The intercom buzzes. “A Damian Fry here to see you, Mr. Montgomery.” The weariness in Lou’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“Send him up.” Damian Fry is definitely not the typical guy I invite over for a visit. I’ve only used him once before. An actor with a thousand-dollar-a-day coke problem wasn’t showing up for a high-budget film we were shooting. Everyone knew he had a problem, but I needed the dirt in my hands to get out of his multi-million-dollar contract. Damian didn’t just deliver the drug problem on video; he found out the actor was screwing the director’s wife too. Damian could dig up dirt on a saint.
“Come in.” It’s nearly ninety outside, yet he’s dressed in long sleeves and pants, head-to-toe black, and smells like day-old booze and cigarettes. No wonder Lou was suspicious.
“Nice place.” Damian sizes up my net worth in thirty seconds. I’m sure my price just doubled. Should have met this fucker at my office.
“Thanks.” I get straight to the point. “I have a job I need done. But it needs to be kept extremely quiet.”
“Quiet is my specialty.” He grins.
“Definitely not a word to my brother.”
His grin widens to a sneer.
chapter eleven
Kate
“Wanna dance?” Flynn offers me his hand. I’ve been sitting on the couch since after dinner—sulking might best describe my temperament.
“Ummm … there’s no music?”
His boyish smile helps lighten my somber mood.
“Don’t need it.”
I take the hand he’s offering and stand. “You dance without music often?”
“Ah. I didn’t say there wouldn’t be music. I only agreed there was none playing.” Flynn wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him for a slow dance. Leading my body perfectly, he sways to a soothing rhythm until my head rests on his chest. I think his lips might brush the top of my head, but I can’t be sure.
His voice is whisper-soft when he starts singing a ballad. I’ve heard him sing rock before, knew he had a nice voice. But the way he croons the words to this beautiful song, it’s absolutely breathtaking. The song is about a son who has to save his mom. Every word rings raw; it makes me certain he’s talking about his own mother.
Do you know who I am?
When I see you today.
I’m still the same.
When I see you today.
Let me help you find your way.
You’ve given me plenty,
Now it’s my turn.
Let me help you find your way.
When I see you today.
We keep swaying to the music long after he finishes singing. Eventually Flynn pulls back slightly, enough to look down at me, but our bodies still touching. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry from the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are half-mast, the heat in them unmistakable, when they drop to my mouth and linger for a long moment. He wets his lips and, I swear, my heart pounds so loudly I can hear the blood pumping through my ears. Ever so slowly, his head begins to drop, his eyes watching mine—silently seeking permission. Our faces are almost lined up when, like a needle scratching to a halt on a record, something comes over me and I effectively kill the moment when I speak.
“Do you think it’s going to rain later?” Inwardly, I smack myself in the head for sounding like such a dim wit. I couldn’t come up with something less obvious?
Flynn’s eyes close, but then he rests his forehead against mine, and chuckles when he speaks. “Worried you didn’t bring rain boots?”
A cameraman comes in and interrupts, asking us to move to a different area where the lighting is better. I’m grateful for the quick change in mood it brings.
“Wanna go for a walk on the beach?” Flynn asks, releasing me from his arms, but keeping his hand still meshed with mine.
“Sure.”
“Do you want to go change?”
I look down at the gown I’m wearing. The salt will probably destroy it. “Nah, it’s theirs, not mine.”
Flynn smiles.
We walk along the shoreline for a half hour. The warm water occasionally reaching up and wetting our feet.
“So who is he?” he asks after a long, comfortable bout of silence.
I look around. There’s no one else on the beach.
“The guy who you won’t let go long enough to give me a real shot.”
I turn to look for the winded cameraman that was following us. The boom can pick up our conversation a hundred feet away.
“He’s sprawled out on the jetty a half mile back,” Flynn says, reading my mind. “Probably still cursing us for making him do more exercise than he’s done in ten years.”
“Oh.”
“So, who is he? Ex-boyfriend or fiancé?”