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“Gavin, don’t.” Hawke grabs me, holding me back.
It’s too late. I already saw what was waiting for me in the middle of my bed.
There’s just enough time for me to scramble and kneel in front of the toilet before losing the contents of my stomach.
Mitch
The shrill ring of my cellphone interrupts my workout. I ignore it, continuing with my final six power thrust reps. The heavy barbell clangs loudly when I drop it on the mat.
I wipe off my face and jump on the treadmill and the damn thing rings again.
“Great.” Slamming the kill switch, I grab the phone out of my bag.
“What!” I bark without seeing who was calling.
“Is that any way to greet your cousin?” A lilting British accent floats through the receiver.
“Gemma? Sorry. I didn’t look—”
“No worries, love. Everything all right?” The concern in her voice makes me feel like a complete dick for yelling at her.
“I’m fine. I was in the middle of a workout.”
“Oh,” she retorts. “Testosterone flying and all that.”
I snort. “Yeah. Right. What can I do you for, Gemma? I have the feeling this isn’t a social call.” My British accent slides back into place the minute I speak to someone from home.
“You’re so bloody smart. That’s why I love you,” she snickers.
Knowing my workout is over, I grab my gear and water bottle and head upstairs. Having the space for a fully equipped gym was one thing I insisted on when looking for a place to live. The three-story townhouse I recently purchased in Huntington Park has a finished basement. Yeah, it’s not the safest area in L.A. but I can hold my own.
“So,” I ask, uncapping a bottled water and chugging half of it down. “Need another celebrity’s mobile number? Because you know I quit the bureau a week after I did that for you, right?”
She giggles, her light laughter making me smile. “That was brilliant though. Wasn’t it? You reunited high school sweethearts with that one little number. Made two people very happy.”
Gemma called me last year desperate to help her friend in the UK. Her estranged boyfriend is Adam Reynolds, superstar lead singer of the band Sphere of Irony. I may have broken the rules a little to get his mobile number for her.
“I think I saw something about it on T.V. If you don’t need a phone number, what can I do?” I toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin and lean back on the countertop, crossing my feet at the ankles.
“Well, I am ringing you about the same band, but it’s for a different reason. More in line with your current occupation.”
“Security?” I ask, scratching at the day old scruff on my neck.
“Yes. It seems one of the other members of the band is having issues with a…a stalker.” She whispers the last word as if saying it loud will cause him to set his sights on her.
I chuckle. “A celebrity stalker? You know I do corporate computer security and freelance profiling, Gemma. I’m a psychologist, a geek, not a bodyguard for pampered superstars.”
“You’re not a geek, Mitchell. But you can talk to him, right? So you don’t have the qualifications to be a bodyguard. You went through FBI training, didn’t you?”
“I did,” I answer carefully.
“Anyway, that’s not what he needs,” Gemma continues. “Ellie said he’s in a bad way, and his current security agency hasn’t done a thing to stop the threats. It seems that someone broke into his hotel room and left an intimidating letter and a…a dead animal on his bed.”
My pulse kicks in from the recognizable thrill of hunting a criminal. “A dead animal? That’s not a good sign, Gemma.”
“It’s not good. The poor bloke is petrified.”
“Buggar, Gem. I’m not…I mean…”
