Of all the crazy moves Vonya had pulled, nothing compared to the insanity of standing in the dark corridor outside Tyn Cathedral

How she wished Brody were standing here with her—if not holding her hand, at least close enough to hear her scream should someone jump out of the shadows.

She startled at a young man who looked about eighteen.

“Did Bishop send you?”

“Whatya have?”

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the computer.

A crack shocked the air, and she jumped back.

The kid collapsed, his body lying with eyes wide in the dim glow of a jewelry store’s display.

She stood there, unable to move or breathe.

A second shot shattered the glass window beside her.

Her legs moved then, fast. She ducked down a road, turned into another alley and sprinted.

An arm snaked around her, clamping over her mouth. “I found you.”

She slammed a fist into her captor’s leg, landing her foot on his instep. He woofed out a breath, let her go and she whirled.

“Ronie!” he said.

She gulped a breath. “Brody!” She launched herself into his arms.

And then, because that’s what he did, he lifted her and carried her away.

SUSAN MAY WARREN

is a RITA® Award-winning, bestselling novelist of more than twenty-five novels. She has won an Inspirational Readers Choice Award, an ACFW Book of the Year award and has been a Christy Award finalist. Her compelling plots and unforgettable characters have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. She and her husband of twenty years and their four children live in a small town on Minnesota’s beautiful Lake Superior shore, where they are active in their local church. You can find her online at www.susanmaywarren.com.

Mission: Out of Control
Susan May Warren

MILLS & BOON

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And God demonstrates his own love for us in this:

while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

—Romans 5:8

To Andrew, David, Sarah, Peter and Noah,

and my secret weapons Rachel Hauck, Ellen Tarver for helping me craft a book that

I pray brings glory to the Lord.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet on his so-called R & R?

Apparently Brody Wickham—ex-Green Beret, current on-leave security operator for Stryker International—had turned into a magnet for trouble, and he knew inside his gut that someone was going to get hurt.

Preferably not him.

Brody could spot the ugly future the second that Vonya—the one-name, brazen rock ’n’ roll diva and the leader of the crazies inside this D.C. nightclub—stepped up to the edge of the stage and, with a feral scream, sprang into the outstretched hands of her minions. Perhaps soared might be a better term, as she launched herself, arms flung out, like some sort of prehistoric animal in scaly black leather and a peacock mask, her garish pink wig a plume, into the undulating mosh pit.

Thankfully, anonymous hands caught Miss Crazy and floated her over the mass like a piece of bacon. It didn’t mean this wouldn’t end badly. With blood. Broken bones.

Death by stampede.

And Brody Wickham, off-duty bodyguard, simply couldn’t let that happen, despite wanting to stay incognito in the shadows near the bar. He moved to the edge of the crowd, every muscle coiled. He’d guess that in about ten seconds, he’d have to plow through this mob and save her.

He should be sitting on a lawn chair in the backyard of his parents’ suburban ranch home, catching up on the news of his eight brothers and sisters—most of whom he hadn’t seen for nearly a decade. Or helping his parents decipher the foreclosure notice from the bank.

The music nearly shook the bricks from their mortar in the warehouse-turned-club, the perfect venue for Vonya’s eccentric pulse, with its black Art Deco walls covered in skinny mirrors, disco lights dangling from the ceiling, and a round stage that thrust out into the audience.

Despite the cacophony of noise, he had to admit, Vonya had pipes. Brody wasn’t so iron-eared as to not recognize the flash of talent in the tones that blew out of that petite body covered in leather and fishnet, even if he spent most of the night averting his eyes from her plunging minidress.

A random elbow connected with the soft tissue of his nose, stopping him cold at the fringes of the dancers.

Okay, what was he doing? This wasn’t his gig, his battle. He didn’t even know this impulsive woman, and nobody had asked him to be a hero today.

He was here for—

Lucy! She’d jumped right into the mosh pit, moving to the middle, pushing, shoving, bouncing off dancers twice her size.

Everything inside him pinged, his adrenaline rushing. Oh, he’d known, just known, that his fifteen-year-old sister had no business at a Vonya concert, which was why he’d heard himself volunteering to take her when she appeared in a black-and-purple scoop-neck T-shirt, enough silver costume jewelry to sink a small ship, and skintight animal-print jeans.

And since when had his all-things-Catholic mother decided to say yes to the nose piercing? Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d lost his mind.

Then again, his mother wouldn’t be the first person to let someone talk her into something against her best judgment.

Only, her concessions didn’t get people killed.

“You don’t want to go to a Vonya concert,” his sister had whined, shortly after his mother had tossed him the keys to her Subaru, more than a little relief in her eyes.

“I don’t care about this Vonya chick—I care about you. Are you sure you don’t need a…jacket? Or maybe a paper bag?”

Lucy shot him her best death-ray glare. “I’ll just pretend I’m a celebrity. You can be my bodyguard.”

“You know, I do sometimes bodyguard people for a living. I might know a few things about staying out of the way.”

“Not at a Vonya concert,” Lucy said. “I hate to tell you this, dude, but you’re in way over your head.”

Clearly. He kept his gaze on her as she bounced in the center of the mosh—

She went down.

“Make a hole!” Brody shoved toward her, his blood hot in his veins. By the time he reached her, Lucy had surfaced, her face flushed, holding her nose. Blood dripped out between her fingers.

Okay, that was it. He glanced once at Vonya, saw her riding the wave, then wrapped his hand around Lucy’s arm. “We’re leaving.” The so-called music ate his voice.

She yanked her arm away. “I’m fine!” Her painted eyes glittered.

He didn’t have time to retort because the punk next to Lucy turned on him. “Leave her alone, dude!” He then threw his body—or perhaps someone threw him—against Brody.

Brody caught him, pushed him away.

