so probably you’re okay.”
“Goodwill trip?”
“Oh, it’s Ronie’s weakness—she’s got the heart of Mother Theresa. Can’t pass up a child in need. We have to visit every refugee camp, every orphanage. But I told her, no bleeding-heart stunts this time.”
Yes, he’d read that, but honestly, he thought it more publicity than fact. She intrigued him, this woman of numerous personalities—and, apparently, layers.
After she had left the dinner table the other night, he’d spied her in the yard nearly an hour later, swinging on an old swing set, humming.
She’d seemed so forlorn, for a crazy second he’d almost pitied her. After all, even he had felt the chill at the dinner table between Mrs. and Senator Stuffy. It didn’t take a psychologist to see open wounds.
Not that he could hide his so much. He remembered more staring at his cold pork roast than was good for him.
Maybe, suddenly, he understood the Vonya act, just a little.
He took another sip of his black, industrial-strength coffee. “Listen, Tommy, I need to know if she’s going to do any more crazy stunts like she did at the D.C. club.”
“Like?” Tommy D raised an eyebrow.
“Like throw herself into the audience? Maybe climb on top of a speaker and dive? I mean, look at her—she’s flying. I think she’s got a Superman complex.”
Indeed, now that the stage crew had finished lowering her to the stage, she balanced atop a baby grand.
“She’s a bird—you know, flying?” Tommy shook his head. “You bodyguard types haven’t a creative bone in your body.”
Hello, but yes, he did. Just…okay, he liked his creativity confined to Sunday morning omelets.
“Just how creative is she? I mean, do I have to watch out for her turning into a clubbing diva and sneaking out to paint the city?”
Tommy’s mouth quirked. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She’d rather stay in her hotel room and hang out with Lyle.”
Lyle?
But Tommy moved away, shouting directions at the director.
Lyle. Brody tried to ignore the Idiot! ringing in his head for not knowing about her boyfriend. He took another sip of coffee, already mentally texting Artyom for a background check. Just when he thought he’d crossed all his t’s.
It was this kind of oversight that got people killed.
He watched as she crossed her blue legs and leaned forward, puckering her lips. A photographer grabbed the shot.
Anyone who could keep up with Vonya’s attention span must be an interesting guy. Brody took another sip of coffee, then threw it in the trash, reaching for his phone.
Artyom texted him back almost immediately, apparently holed up in a hotel in Berlin while Luke met with the security team at the Klub, Vonya’s Berlin venue.
How are the Prague and Amsterdam venues?
All set in Prague. Heading to Amstdm next.
Brody closed his phone. Vonya had hopped off the piano, helped herself to juice and was leaning against the wall, possibly reading her mail on her iPhone.
Like a normal person. She just might be the most gifted master of disguise he’d ever met, because she appeared comfortable in every persona she donned.
But she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about Lyle, had she? Clearly, if he hoped to get her to open up, to let him truly protect her, he’d have to play her game.
“You don’t even like me.”
The words pinged inside him for some reason.
He wasn’t paid to like her. But if he had to pretend to get her to cooperate, well, no one ever accused him of not being willing to sacrifice for his job.
And he wasn’t exactly lacking in the charm department. He’d had his share of women on his arm.
He pocketed his phone, swung by the table, filled a plate with grapes and cheese, and brought it over to her.
She looked up at him, and for a moment, the sadness in her blue-painted eyes stopped him cold. Were those—
Yes. She lifted her hand to swipe it across her cheek, then stopped herself and blinked the tears away. He could recognize a forced smile when he saw it. “Can I help you?”
Wow, he wanted a glimpse of what might be on her screen that would elicit that response. “You need to eat.” He handed her the plate and leaned over a bit.
She stared at the food plate as if it might be a bomb. “What’s this?”
“Grapes. And I think that’s Gouda.”
She considered him a moment, then glanced at the phone. “Uh…”
“I can hold that for you.”
She moved her thumb over the screen, then handed over the phone and took the plate. “Thank you?”
He nodded, smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“It doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know.” She picked up a grape, popping it in her mouth.
“Heaven forbid.” He glanced at the phone. She’d closed out her screen, of course.
“I wanted to ask you about Lyle.”
She raised one eyebrow, popping another grape into her mouth. “Lyle? Why?”
“Apparently he’s an important part of your life. I think I need to meet him, especially if he’s going to be hanging around during the tour.” That was nice and casual, not a hint of annoyance in his voice that she hadn’t even once mentioned the man.
“I’m not sure he’s going. Leah hasn’t decided yet.”
What did her assistant have to do with her boyfriend’s decision to join her? “Why not?”
“He’s got school.”
Lawyer? Doctor? He didn’t exactly know why this bothered him. “What is he studying?”
A slow smile slid up her face, almost like a shark pulling back its teeth. “Gym and lunch are his favorite subjects, I think.” At this, she winked and finished off the last of the grapes. “I’ll make sure he stops by later. I do think it’s time you met my son.” She handed him the plate and took back her phone, leaving him standing there with a big pile of stinky cheese.
Oh, the look on Brody’s face had been priceless. So worth accepting his goodwill grapes.
Even if, technically, she’d had to lie. Although she considered Lyle her son. He’d been living with her every summer and holiday since she’d found the four-year-old curled up on the park bench her freshman year of college at Columbia University where she did her undergraduate work.
Which, of course, led to her meeting his sister, Leah. And arranging for his schooling with their mother, at least until the day the cops found her dead in Central Park.
Now Leah had official custody.
And Brody had looked like she’d belted him again.
See, no one pulled a fast one on Vonya.
“Ronie, are you okay in there?”
Ronie could picture Leah just outside the door, her kinky black hair wild around her face, dressed in a peasant’s shirt, tied at the neck. Leah’s appearance, head to toe, matched her personality—friendly, fun, honest. She’d turned into an exceptional assistant, and Ronie couldn’t imagine a Sunday morning without pancakes with her and Lyle.
Ronie wiped her face, toweled off her hair. “I’ll be out in a minute. How did