Meant For Me (Hawkeye Book 3) Page 3

  Mira had opted for slacks and boots, along with a light blue button-down shirt. Since she didn’t know what to expect tonight, she’d pulled on a blazer that would hold her phone and her stun gun, cleverly disguised as a lipstick container. Though discreet, its four million watts were surprisingly effective.

  A droplet of moisture arrowed down her neck, and she lifted her ponytail for a moment.

  “We’ve got plenty of time. You might as well head inside. Find some air-conditioning,” Torin suggested.

  Not a bad idea. “I’ll stay close.”

  While Torin remained at his post, she wandered to the front of the hotel. Before entering, she glanced up at the historic brick building with its wrought-iron accents. It didn’t take much effort to spot The Crush and several members of his group on a balcony. He held a glass, raised. As usual, he wore a fedora set at a jaunty angle. His white shirt—stark against his ebony skin—was held together by only the bottom two buttons. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she was certain there was a shine on his muscular, shaved chest.

  She pushed through the enormous revolving glass door, then stepped into the old-world—and blessedly cool—elegance of the Maison Sterling.

  The front desk had no line, and a few couples were seated in leather chairs, sipping drinks.

  An actual bar was farther in, and she walked toward it. Maybe it would be a unique destination on her next happy hour outing with Hallie. Mira scanned the posted menu, looking for her favorite, a hurricane. Of course, the Maison had its own version of the quintessential New Orleans drink. It was called the Cat Five, and featured five different kinds of rum instead of the traditional two. She loved the fruity cocktail, but this one was more than twice the price that she usually paid.

  Of course, her favorite haunts didn’t cater to Hollywood A-listers, musicians, politicians, or members of a rumored secret society.

  “Would you like a table, ma’am?” the hostess asked.

  She wished she could take a seat at the bar and enjoy the rest of the evening. Instead, Mira shook her head. “Thanks. No.” Now that she’d cooled off, she exited into the wet, blanket-like atmosphere. Somehow, it was worse now than it had been.

  The Crush was throwing Mardi Gras beads to a small crowd of women who’d gathered on the street.

  She strode back to the valet stand. “You need to get the people onto the sidewalk.”

  “Losing battle.”

  No doubt. “Doesn’t mean it’s okay to ignore it.” She walked back inside, to the front desk, then rapped her knuckles on the polished wood surface. “I need a manager.”

  When the man finally arrived, she glanced over her shoulder, indicating the front door. “Get those people out of here before someone gets hurt and you have a damn lawsuit on your hands.”

  “I’ll handle it, ma’am.”

  Satisfied, but tossing a glare at the valet, she walked to the back of the building.

  Of course, Torin was still in place, still as alert as he always was, seemingly impervious to the humidity or the distractions all around them. And as always, she had an all too feminine reaction to him.

  Damn it all three ways to hell, why did he have to look so good?

  Beneath a casual blazer, he wore his perennial black T-shirt. Because she’d seen him emerge from the bathroom last night after his shower wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist, she knew his muscular body was nicked by scars, some nicely healed, others that looked as if they’d never received attention. Unfortunately for her, they added to his mystique and the power he held over her.

  After she went to bed, she’d had disturbing dreams, haunted by images of him—ordering her to her knees, fisting his hand in her hair as he forced her to look up at his darkly brooding face.

  In one dream, he’d pinned her on the floor and yanked off her pants as she’d screamed yes over and over again. She’d awakened, out of breath, shaking, heart racing. Overwhelmed, she’d tossed back the blankets, jumped out of bed, then spent twenty minutes on the exercise bike before standing beneath the shower’s hot spray until the water heater had been drained. Still, it had taken another hour to fall asleep again.

  When he met her gaze, the phantom memory returned, with a flame threatening to devour her.

  She wasn’t sure what, but she needed to do something to get this man out of her thoughts.

  “All good?”

  “He’s tossing beads from the balcony.” She shrugged. “I talked to a manager.”

  A car honked, and brakes squealed.

  Biting out a curse, she grabbed her phone and called the Hawkeye team leader. “Shut him down,” she instructed.

  When Barstow agreed, she looked at Torin again. “It’s going to be impossible to get The Crush out of the hotel without getting mobbed.” Which was probably okay with him.

  A couple of minutes later, a small group of women walked around the building to stand near them.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mira asked.

  “The Crush.” A blonde in faded denim shorts that had strategic holes in them held her cell phone in front of her camera ready. “You’re with him, right?” the blonde asked.

  “Nah. Just hanging out,” Torin replied easily, not moving away from the building.

  “You’re a bodyguard.”

  “We do this all the time,” the tallest of the group added. “There will be a hundred people in the lobby, waiting, but he won’t go through there. And they all have people who say the same thing you do.”

  “You got us, then.” Torin smiled. “Could be a long wait. Don’t know that he’s planning to go out tonight.”

  “They all say that too,” the blonde stated.

  Clearly, the fan was an expert.

  Local police arrived to usher fans off the streets and onto the sidewalks, and fortunately someone managed to get The Crush back inside his room. Even though an hour ticked past, the women at the back door never budged.