Definitely time to egress.

He glanced once more at Vonya, his gut tight, trying to shake off the dread. With a gulp, the pit swallowed her whole.

See? Someone should have stopped the madness long before this.

The crowd swelled around her, people pushing, chaos breaking free, bodies tumbling, screaming ripping through the club.

“Brody!” Fear showed in Lucy’s wide eyes.

Brody wrapped his arms around her, pushing them both out of the crowd. “You okay?”

She nodded, still protecting her nose.

Perfect. So much for bringing his sister home in one piece.

“Go to the bathroom and get cleaned up. Stay away from the crowd!” He had to shout inches from her face, but even as Lucy nodded, his attention pulled back to the mob.

No Vonya. But screams and grunts emitted over the microphone, and even the band members had stopped playing.

“Go!” he yelled to Lucy, and plowed back into the violence.

Another elbow to the gut nearly blew out his breath, but he moved with the purpose of a ground assault, shoving bodies aside, protecting his face as he waded through to Vonya’s last known position.

Nothing, although he did manage to haul to their feet two women and a very skinny kid.

He made it all the way to the man-size speaker…and spotted a flash of pink huddled behind the equipment.

Vonya crouched, holding her left arm curled tight to herself. Despite the black makeup, the weird peacock mask, the bright pink Marilyn Monroe-style hairdo, and the scaly leather dress, he recognized a woman shaken.

Not that it took a psychologist to figure it out—her mask hung torn from her face and she stared up at him like he might be the boogeyman.

So he didn’t stop to focus, analyze or plan. Didn’t stop to think through his actions. Just bent down, slipped his arms around her and swooped her up.

“Hey! What are you doing?” She twisted in his arms, eyes wide.

“What does it look like?” he said into her ear, as he pushed through the hysterical crowd toward the back entrance. “Trying to save your pretty little neck.”

“Call 911, tell them things are out of control!” she said, twisting in his arms as if wanting to run back into the mess.

“You should have thought of that before you threw yourself into the audience.”

She stiffened. “I’m okay. You can put me down.”

“Not quite yet, honey.”

But he looked at her then. She seemed more petite up close with her crazy pink hair and false eyelashes, and she swallowed back something that looked like shame.

Then he kicked open the back door and freed them to the alley.

“I said, put me down!”

No problem.

Unfortunately, her words came out timed perfectly for the paparazzi, who got a million-dollar shot of him flinching as she landed an openhanded smack across his face.

Of course she’d been summoned by the senator. Ronie finger-combed her sea-sticky hair as she sat in the back-seat of the limousine, her trench coat tucked around her, trying to chase from her bones the last of the chill from the choppy ferry ride to Martha’s Vineyard. Her father’s voice on her machine rang in her memory…

“Sounds like you made a real spectacle of yourself this time, Vonya. Your mother and I want a word with you. I’ll expect you at the beach house this weekend.”

Of course he expected her. But at twenty-eight, she thought she might be strong enough to resist his summons.

Well, she might be if she weren’t broke and needing the senator’s goodwill in the form of financial backing for her upcoming European tour, aka rescue mission.

She’d saved the text message from the Bishop and now ran her thumb over her cell in her pocket.

Found him.

Thank You, God.

Her throat tightened even as she stared out at the ocean, at the frothy waves clawing the shore. Please let the senator be in a good mood.

The limo turned into the long drive toward Harthaven, past the weathered split-rail fencing, the green-carpeted pastures. A couple of her mother’s thoroughbreds lifted their heads as if in greeting. The tires ground against the gravel until the car pulled up at the front door.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Veronica,” the driver said, as he opened her door.

“You, too, Mr. Henley.” She lifted her messenger bag from the seat and stood for a moment in front of the ancestral home, two centuries of age in its weathered cedar shakes. Out of habit her eyes went to Savannah’s tiny, empty attic window.

“Veronica, you made it!” Her mother’s voice emerged first as she exited the house, crossed the porch and descended the front steps. Ellie Wagner looked about twenty-five, with her long brown hair held back in a ponytail, and her brown riding pants and pink blouse. She held her helmet, with a pair of gloves shoved inside, against her hip. “I was just leaving for a quick ride. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” She pecked her daughter on the check as she breezed by. “Oh, we’ll be dressing for dinner tonight, but your father would like to see you for drinks in the study at six o’clock.”

“I don’t drink.” Never had, really. And never mind that she hadn’t called herself Veronica since her sophomore year in college.

But it didn’t matter. Her mother waved her gloves and disappeared around the corner to the stable.

“No problem, Mother, I’m down with that,” she said to the brisk island air.

She kept a standard little black dress and a strand of pearls in the closet just for Saturday nights at Harthaven. Her fans wouldn’t have a prayer of recognizing her.

Sometimes, after a concert, she didn’t even recognize herself.

Six p.m. The hour of execution, when she had to discard herself of all things Vonya and climb back into the expectations of her upbringing. But no one could ever accuse her, Veronica Stanton Wagner, of not knowing how to adapt. She’d eaten Zong Zing with the ambassador to China, challenged the sons of the prime minister of Nepal to a game of Bagh Chal, learned to play the djembe from a musical troupe from Ghana, and could speak, although poorly, snippets of Portuguese, thanks to the young wife of the United Nations representative from Brazil.

She could probably manage to behave like a proper lady tonight at dinner. Especially if it meant erasing from her father’s recent memory the newspaper photo of Vonya laying her palm across a very handsome, yet downright surly, self-appointed bodyguard after last Saturday’s debacle.

Yeah, well, she’d been a victim one too many times of a crazy fan. And one very dangerous stalker. How was she to know he actually wanted to help her?

She could still see his shock as he recoiled, then the growl that flashed into his eyes as he’d gritted his teeth and set her down.

