Peyton continued, “I’d like you to be the point person for Jules’s security. Our family has a California-based protection agency that we work with. Still, her mother and I would like someone closer to her in age.”
He thought about the frozen barn in Montana and the girl with blue lips, who’d made him promise not to leave, to take her home, and not to say how he’d found her. He hadn’t kept all of his promises. “She’s five years younger than me.”
“The older you get, the smaller five years seems,” Peyton said. “Someone she trusts. You wouldn’t be based out of here. Be available for the East Coast outings. Travel for the big-ticket events.”
Like…?His lips pulled down. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Award shows. Red carpets. Movie tours. Premieres. Cannes. Et cetera.”
He hesitated. Celebrity culture nauseated him. “I don’t have any background—”
“You’re muscle, and you’re smart,” Jared said. “You can figure out the rest.”
“I don’t forget things,” Rhys clarified. “Very different from smart.”
“You’re humble too.” Jared cracked his knuckles. “Good at being a team player. Confident on your own.” He smirked. “I do my homework before conversations like this.”
Rhys glanced between the two men. He didn’t love his job but hadn’t considered leaving. He’d only been at the FBI for a few years but was good at it, climbing the bureaucratic ladder quickly.
“You’ll work with Vivian Maddox. A fucking firecracker. Former crisis negotiator and protective-services consultant to the DOJ.”
Rhys knew of her. He actually knew of almost everyone in their related sectors, courtesy of the way he couldn’t forget a name, face, or biographical detail. Vivian had a reputation for de-escalating the un-de-escalatable, though, ironically, also for churning up a shitstorm when she wanted to cause a scene. He’d never met her but was suddenly fascinated by the idea of working with her.
“If you come work for me and Viv, there won’t be any hard feelings for bailing from your team. You’ll have flexibility in your schedule to wrap up any cases where you’re needed to testify, and I’m going to pay you stupid money.”
Jules Lowry wouldn’t be happy to see him. And it was strange how he wanted to see her anyway. “Kinda making it hard to say no.”
Jared grinned. “Then don’t.”
Chapter Five
Thirteen Years Ago
Jules Lowry clenched her teeth and dropped onto the leather sofa in her father’s home office. His glower could be ignored, but the large man standing quietly in the corner like a sentry on duty pushed her to the edge. Rhys, an FBI agent turned her father’s lackey, had a glare that could cut stone. She’d been too vulnerable the day he’d found her, and that had screwed her so royally. The closer the court day drew, the more she felt sick when she saw him in person. “Rhys doesn’t need to be here.”
“Actually, he does. You ditched him and your attorney. It was a simple meeting, Jules.”
God, she hated talking about this. “Sorry.”
Dad grunted. “Yeah, that sounds contrite.”
“So sorry,” she said, making sure they were aware of how completely unapologetic she was.
“Give the guy a break. He’s doing this to make sure Jordan Everett gets convicted. Can you at least try to appreciate that?”
“No. His testimony isn’t his to share.”
Rhys didn’t say a word. He waited, knowing he would win out in this conversation and that she didn’t have a choice. Since the moment she’d stepped back onto her first red carpet since the abduction, Dad had assigned Rhys to be by her side. Rhys, who’d betrayed her trust. Who’d made no secret that he was disgusted by Hollywood. Who was too handsome for his own good. The same guy who scowled and grumbled his displeasure at everything.
She was almost convinced that he’d known she would ditch the meeting with the attorney and had let her walk into his trap so he could bring her back to her parents. Her emerald-green eyes narrowed on Rhys. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s get one thing clear. You will be blacklisted if you don’t play by my rules with your security. Margot will drop you. Sloane will ignore you. There won’t be a reporter to breathe your name if you don’t do what I say.”
“You’re acting like a tyrant.”
“And you sound like a spoiled Hollywood nepo baby. Not my daughter, who I thank God will make it to her twenty-first birthday. Be mad at me all you want. Be mad at Rhys. He doesn’t care. He’s the guy I trust to keep you alive. You don’t have to be friends. You don’t even have to talk—”
“You want me to talk to him and the attorneys.” She arched an eyebrow. “Which is it? Trusting Rhys enough to lead my security detail? Or Rhys testifying to what I told himin confidence.”