  The blonde, however, reapplied her lipstick for the third time. Not believing her friend that it looked fine, she took a selfie to check for herself.

  In her pocket, Mira’s phone vibrated with a message. As she pulled out the device, Torin was also checking his.

  The principal’s on the move.

  A stretch limo, one meant to accommodate a party of twenty, double-parked near the exit, ignoring honking cars.

  Though neither Torin nor Mira spoke, the blonde moved several feet closer to the exit. Mira sidled in, putting herself between the woman and the door.

  Torin pushed away from the building.

  “That means he’s coming!” the brunette exclaimed.

  Mira shrugged. Saying anything seemed pointless.

  “Oh my God!” The blonde squealed. “He just posted a picture of himself standing near the elevator.”

  Almost all of the celebrities Mira worked with preferred to go out incognito. They donned ball caps and sunglasses and didn’t broadcast their whereabouts.

  This man, though, fed off the frenzy.

  It promised to be a really long night.

  Instead of emerging at a brisk pace like most protectees, The Crush strolled out, flanked by his entourage, four Hawkeye agents, and what looked to be two of his own bodyguards.

  When the blonde screamed out his name and shouted, “I love you!” he stopped and smiled.

  “I’ll die unless I get a picture with you.”

  “Sir,” Barstow said to The Crush. “We should keep moving.”

  With an apologetic smile to Barstow, The Crush waved the woman over.

  Grinning and chatting, he posed for half a dozen selfies, then a dozen more with the entire group of women.

  When a few more spotted them and squealed and broke into a run toward them, Mira and Torin inserted themselves between him and the oncoming group and nodded toward Barstow.

  “Let’s move, now,” Barstow said. “Not a suggestion, sir.”

  “Sorry, ladies.” The Crush smiled and posed with his knees slight
ly bent and both thumbs up for a few seconds, waiting for the fans to take a few more shots. Then, with obvious reluctance, he allowed his entourage to move him along.

  Mira and Torin stood side by side and took up as much room as they could to discourage the women from following.

  “That’s it!” Torin called when the limo eased away from the curb. “He’s gone.”

  Because the first group of women were starstruck as they walked away from their encounter with The Crush, they provided a barrier to the other fans.

  A second car arrived for her and Torin. By prearrangement, The Crush’s driver circled the block while she and Torin ensured everything was prepared at the upscale restaurant on Bienville Street.

  Inside, Mira took the lead, introducing herself to the maître d’ to confirm the private dining room.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the woman said. “The Vieux Carré Room is prepared, on the upper landing. Last door on the left. You’ll have exclusive use of the entire floor.”

  Torin lifted his index finger, indicating he was going to check it out.

  When he returned, he nodded, and she called Barstow to confirm everything was good.

  Torin positioned himself at the bottom of the curbed staircase, and she stationed herself midway between him and the restaurant’s entrance.

  Less than five minutes later, the limousine glided to a stop directly in front of the restaurant. A Hawkeye member was the first out, and he stood sentry while the passengers exited.

  The transfer to the second story went without incident.

  “Not so bad,” she said to Torin as she closed the door behind her.

  Without responding, he wandered the mezzanine area, glanced over the wrought-iron railing, then paced back again.

  A short time later, a server exited the dining room carrying two paper cups on a silver tray. “Compliments of The Crush.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Café au lait.”

  No wonder the man was universally liked.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the gift and took a sip of the steaming chicory-flavored beverage. It was an unexpected and welcome treat when a short-term protectee remembered their bodyguards.

  Torin raised his cup toward her. “The good news is, we have tomorrow night off.”

  She grinned. “I wouldn’t count on that. If the coffee’s any indication, we might still be on this assignment.”

  “This is one time I’m hoping you’re wrong.”

  Dinner lasted much longer than their beverages. She bent over into a couple of yoga stretches not just to stay alert, but also to keep her body fluid in case she needed to act quickly.

  Finally, closer to midnight than eleven, and after most of the other patrons had already left the restaurant, Barstow sent a message that the limousine was out front and that their car was behind it. The Crush’s destination was Bourbon Street. She’d hoped he’d select Frenchmen’s Street where the crowds were smaller and more sober and celebrities were passé, but she wasn’t surprised by his pulse-pounding, frenetic choice.

  She and Torin jogged down the stairs to prepare the way for their client, and they had him in the vehicle and underway in less than a minute.

  They arrived at the Front Door, a live-music venue in a building that had served as a brothel in the late nineteenth century. Since they hadn’t called ahead, she and Torin bypassed the line to grab the bouncer’s attention. This guy was even bigger than Bear at the training center.

  “We need to see a manager,” Torin said.

  “Don’t got one.”

  “We need to make arrangements for a VIP,” she added.

  The guy rolled his eyes. No doubt he’d heard every line.

  “A manager,” she repeated.

  He looked them over and scratched his beard. Obviously deciding they didn’t look like partygoers, the guy hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Talk to the owner. Tall dude. Hawaiian shirt. Might be playing with the band.”

  “Hey!” the man behind them called out. “We got a VIP in our party.” Snickers accompanied the proclamation. “Can we get in too?”