Stabilized her as she rocked on those lethal five-inch heels.

No, not a fan. Thankfully, he hadn’t let loose the words behind the disgust that flashed across his face.

But the derision from the stranger hurt, she had to admit it.

Or not a stranger anymore. Brody Wickham. She’d discovered his name after her frantic manager found them returning from the alley. Tommy D had decided to make him a national—or at least music-industry—hero.

She longed to forget him, hating the way he and his condemnation stuck in her brain. In fact, she thought she’d escaped the claw of shame long ago.

Clearly not. And it didn’t help that Brody Wickham cast a steely, almost annoyed image across national airwaves and onto prime-time entertainment shows when he announced that he’d simply been trying to keep her from hurting herself. Nice.

Except maybe he’d been right. She still sported a greenish-black bruise on her arm.

Oh, given the choice, she would rather have holed up in her SoHo loft this weekend with a bowl of popcorn and her keyboard to work on a new song. But she couldn’t rightly beg for money over the phone, or even through email. Senator Wagner wouldn’t want to miss the pleasure of staring her down and making her feel fifteen and a failure.

Just once, she’d like to be twenty-eight, smart and beautiful.

But this little excursion wasn’t for her. Or even for the senator. And life didn’t always hand out choices.

An hour later, Ronie gave a last survey in the mirror—short brown hair curled into tiny ringlets around her head, the barest dusting of makeup, a little lip gloss, a touch of lime eye shadow. She appeared, well, wholesome.

She didn’t exactly hate the look.

The smells of a pot roast, or maybe lamb with rosemary, tugged her down the stairs. Stopping off in the kitchen, she sneaked a fresh roll from a basket on the counter, earning a growl from Marguerite, their weekend housekeeper, and tore it into tiny pieces as she walked toward her father’s study.

The melodies of Tchaikovsky escaped through the cracked open door. She eased it open.

Tripp Wagner stood with his back to her, an outline of power as he stared out the window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had begun to darken the pond and seep across the grass. Only a glimmer of light sprinkled through the pines that ringed their property. Sometimes she wished they had beachfront property, where they could watch the sun sink like a fiery ball behind the sandy dunes.

“Father?”

“Come in, Veronica.”

Ronie stepped inside the study. A desk lamp puddled orange over the leather blotter on the mahogany desk. His briefcase lay on the credenza, under a family picture, now nearly fifteen years old. Ronie barely glanced at it, not really recognizing any of the four of them.

“You can help yourself to a drink.” He gestured with a glass of something amber—bourbon, probably—still not turning from the window.

“I still don’t drink alcohol, Father,” she said, but moved over to the bar and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice. It helped to have something to hold on to when the senator began his orations.

“Not that anyone would ever know.”

She braced herself.

“Sometimes, I can’t believe that is actually my daughter making a spectacle of— No. I promised your mother.” He sighed, turned and, for the first time, let his eyes rest on her. She stifled a tremble, not because he frightened her—well, not much, anymore—but because she saw in his hazel-green eyes such sadness, it filled her throat with something scratchy and hard.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s part of the act.”

He looked away, rubbing his thumb along the glass. He nodded. “Have a seat.”

Not a request—it never was, so she slipped into the Queen Anne chair against the wall. Her father settled one hip against the desk, his pant leg riding up to reveal a dark sock. He probably hadn’t had to change for dinner—he had simply gotten up that morning and dressed in a suit and tie. But they’d all been hiding inside their own costumes since Savannah’s death, hadn’t they?

He took a breath, and in the gap of space, she wondered if maybe she should go first—a burst of Father, I need your help might detour the dressing-down.

Or not. Maybe it would only add ammunition. She took a sip of her juice and balanced it on her lap, staring at the bloodred liquid.

“I want you to cancel your European tour.”

Her head shot up, but he already had his hand up to stop her words.

“I’m not trying to interfere with your career, Veronica. But the truth is…I’ve had some disturbing threats lately, and I’m just not sure that you should be parading around in nightclubs across Europe when there are men out there who’d like to see me dead—or worse, at their mercy.”

Her father had always been an epic presence in her life. Even now, he seemed invincible, his hair dark as oil, his face unlined, his shoulders broad. The sigh that shuddered through him shook her again.

“What are you talking about?”

He set his drink on the desk. “As the chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, I am the one who suggested the embargo on Zimbala. General Mubar has decided that I’m an enemy of his people, and that’s putting it kindly. He’s made a few personal threats lately, the kind that I should take seriously.”

“General Mubar wants to hurt you?”

“General Mubar thinks I’m standing in the way of the United States recognizing his illegal government.”

She edged forward in her seat. “You know he’s starting to recruit child soldiers, right?” She still had the images from her tour imprinted in her head.

“I know, and that’s why I recommended that we establish economic sanctions against Zimbala. And why the general’s made a very public pledge to hurt me…and I’m worried that will affect you.”

“Why me?”

“After your too-publicized visit there three years ago, he’s convinced you had a hand in influencing my decision.”

“But I went as Vonya. There was no connection to you.”

“Maybe you think this crazy identity as Vonya hides you, but I’m sure Mubar, just like my colleagues in Washington, has figured out who you are. I don’t know for sure, but we can’t take any chances.” He paused, looked at his drink, then back to her.

His gaze seemed to part her chest, burn it. Finally, “Veronica, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to sever that connection.”

Right. Somehow, she found her voice, although when it emerged, it cracked, and sounded nothing like either of the women she worked so hard to be. “I’m not trying to sever that connection—”

A knock at the door cut into her words. “Your guest is here,” Marguerite said.

“Give us a moment, then show him in.”

