloane to her feet and turn my glasses on.
