He snorted and shook his head. “I don’t have her,” he muttered to himself. “She’s just a client.”
But she had hugged him. She'd trusted him with her story, stepped into his arms without hesitation, and kissed his cheek with a tenderness that had nearly undone him. He would treasure that moment for the rest of his life, regardless of what happened between them going forward.
A sharp knock on the suite door interrupted his thoughts, and he immediately shifted into professional mode. Pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he checked the security peephole before opening the door to admit hotel staff wheeling in a breakfast cartladen with covered dishes, fresh coffee, and what appeared to be a premium continental spread.
"Compliments of Mr. Foster," the server explained as he efficiently arranged the items on the suite's dining table. "He wanted to ensure Ms. Thorton had everything she needed for her morning meetings."
But the second item immediately caught Casper's attention. On the tray was an elegant gift box, which the server carefully placed beside the breakfast service.
"This was delivered for Ms. Thorton as well," the man continued. "The front desk confirmed that it was addressed specifically to her room number."
After the server departed with his generous tip, Casper stood studying the box with heightened alertness. Unmarked deliveries to hotel rooms were exactly the kind of escalation he'd been watching for.
"Casper?" Willow's voice came from behind him, soft and slightly husky with sleep. "Is everything all right?"
He turned to find her standing in the doorway of her bedroom, wrapped in a hotel robe with her blond hair tousled from sleep. Even without makeup and barely awake, she was breathtaking in a way that made his chest tighten with longing.
"Breakfast from Nathan," he said, gesturing toward the elaborate spread. "And a delivery for you." His concern was to put her on alert without frightening her.
Willow approached the gift box with obvious wariness. "I wasn't expecting anything."
"Hotel staff said it was delivered with your name and room number," Casper said, already pulling out his phone to photograph the box from multiple angles before they opened it.
With careful movements, Willow lifted the lid to reveal a dozen deep red roses arranged in an elegant bouquet, theirstems wrapped in black silk ribbon. Nestled among the blooms was a small card bearing a handwritten quote in flowing script.
Robert Burns says it best. "O my Luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June." You, my beautiful Rose, will always be my love.
The color drained from Willow's face as she read the card, and Casper immediately moved closer, his protective instincts flaring at her obvious distress.
"Fuck," he cursed. “Just like the others. Someone who knew you were here.”
She whispered, "I don’t understand the romantic poetry?” She turned her pale face to stare into Casper’s gaze. “Don’t they know I’m not Rose. Rose is just a character! She isn’t me!”
Casper stepped closer and reached down to grasp her hands, continuing to look directly into her eyes with the kind of steady intensity that had calmed soldiers under fire. "Willow, I know this is frightening. I hate that you have to live with this kind of uncertainty and fear. But we're going to figure out who's doing this, and we're going to stop them. You don't have to let fear control your life."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're right. I won't let whoever this is steal my life away from me."
"That's exactly the attitude that's going to get us through this," he said, squeezing her hands gently before releasing them. "Now, let's get some breakfast and prepare for your meetings. We're going to take this one step at a time."
Once she’d eaten and headed back into her room to shower and get ready, he contacted LSIMT. Firing off another missive, he wanted them to search for who had dropped off the package. Even though he considered Sadie exceptional at her searches, he had a feeling whoever left it was covering their tracks.
Two hours later, they were seated in the elegantly appointed Beverly Hills office of Bernie Macintyre, a book-to-film liaison whose reputation for connecting authors with adaptation opportunities had made him one of the most sought-after professionals in the industry. His office occupied the top floor of a restored Art Deco building, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the Hollywood Hills.
Bernie himself was a compact man in his fifties with the kind of nervous energy that seemed to vibrate through his expensive suit. His office walls were lined with movie posters featuring films he'd helped bring from page to screen, and his desk was cluttered with manuscripts, contracts, and what appeared to be constant communication from various studios and production companies.
"Willow, darling, you look absolutely radiant," Bernie said, rising from behind his desk to embrace her with the kind of air-kiss greeting that seemed endemic to Los Angeles business culture. "I've been following your recent work with such admiration. That last adaptation you wrote was pure poetry in motion."
"Thank you, Bernie. It's always a pleasure working with material that already has such strong bones." Willow's professional demeanor was flawless, but Casper could see the subtle tension in her shoulders, a sign of her ongoing anxiety about the morning's delivery. She introduced him as a security specialist, and Bernie didn’t blink at the label. It was obvious the man was used to someone with an entourage, even if it was just one person.
"I have three properties I'd love to discuss with you," Bernie continued, gesturing toward a leather portfolio on his desk. "All from bestselling novels, all with studios attached and significant financial backing. The first is a historical romance set inElizabethan England. Sweeping, epic, the kind of story that wins awards and makes careers."
As Bernie launched into detailed descriptions of each potential project, Casper studied not only the man's words but also his body language, office environment, and interactions with Willow. The liaison knew intimate details about her preferences, her writing style, and her availability for upcoming projects. He had access to her professional schedule and could easily obtain her contact information through industry channels.
But more concerning was Bernie's obvious emotional investment in Willow's career success. The way his eyes lingered on her face when he thought she wasn't looking, the subtle possessiveness in his tone when discussing her work, and the collection of photos on his desk that included several of them together at various industry events. All of it painted a picture of someone whose professional interest might have crossed into personal territory.
Casper kept his face carefully blank, but he knew that, in truth, everyone they had met in the past two days had a professional interest that morphed into personal.
Their next appointment took them across town to the Century City offices of Mack Estile, Willow's financial adviser. The building was a gleaming tower that housed some of the entertainment industry's most powerful financial management firms, and Mack's office on the top floor reflected his position as one of Hollywood's most trusted advisers.