Oh, hallelujah, her father had set her up on a date. Now she could spend the entire evening fighting sleep to the tune of some political discussion or a treatise on a new case before the Supreme Court. Didn’t he know by now that she’d never fall for a man he’d handpicked? She wanted a poet, or perhaps a musician—someone who embraced life and wasn’t made of stone. “Lawyer or politician, Father?”

He frowned at her, as if he had no idea what she might be referring to. “Business, Veronica.”

Whatever. She hoped her “date” didn’t expect a good-night kiss. “Listen, I understand your warning, but I can’t cancel my tour. The record label already took a chance on me, taking me from an indie band to a regular on the pop charts. I need this tour to keep my momentum. Frankly, even if I wanted to cancel, I couldn’t. I’d lose all my deposits and end up owing my firstborn child to the record label.”

His face twitched. Oh, great choice of words, Veronica. She set her drink on the table. Might as well go for broke, since…she was. “The fact is, I need…I need help.”

His right eyebrow went up.

“I’m a little in the red right now.”

He folded his arms across his chest, and oh, yes, he had her right where he wanted her.

“I lost a lot with the stock market crash, and then, my accountant made some tax mistakes, and I ended up paying back taxes and penalties—”

“Are you still using your Harvard friend for your accounting?”

“—and Tommy D redid the condo for a photo shoot, and it went way over budget—”

“Did I mention I think he has stretched your image a little far? I don’t know why you insist on using your college friends to help your…career, or whatever you’re calling your flamboyant—”

“Father, please, Tommy D is a great manager, and this is what it takes to stand out.”

“Tommy D’Amico recognized ‘sucker’ written all over you the second he saw you serving at the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter. I think you need to look a little closer at why your money seems to be vanishing.”

“I’m not a fool for wanting to help people, Father.”

“But you’ve become a fool doing it.”

She stared at her juice, suddenly seeing again her so-called rescuer’s disgust.

Her father sighed, turned back toward the window. “So, you need money.”

She fought for her voice. “I’m good for it—you know that. I just…well, we put a lot into this tour already and I can’t back out. I was hoping…”

She winced. Okay, really, she felt sixteen, and begging for the car keys. How did she ever talk herself into believing this was a good idea?

But to her surprise, he began to nod, a gleam in his eye, something she’d seen too many times when he knew he had her cornered. Oh, no… “I think we can work something out.”

“Really?” She hated how she nearly lunged at his words.

He got up from the desk and walked over to the door. “I predicted that you would be averse to my suggestion to cancel, so I was prepared with a counteroffer. Which, I think, might be a win for both of us. Veronica, you can go to Europe on my dime, on one condition.”

Her stomach tightened with a sick feeling. “What?”

He opened the door. “Come in, please.” Then he backed away, wearing a smile that she’d seen on his campaign posters. “I’d like you to meet your new bodyguard.”

Her father’s henchman stepped up to the door, six-foot-plus of solid muscle, now dressed in a pedestrian suit, his dark, curly hair combed and tidy, his familiar, unforgiving eyes on her, looking serious, powerful and made of stone.

She let a groan escape. “Oh, no.” See? Solid proof that, cosmically, she would never get on God’s good side.

“Brody Wickham,” he said, holding out his hand. He smiled, looking nothing like the scowler she’d met in the dark alley outside the D.C. club. Then—and frankly, she should have expected his sarcasm—he asked, “Have we met?”

TWO

“Have we met?” Her words, repeated back to him, came out almost like a whisper, her big hazel-green eyes gulping him in as she slipped her hand in his. It took him a second—as her fingers closed around his hand—to realize that she was mocking him. “Very funny,” she said without a smile.

He stared at the girl, short brown hair in tight ringlets around her head, a slim black dress, a cultured strand of pearls at her neck, and tried to place her.

“Uh…I’m serious. You father said we’d met, but I don’t remember…” He slipped his hand from hers, casting a look at Senator Wagner. “Sir?”

Senator Wagner embodied everything Brody’s father had described—serious, a Harvard lawyer, a three-term senator with a hearty knowledge of foreign policy. He exuded the same aura of power that Brody once had while commanding his squad. Only now, a strange expression played on the senator’s face.

“You don’t recognize the woman you rescued the other night, Mr. Wickham?”

Brody turned back to his newest client, peering at her even as she stepped back from him. And then, he saw it. The slight hesitation, coupled with the hint of frown not unlike the one the crazy pink-haired rock star displayed right before she’d left her handprint on his cheek.

“Vonya? Seriously?” Oh, no.

“You’re kidding me, right?” She looked first at Brody, then her father, and he couldn’t figure out whom she might be talking to. “You want him to be my bodyguard?”

“That’s right. You two already know each other, and I did a background check. Mr. Wickham here works for an international security firm out of Prague. He’s a former Green Beret, and he’s got the experience I’m looking for—”

“You’re looking for? What about me? Do I have any say in this?” She stared back at Brody but his instincts told him to just keep his mouth shut. Not that she would let him speak. “Vonya” had begun to materialize via the sarcastic, exasperated tone. “You’re holding me hostage. No wait—this is blackmail.” But as she turned to her father, Vonya morphed back into this strange, almost breakable woman with pleading eyes. “Listen, I will have a bodyguard. But I want to pick him—especially if he’s going to shadow all my concerts.”

“Not just during your concerts, Veronica, but every moment, 24/7. I’m not letting General Mubar—or even last year’s crazy stalker, if we really have to go there—find you in the halls of the hostels you and your crew insisted on staying in last time.”

“Nonprofit housing, Father, and everything I do to help them goes to help the homeless in Europe. It was part of the tour hype, and where I got my first fans. I can’t desert them. I’m just as safe there as I would be in a Hyatt. What is he going to do? Sit outside my door as I sleep?”

