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I have more in my real home, but I decided that if I’m doing something that requires me to carry more than one firearm, I need to move or sign another overseas protection detail contract. I don’t want a life where I have to watch my back all the time.
Brittany opens the door with a flourish. Her figure is on point and her skin glows like she’s spent a week at the spa, which she probably has. There’s not one line on her forehead when she smiles, but for the most part, she’s resisted trying to achieve the unattainable beauty standards of Hollywood and LA and the public in general when it comes to their icons. Her light hair is drawn back into a sleek ponytail that only heightens the look of maternal concern she gives her daughter.
“Penelope. Are you okay?” Her voice drops like she’s talking to the five-year-old version of her daughter.
Penelope tightens her grip on her luggage. She snuffs out the flash of annoyance in her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You must be terrified.” Brittany lifts her chin and studies me, her gaze dropping down the shirt and cargo shorts that has become my standard PI uniform. There’s a hint of a furrow in her brow as she switches her gaze to Elsa, who’s dressed like Penelope. “Did you bring a friend?”
“No, Mother. This is Elsa. She works with Cannon.”
“Cannon and Elsa. My daughter’s protectors.” She gushes sincerity, but I would bet my house that she already had me checked out as thoroughly as Roman did. She’ll have Elsa’s background check ordered before she goes to bed. She won’t find anything. I did my own when Elsa started working for me, and she auditions under a stage name, so her struggling actress status is safe.
But we’re dependent on Brittany’s hospitality, and she deserves an explanation. “Elsa came along to be introduced to you, but she’s not staying tonight. With your permission, we may need her to stay overnight once in a while.”
“Of course. Thank you for letting me know.” I earn a glint of respect, something I don’t take lightly in Brittany’s world.
Elsa bows her head. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Cowles.”
“Brittany, please. Thank you for helping my daughter.”
A squeak leaves Elsa, but she clears her throat. “I’ll leave you to get settled.” She spins on her shoe and gets back into her car.
Penelope’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. Her mother walks us through the cozy house. There’s an award shelf by the fireplace, and a couple of portraits of Brittany in her younger years, along with an old movie poster where she has blonde pigtails on either side of her head. It’s not until we get to the section of the house with extra bedrooms that there’s a family portrait with a young, reserved Penelope demurely smiling at the camera. She can be written off as arrogant, but that’s only if you don’t know that her posture is impeccable and the way she’s lifting her chin is ingrained in her.
Brittany walks ahead of us, her white sandals flapping against the floor. “Penelope, I hope you don’t mind that I put you in this room instead of the guest room next to mine on the other side of the house. It has a lock and the windows are smaller.” She pushes open a door, but keeps walking. “More importantly, there’s a bedroom right next to it. You two will have to share a bathroom between the bedrooms, but security is more important.”
As much as I’d rather sleep in the guest bungalow, it’s best to be near Penelope even if I never imagined sleeping so close to her.
“Wait here.” I go inside the first of the rooms, the one I assume Penelope will use. It’s adjacent to the main part of the house. The bedroom is small for a place like this. Brittany kept the house as is instead of remodeling it to make bigger rooms. Her restraint surprises me, but after being around her for just a few minutes, I’m realizing she doesn’t fall into a simple Hollywood-has-been stereotype.
I check the windows. They’re simple open-and-close sashes with no French or sliding doors out to the pool area. Easy enough to secure. I check the closet. It’s probably the size of Penelope’s shower in her old house. I poke my head into the bathroom, my gaze sweeping over the entry points. Her bedroom and the bathroom combined could probably fit into the bathroom she’s accustomed to.
Murmurings between Penelope and her mother cut off when I open the door wider. Brittany’s lips are pursed and Penni has one arm crossed over her middle, grasping her other elbow and standing with a hip kicked out. If it wasn’t a petulant child stance, I’d know she’s pouting from her pillowy lower lip sticking out. Not exactly how a woman with the confidence to divorce a multi-millionaire financier would act.
“Go ahead and bring your stuff in.” I step back to let Penelope through. “As long as you’re in the house, you can roam free, but if you step foot outside, you need to get me. All those gates do is keep vehicles out. People can get around them.”
The color leaches from her cheeks, and she nods. Genuine concern fills Brittany’s eyes. “Are you sure I can’t call one of my friends? They use an investigator—”
“No, Mother. I’ve got it handled. Thank you.”
If Penelope thinks Newland Jablonski is going to find out shit, she might as well light her money on fire in her mom’s firepit. The only mystery that guy can solve is who didn’t refill the coffeepot. But it works better for me if a washed-up car salesman turned detective takes the stalker case versus the detective that Brittany would hire.
“Okay. Well.” Brittany’s gaze dances between us. Her motherly concern seems real, but I’ve been fooled before. Does Brittany realize that she doesn’t bother hiding her thoughts about her daughter? The frustration that Penelope isn’t more like her, more of a steel rod that can’t be bent by outside forces, blazes across her face. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m usually in the family room this time of night.”
Penelope’s looking around the room like she can’t believe she ended up living with a parent after being swept off her feet by an older man. “Good night.”
When we’re alone together, she turns her back to me. I don’t know what was said between her and her mom, but I can guess. Penelope can read people, and when her mom treats her like she can’t tie her own shoelaces, it shows in more than Brittany’s words.
I’m standing in the doorway, and she isn’t going to unpack and go to bed while I’m hovering.
Why the hell am I hovering? Roman’s good, but he can’t access Brittany’s house and security like he can the studio's. I don’t know why he wants her to think she has a stalker, but I doubt he’ll try anything around her parents. Unlike Penelope, Brittany has money and access to the public’s ear if she wants it. I don’t know about Penelope’s father, but if Roman missteps during the divorce, it might threaten their business together. “You good?”
Her voice lacks conviction when she says, “I’m fine.”
I tear myself away from her room and close the door. I got a peek of my bedroom when I looked at the bathroom. It’s the mirror image of Penelope’s. A perfect space for a couple who can’t stand to sleep together, but don’t want to be far apart. Or for a parent with a child they don’t want to have sleep across the house. I don’t know what the purpose of the setup was, but it’s convenient for us.
What’s not convenient is my heightened awareness of the woman moving around on the other side of the wall. She’s not the elitist rich woman I thought she was when I first met her. She’s scared, and she should be. Roman isn’t the type of man to act without purpose, and I’m the only thing between her and whatever he has planned for her.