  As Torin pulled the door open, she blinked. Strobe lights spun and flashed, disorienting her. The thumping bass reverberated, spiking her anxiety. At least a hundred people were packed into the bar, and shot girls wove through the crowd, pouring alcohol down their throats as others cheered them on.

  She spotted the owner and pointed him out to Torin.

  Since he was only able to make out their general meaning, he ushered them into a tiny room with an uneven wooden desk and ladder-back chair. The walls were painted a deep old-blood red, and much of it had flaked or faded over the years.

  Even with the door shut, Torin still had to shout to be heard.

  “The Crush?” the manager echoed. “No shit? How many people you got?”

  “About twenty.”

  “We can do that. Gonna take time. Assume you wanna bring him in the back door?”

  Torin nodded.

  “We got a three-drink minimum for the night.”

  “Guessing it won’t be a problem,” Mira assured him.

  Once people were moved, tables were shoved together, and stools were rounded up from back rooms, The Crush arrived.

  One woman’s eyes widened, and she pulled a friend close and pointed. Though they giggled and took photos, they remained where they were.

  After the group was settled, she and Torin split up. He stood near the back door in case they needed to extract their client, and she propped her shoulders against a wall next to the group. From her vantage point, Mira had a good view of the venue’s occupants.

  The entourage ordered a couple of bottles of the proprietor’s finest spirits, and The Crush settled back to listen to the band.

  During a set break, the owner came over to introduce himself.

  “Mind if I sit in?” The Crush asked.

  Shit. That meant he’d be on stage.

  The man grinned. “Reckon it can be arranged.”

  Suddenly the evening had gotten a whole lot more challenging. She grabbed her phone to update Torin.

  After a nudge from the barkeep, the band leader wandered over to shake hands, select a song, and confirm the timing.

  When the details were set, she sent them to Torin. The third song would be “Your Love Forevermore,” one of The Crush’s top ten hits, and made popular on a movie soundtrack. It was midtempo, soulful and deep, ending in tragedy. He’d jump on the stage during the first chorus, finish out the track with the band, then run through the refrain an extra time at the end to leave the crowd on an upbeat note. After that, his bodyguards would escort him back to the table.

  Which seemed an unlikely scenario to her. Fans would want autographs. He’d want to give them.

  When it was time for The Crush to go on, she and Torin accompanied him to the stage. The moment the audience realized they had a star in their midst, the screams began. Almost everyone yanked out their cell phones to take snapshots, which meant the performance would be all over social media within minutes.

  Two bodyguards from his personal team flanked the stairs, while a couple of the Hawkeye agents positioned themselves at the corners of the stage. She and Torin stood toward the front of the crowd, right in the middle, poised to move any direction.

  Shot girls wiggled between the swaying, screaming people, adding to the mayhem.

  As he reached the refrain, a woman began screaming and sobbing. Mira flicked a glance that direction, ensuring there was no threat from her near-hysterical reaction to being so close to The Crush. When the woman’s friends consoled her, Mira continued scanning the attendees.

  Midway through the song, a man rushed forward, shouting obscenities, screaming that The Crush had no talent.

  Mira moved quick, inserting herself between him and the stage. “Step it down,” she instructed.

  “The fuck out of my way!”

  “Back the hell up!” She flattened her palms on his chest and shoved him ba
ck. He was huge, immovable, reeking of alcohol, eyes wide, focused on The Crush and nothing else. Torin fought through the crowd toward her.

  She leaned toward the heckler. “Last warning.”

  “I told you to get the fuck out of my way, bitch!”

  From her jacket pocket, she pulled out her small stun gun.

  Torin nodded.

  The crazed man fisted his enormous hand. Before she could act, he clocked her upside of the head. Seeing stars, she swallowed hard and fought through the sudden nausea to press the tip of the stun gun against the asshole’s upper hip. Her hand shook as she sought the green button.

  On the first try, she missed it and accidentally activated the flashlight feature. But on the second attempt, four million volts surged into him. Even with his amped-up energy from booze and whatever else he was taking, the charge was enough for him to immediately start to shake, then for his limbs to weaken.

  Torin was there, behind the guy to catch him.

  Even though her head was still swimming, she grabbed his legs.

  “The fuck, man?” one of his buddies demanded.

  “Your friend appears drunk,” Torin shouted as they carried him to a chair. “Maybe you should get him home.”

  “What the hell happened to him?”

  “Passed out.” Torin shrugged. “Good thing I was there to catch him. He should be more careful in the future.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, and Torin guided her away. “You okay?”

  “I doubt I’ll even have a headache later.” Which was a straight-out lie.

  “You can sit out for a bit. Take a breather.”

  Oh hell no. “No need.”

  “Araceli, you got your bell rung. It’s okay to admit—”

  “I’m okay.” She appreciated his concern, but she wouldn’t let down any of her teammates. There was a job to do, a client to keep safe. “Really.”

  Mouth in a tight, disbelieving line, Torin nodded.

  Together, they threaded their way back to the front, using a firm, no-nonsense tone.

  Instead of heading back to his table after the song ended, The Crush conferred with the band’s lead vocalist while the guitarist launched into a riff to keep the crowd occupied.