“If I have to,” Brody said. But to start out, he’d just affix a security system onto her accommodations, and if anyone went in or out, he’d know. A room next door, or across the hall, would be just fine.

And there would be no youth hostels on this pleasure cruise. At least he and the senator agreed on that much.

Even if, right now, everything inside him screamed to turn and run from this room, this mansion, and back to his parents’ humble ranch home on the verge of being owned by the bank.

And it happened to be precisely that thought—his parents, homeless, after feeding nine children and working their fingers to the bone—that kept him rooted to the floor.

It was bad enough that Derek planned on joining the military rather than pursuing his basketball scholarship. Who turned down a partial ride to Duke?

Their conversation while they’d been playing a little one-on-one in the driveway—the one that ended with him nearly shouting at his brother—rushed back to him. “Over my dead body.” He hadn’t been sure where his anger came from, but with everything inside him, and more, he knew his brother wasn’t giving up Duke to throw his future away in the military.

Derek had stared at him, an openmouthed gape that Brody probably could have predicted. It wasn’t like he’d ever dissed the military before.

And, up until a year ago, he wouldn’t have stood in his brother’s way. But the days of fighting his fellow man had vanished. Now, wars were fought against grade-schoolers with guns and idealistic teenagers with bombs strapped to their bodies. In the villages and homes of innocent women and toddlers. No way would he let his brother be caught in the middle of that.

A guy simply didn’t heal from those kinds of wounds. “No way,” he’d said.

“You love the military. What’s your deal?”

“Join ROTC, become an officer. But no, you’re not joining up to be a grunt.”

“It’s not up to you,” Derek said, reaching for the ball.

And the only thing that saved them both had been Senator Wagner on the other end of the cell phone, rescuing Brody from losing it at his brother and saving their financial hide at the same time.

Talk about his instincts misfiring.

“You didn’t tell me that your daughter was ‘Vonya,’ Senator, when you asked me to protect her.” Indeed, Brody had imagined some cultural princess who needed her bags carried as she sashayed down the Champs-Élysées. Maybe he’d done the math too quickly—a hundred grand would keep his brother out of the military, at least in the short term, and give him a head start on his future. The kid could change the world, maybe, someday. And paying off his parents’ loan could ease Brody’s pain at seeing his father struggling to move around the house, trying to recover from his stroke.

“What did you think? I did mention a musical tour.”

Violins. Beethoven. A gig with a snooty cellist, perhaps. It was possible—right now, Veronica looked like she could wield a cello while being a spokeswoman for the Daughters of the American Revolution, or perhaps standing next to her father on the campaign trail.

“You didn’t mention crazy,” Brody said, and enjoyed, probably too much, the gap-mouthed glare from Veron—Von—whoever.

“My security check suggested you could handle this.”

Clearly, the good senator had checked into his decorations, his medals, his commendations—but hadn’t bothered to talk to Chet. His boss would be over the desk, throttling him if he knew Brody had practically cannonballed back into work. Thankfully, Chet had probably turned off his cell phone when he and Mae had escaped for their honeymoon.

And what Chet didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Brody would return to the office in Prague after a month, mandatory R & R accomplished, having outfitted his family with a better future. Seemed like the perfect way to shake free of his demons.

Not if Veronica had her way. “Father, how about a female bodyguard? I mean, after all, I’m going to do some shopping—”

“I’m sure Mr. Wickham can shop.”

Um…

“He doesn’t even like my music! You should have seen him the other night. He looked like he’d eaten a gourd of morsick!”

Nope, he hadn’t. African morsick—fermented goat’s milk in a charcoal-lined gourd—was a lot, or, okay, a little worse than listening to her so-called music.

“He doesn’t have to like your music, Veronica. He’s getting paid to keep you safe.”

Veronica, Vonya, whoever—Brody was searching for any physical resemblance to the flamboyant sci-fi character he’d seen on the stage in this Miss Culture and Pearls—turned and stalked toward the window. She stared out of it, hard jawed. “I don’t want him. Pick anyone else but him.”

For the first time since Brody entered the room, Senator Wagner frowned, pursed his lips, and cast a look at Brody as if considering her request. Like Brody might not be a great fit for his daughter, regardless of her wacky persona.

Her words bothered Brody, too. Why not?

Even if he didn’t want to babysit Vonya the Superstar, Veronica the Sorority Girl’s attitude was starting to get on his nerves. He’d done close protection on more important subjects than the Chameleon over there. “What’s the problem?”

She rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “Because, Mr. Wickham, you are a jerk. Without asking, you decided I needed rescuing—”

“You were hiding underneath a speaker!” His gaze flicked to the bruise on her arm, a bloom of pain that probably hurt when she moved it.

“It doesn’t matter. I had everything under control, and when I told you to put me down you ignored me.”

“Because you were being stupid.”

She closed her mouth, opened it, her eyes flashing.

Well, she was. “Sorry, but you were crawling across the stage, and then you flung yourself like a Frisbee into the crowd. I had to pluck you out of a mosh pit. Of course you were in over your head, and if you don’t see that, then we’re in worse shape here than I thought.” Was he yelling? Not yet, but he wanted to. Now he fully recognized Vonya, if only by the feelings she’d churned up in him.

“Says you.”

“Yeah, and about sixteen years of instinct.” And at least one act of poor judgment he vowed never to repeat. “Putting you down would have caused a riot. I did what was necessary.”

“Without a thought to how I might feel.”

“So shoot me. I thought you might actually be grateful that someone was looking out for you.”

He could agree he’d been a jerk, but right now he just wanted to fold his hands around her delicate neck and throttle her. No wonder her father had called him. She reminded Brody too much, suddenly, of Lucy. If she ever acted like this, he’d throw her in a barrel and nail it shut.

Maybe feed her through the hole. Or not.

