Give Me Grace(32)
“He’s no one,” she replied, not looking at me as she tried tugging it from my grasp.
The phone rang out so I let her have it, but as soon as it stopped ringing, it started again. I watched as she hit the decline button on the screen and put it away. The muffled sound of it ringing again set my teeth on edge. Three times in a row wasn’t no one. “You gonna answer it?”
“No,” Grace replied, her voice sharp. She dug her hand through her bag and after a brief moment, the ringing stopped again.
When it started for the fourth time, I growled, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Snatching her bag, I found the offending phone, checked the screen and looked at Grace. “Who’s Dalton, Slim?”
Her nostrils flared ominously, but the anger was countered by the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. “He’s no one, Casey.”
No one, my fucking ass. I held up the phone in my palm. “So if he’s no one, you won’t mind me answering the phone and telling him to stop calling you, right?”
“Answer that and I’ll …”
My brow arched sardonically. “You’ll what, scratch my car? Punch me so hard I’ll be spitting teeth for a week? Enough with the empty threats, Grace, unless you actually plan on following through.”
“We’re here!” Mac barked, interrupting our standoff.
I dragged my eyes from Grace’s stormy blue ones and glanced out the window. We were running behind, making us the last in a long line of limousines. The red carpet leading into Sydney’s The Star hotel where the event centre was located was starting to empty. Good. It made my job that much easier.
Grace snatched the phone from my hands, switched it off quickly, and dumped it in her bag. Did she not hear the part where I told her we needed to keep the lines of communication open?
“Turn your phone back on,” I ordered. “If something happens, I need to be able to contact you.”
“What could possibly happen?”
As the car pulled smoothly to the kerb, a suited man stepped forward and opened the door. Everyone started piling out, Grace and I going last. I put a hand on her arm, halting her so I could go first. Press flashbulbs were going crazy as they photographed Jamieson’s arrival. Evie’s name was called out several times as they started making their way inside. Turning, I ducked my head and held out my hand, grateful when Grace slid her palm easily in mine. I clasped it tight and helped her from the car. She stepped out elegantly, as though she’d done this a thousand times before. Sweeping by me, she hissed from the corner of her mouth, “And something you should know … I don’t deal in empty threats.”
What looked suspiciously like guilt flashed across her face before it was hidden. My eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
Someone from the press gallery called out, “Hey! It’s Grace Paterson! Grace! Over here!”
A wide grin spread across her face as she let go of my hand and continued forward. “Nothing.”
“This way, Grace!”
Grace gave a brief wave and a smile to the crowd and my body tensed. The attention she was getting made it obvious she wasn’t just a model—she was a fucking famous one. The hastily pulled together brief I reviewed this afternoon since leaving Grace had indicated she was well-known, but this was a whole other level of attention. I stalked forward, keeping close to her side as I eyed the press with an alert gaze.
“Who designed your outfit, Grace?” someone yelled.
“Grace! Over here!”
Jesus. It was a fucking circus.
Grace stepped closer to the crowding photographers and microphones as she smiled for photos and answered questions. I stepped with her, staying close.
“Grace! Where’s Dalton tonight? Are the rumours of him and British model Selena true?”
Grace paled, her confident demeanour faltering, and I wanted to growl at their probing questions. I slipped my hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Is this your new boyfriend?” someone called out.
Cameras turned my way. Their flash caused white spots to dance in front of my eyes. I had to blink to clear my vision.
“No comment,” I barked and dragged her away from every last one of them, moving her swiftly up the red carpet.
Fucking vultures.
As we slipped inside and joined the rest of the crew, I felt rather than heard her sigh of relief. “You okay, Slim?”
“Of course.” She smiled the same smile she gave all those photographers and reporters out there—smooth and practiced. I found I didn’t like her using it on me.
“So … Dalton, huh?”
“So … Dalton, huh?”
Last night’s events filtered through my mind as I lay tangled in my sheets. Morning sunshine seeped through the blinds, doing its best to entice me out of my bed and failing miserably. It was—I sat up and checked the time on my phone—almost midday already. That meant I’d slept ten hours straight.