Okay, that was a little extreme, but the thought of spending one hour, let alone one month, with this woman had him breaking out in hives.

Her eyes narrowed, just for a second. Then, “I don’t need anyone to look out for me.”

“Your father thinks you do.”

She flinched, then looked away, her voice tumbling low. “You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t have to like you to do my job.”

Her chin quivered, just slightly, before she turned her back to him.

His chest burned, right in the center. What did it matter if he liked her? He shook his head, shot a glance at the senator, his voice tight. “Maybe she’s right, sir. Maybe you should find someone else.”

Maybe he could take out a loan for the house, the tuition…

The senator picked up his drink, considering it for a moment, swishing the liquid in his glass tumbler.

Brody opened his mouth to recant when Senator Wagner cut him off.

“Nope. It’s Mr. Wickham or the tour is off.” He directed his words to Veronica, who whirled around, her mouth open just long enough to give her away. Then her eyes went to Brody and he saw something flicker in them. Something that looked dangerously like determination.

Was she hiding something? But in a flash, up went a new mask—not quite cultured Veronica, but too serious to be Vonya. A new, probably more charming, personality. Nice.

“Fine. That’s just fine. Mr. Wickham will do. As long as he listens to me and stays out of my way.” She took a breath and moved toward him. Brody held out his hand again, as if to seal the deal, but she brushed past him.

“Staying out of your way might be a little difficult. And, by the way, just for the record, I do like you,” he said, hoping to throw some cool on her steam.

“Save it,” she snapped, and shut the door behind her with a click.

Brody blew out a long breath.

The senator clamped him on the shoulder. “Keep her out of the tabloids, keep her out of trouble, and bring her home in one piece. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to earn your pay, Wickham.”

Her “bodyguard” pre-cut his roast pork into geometric cubes the size of dice. He speared one piece of meat, pushed it through his applesauce, and delivered it to his mouth. He laid down his fork and wiped his mouth between bites, following each one with a sip of water.

Like a robot.

Ronie tried not to stare, but the more he did it, the more she longed to launch across the beautifully attired table and pour something, maybe gravy—which he’d poured into the center of a perfectly indented mound of potatoes—over his entire plate.

Heaven forbid the gravy touch his asparagus. Or the applesauce.

Or one of Marguerite’s rolls, buttered nicely on the bread plate.

Her father had sold her out to a cyborg. The Terminator.

A terminator that just might destroy everything if she wasn’t careful. She had better figure out a way to ditch him if she hoped to help Kafara.

Found him. She would reread the text until it gave her the courage she needed.

Brody took another sip and politely answered the senator’s questions, in a voice low and rumbly, like an earthquake. “I’m the oldest of nine, sir, and yes, my father worked at the Capitol as a security guard until his stroke three months ago. Nearly did thirty years.”

“I know him—gives away your mother’s homemade caramel corn to all the offices every year.”

Another cube of meat, another trek through the applesauce. Chew. Wipe. Drink. Yes, sitting across from him for the next month just might drive her insane.

Except, well, what about that idea? She couldn’t exactly fire him, right? But what if he quit? What if she simply played on his disgust and drove him insane?

Sorry, but she just didn’t buy the whole “you’re in danger” spiel. Did her father think she had lost her brains along with her pride? He just didn’t want another go-round with the international tabloids during an election year. And as for her so-called stalker, well, just because a few unauthorized photos showed up on the internet didn’t mean the man would harm her.

Everyone just calm down. She knew what she was doing.

Although she could admit to being just a little terrified when she found herself on the floor of the club. Being stomped on.

Not that Brody would ever know that.

But she would have survived. It was the one thing she knew how to do.

“And what do you do when you’re not standing guard outside someone’s hotel room?” Ronie tried to smile, aiming for too sweet when she said it.

He met her eyes. “I work out. And listen to classical music.” No return smile.

Ellie passed him the rolls. “Isn’t that lovely. Our family has season tickets to the New York Philharmonic. We just heard them play Brahms, the Second Symphony.”

Ronie wanted to nod off into her potatoes. Maybe a date, forced or otherwise, would have been better—at least said suitor might be trying to impress her father, and her, in hopes of winning round two.

Brody Wickham didn’t seem at all interested in her opinion of him.

Well, except for the moment she’d caught him staring, his gaze lingering on her as he’d pulled out her chair to the table.

As if trying to recognize in her the woman who’d belted him.

Yeah, well, there was more where that came from if he got too close. But, see, that could work, too—more craziness, and perhaps she would throw in shopping and nightclubs, drive him insane by making him fetch her coffee and donuts, anything she could do to remind him that, yes, she might just be the high-maintenance diva he’d scooped off the floor.

He’d rue the day he ever agreed to her father’s terms. If he thought she was hard to control onstage…

“How long have you been in the military, Mr. Wickham?” her mother asked.

Ah, the woman had caught him midbite. Ronie raised an eyebrow, enjoying the debate in his eyes. Finally, he replaced his fork, fully loaded, onto the plate. “I’m not in the military anymore, ma’am. But I was in for sixteen years.”

“Only four years shy of retirement? That seems a strange time to leave.”

Of course, the senator had to press. Why not? It seemed his specialty had become evaluating people’s lives, making them rethink their decisions, embarrassing them…

Brody’s gaze went to his plate. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Yes, sir.”

Hmm. The silence after his words had even Ronie clinking her plate with her fork, dividing her asparagus into chunks.

Outside, twilight had descended, shaggy fir trees shifting shadows into the yard, and the cicadas had come out, buzzing in the night. Ronie longed to push away from the table and escape outside into the sultry, thick air, slip off her shoes, feel her toes in the cool grass. If she listened hard, perhaps she’d hear laughter from the playhouse on the far edge of the yard, maybe even see Savannah beckoning to her from the swing set.

Not the Savannah that peered down upon them from the oil on the wall behind her in the dining room, but the one with long brown hair, so soft for braiding, the one who knew all the voices to Little Women.

“So, I suppose you visited a lot of interesting places in the military?” Ellie to the rescue, still trying to pawn off the rolls.

“Yes, ma’am.” Brody accepted another roll, set it next to his already cut and buttered one. What, was he going to slip it into his pocket for later?

“Have you seen action?”

“Oh, Ellie, don’t ask him that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Brody said, again that strange glance down at his dinner. The entire affair felt not unlike a KGB interrogation. They just needed the bright lights and the toothpicks. For a second, Ronie had the urge to rescue him.

Thankfully, it passed.

“Mr. Wickham’s offices are in downtown Prague, Ellie.” The senator turned to Brody. “Beautiful city, Prague. Went there on my twenty-fifth anniversary, with my wife.”

Ellie looked over at him with a smile, not a hint of warmth in her eyes. “Yes. Very beautiful.”

Her father had finished off his bourbon and switched to merlot. He swished his wine by the stem of the glass. “I saw that you worked for Hans Brumegaarden. Something about a birthday party, and Snow White?”

Was that a blush on Wickham’s face? Maybe, but then it vanished and he caught Ronie’s eye, straight on. “Yes. Our security firm was asked to dress the part while protecting Gretchen Brumegaarden during her Disney-themed birthday party. I was a dwarf. I’ll do anything to keep a client safe. Even if she is five years old and dressed up in some crazy costume.”

What? No, he didn’t just call her a five-year-old, did he? Her mouth opened. Oh, she so had words for him. But no, she was a Wagner. She’d keep it to herself.

At least tonight.

“I need some air.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

Brody rose from the table. The senator stayed seated. Ellie put out her hand, catching her arm. “Veronica—”

“It’s Ronie, Mom. My friends call me Ronie. Or, if you want, Vonya would work, too.” She pulled away and glanced at the Boy Scout. “The tour starts in a week. Try to stay out of my hair until then.”

She was turning away when she heard him mutter, “Which hair?”

And oh, she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t stop herself. In fact, yes, she turned right about five years old as she picked up one of the rolls and hurled it across the table, right at his smug little kisser.

“Veronica!”

He caught it with one hand.

Smiled.

Nodded.

Game on.

Fine. If that was how he wanted it. She turned, ignoring her mother’s hand as it tried to catch her.

The moon had lifted above the trees, a spotlight in the sky, skimming over the cool grass. She toed off her sandals, sifting the grass through her feet as she treaded over to the swing set.

She sat on it. Heard the voices of the past.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a famous actress.” Savannah’s voice filtered from the yellow playhouse, its windows like eyes, dark and empty. “I’ll sing, too—we’ll sing together.”

“Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.”

Ronie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened her picture file. She scrolled through the thumbnails, intending to stop on Savannah.

Instead, she clicked open Kafara’s picture. Chubby, dark cheeks, a white smile, holding out a pineapple for her right before he cut it in half with his machete. How he loved to bring her treats from his village. She ran her thumb over the photo. Don’t give up on me, Kafara. Because I’m not giving up on you.

She pocketed the phone, found a tune, something from the past. Let the wind take her song.

“Which hair?” Brody’s smug expression, especially after he’d caught the roll, made her push off, start to swing.

Game on, indeed. Yes, he would rue the day he’d agreed to stand in her way.

THREE

Brody Wickham didn’t run from crazy. He didn’t care what costume Vonya appeared in, what outrageous request she made of him. Didn’t care how many times she asked him for a macchiato coffee or food from the craft table. He’d keep on informing her he wasn’t a butler—he hadn’t been hired to carry her shoes or protect her delicate skin from the harsh sunlight.

And to think the gig hadn’t even officially started, although the week spent in New York City watching her rehearse had him second-guessing this gig every day. He couldn’t wait for the weekend leave when he’d return to D.C. and check in on his family before leaving for Europe.

Brody Wickham fully planned to outlast her. Figure her out. Win at whatever game they happened to be playing in her head. After all, how was he supposed to protect her if he couldn’t predict her moves? She certainly wasn’t going to make it easy by, say, cooperating.

She made him want to bang his own head against something hard and cold. Whose brain-dead idea had it been to earn a quick 100K anyway?

“Thank you, Brody.” His mother’s face when he handed her a portion of the prepayment of services after returning from the meeting with Senator Wagner. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good to help his parents.

Or to know that they wouldn’t lose the family home.

Or give his brother a shot at a decent education.

And, truthfully, Ronyika—as he’d taken to calling her—did intrigue him.

After all, he’d never seen anyone wearing giant wings during a pop song before, even if watching her dangle fifteen feet on a trapeze swing off the ground as if she might be flying nearly gave him chest pains. Today her hair was baby-boy blue, an almost clownish mop of curls atop her head. And she wore a black Batman mask, perhaps just in case anyone mistook her for the sugarplum fairy.

In truth, she scared him a little with how quickly she morphed from high-society Veronica to Vampy Vonya.

“Is she schizophrenic? Maybe suffering from multiple personality disorder?” He hadn’t exactly meant to say that aloud, but perhaps his disbelief at watching her suspend herself from the ceiling as the fog machine filled up the stage simply overtook his brain and he accidentally went audible with his opinion.

Her manager looked up at him and shook his head. “No, she’s brilliant.”

“Tommy D” D’Amico reminded him of a man who might greet him at a frat party. Or a used-car sales lot. A full head of blond curly hair, eyes that didn’t retain his quick smile, the fast handshake. Shiny alligator shoes that probably cost half Brody’s yearly income. What had Senator Wagner said about someone skimming her profits?

Brody had done a background check on Tommy first, followed by Leah, her pretty assistant. If the black-haired whirlwind gained about sixty pounds of muscle and grew a foot, she just might give Brody a run for his money with all the hovering she did.

Although Miss Ronyika hadn’t seen anything yet.

But why was a girl who’d been stalked—in and out of the tabloids—uninterested in having a bodyguard?

More intrigue.

He’d kept his distance this week as he conducted his background checks, went over the accommodations—he’d changed them to decent hotels, thank you very much—and scoured the itinerary. If she wanted to be treated like the pop sensation she was becoming, she needed to start thinking about more upscale lodging, venues…perhaps even attire. But he wasn’t touching that.

He’d conceded, also, to the fact he’d have to involve the rest of the Stryker International crew—Artyom and Luke—if he wanted to prepare for contingencies at the concert venues. Thankfully, the Stryker staff jumped at the work, also bored with their mandatory R & R.

Now if he could just figure out Vonya’s mind. It was not unlike trying to get a firm grip on Jell-O.

“You know she did two years in Harvard’s MBA program for international business, right? And can speak four languages? She’s a genius with this stuff.”

Really? Because how much genius did it take to sing “Your love gives me wings, makes me sing, on a swing”?

Still, four languages? Could one of those possibly be Klingon?

“I have to admit, she looks like she could just about fly if she wanted to.” He winced, however, at how high she swung. Hopefully the grips would make sure the trapeze was secure, or he would. She might be hard to catch.

“The wings are her design, as is the swing act. It’ll be a hit.” Tommy patted him on the arm as the director stopped the scene. The recorded music died in the speakers.

An air-conditioned chill collected in the warehouse, despite the tepid June air outside. Vonya must be freezing in her light blue leotard and tights. However, she seemed the consummate professional, hitting every cue. And, if someone put him under the bright lights, he might even admit that she exuded a sort of Marilyn Monroe beauty that wasn’t completely unlikable.

Tommy clapped as she finished her song, the stage crew lowering the swing so she could hop off. “But you’re right, no one can pull off the wings like Vonya. We’ll add in the special effects for the video and sweep at this year’s MTV Awards.” He turned to Brody, white teeth showing. “You’re the lucky one—you get to watch her premiere the live act as part of the tour.”

Oh, yes, lucky him.

“She won two awards last year, you know. One for a music video, and she was up for best album, too. A real coup for an indie band. But she’s headed toward the big-time—even international stardom with this tour.” Tommy D shook his wrist, checking his diamond-encrusted watch, shiny under the spotlights. “I just hope you’re up to this.”

Brody raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, the last bodyguard her father hired ended up in the hospital. Heart attack.”

Really? Brody nearly put his own hand to his chest watching her swing in the air.

“Heart attack, huh?”

“The first time we were in Zimbala. She had just walked into a refugee camp. Of course, the man spent more time at the craft table than in her shadow, but yes. Heart attack. Could have been much worse.” Tommy patted him again, a habit that just might cause him to lose a hand. “But she’s not on any goodwill trips this tour, 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 your interview go with Brody Wickham, aka the Boy Scout?” She wiped the mirror with a washcloth, a swipe as large as her hand that revealed her streaked, formerly made-up face. Rehearsals for her tour seemed even more grueling today, and instead of showering at the studio, she’d raced home to her own digs.

“Wick—that’s his nickname. He seems nice. And genuinely concerned for your safety.”

“Yeah, too concerned if you ask me.” She would need another layer of remover to wipe the last of the indigo blue from around her eyes, but finally, she’d begun to see hints of her real self. Unremarkable hazel-green eyes, brown hair chopped short, the color of prairie mud, now knotted in a mass from a brisk towel-rubbing. A few freckles formerly concealed with powder. And pale yet plump lips that others probably envied, but on her it looked like too much effort for too little result.

“This coming from the woman who still winces when she moves her arm.”

Ronie lifted her left arm, letting the mirror reveal the purple-black bruise encircling the top of it. It still hurt to move it; tears still sprang to her eyes when someone bumped it.

“There’s no such thing as too concerned. I think Brody Wickham is the real deal. I saw him watching you all day—I’m telling you, if you had slipped from that swing, he has arms that could catch you.”

“I think he’s just as likely to let me hit the ground.”

“He’d take a bullet for you. I can see it in his eyes.”

Perfect. Just what she wanted—another person dying because of her.

Okay, yes, maybe she couldn’t dislodge him from her brain—especially that smug expression as he tried to catch a glimpse at her phone.

Good thing she’d deleted the text. See, a person shouldn’t save text messages on their phones—not in the new age of spy games.

No, she’d just have to keep his attention diverted while she played out her extracurricular activities.

“I thought rehearsals went okay today, didn’t you?” She peered in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes, a few gathering wrinkles around her mouth. Okay, she shouldn’t be quite so hard on herself. With the right makeup, she could turn the head of a photographer. At least as Vonya.

“I think you’re brilliant. I love the swing song.”

She thought it was one of her cheesier pieces, but the crowds loved it. And Vonya vamped it up well, although it was one of the few songs that felt most like one Ronie might sing. All the same, it didn’t matter what persona she played onstage, as long as it opened doors. As Vonya she’d held a concert for the troops overseas, she’d raised money for UNICEF, she’d visited the refugee camps in Africa…

All, of course, Tommy used for the good of her career. She used it for the good of her heart.

And in Zimbala, she’d met Kafara Nimba, a nine-year-old orphaned boy who had captured her heart.

This trip, she’d bring him home.

“Is it okay if I take off? I left the Thai food on the counter. And Tommy said he’d be by later to check on you and go over the itinerary.”

Ronie cinched the towel around her and opened the door. “Are you picking up Lyle or am I?”

“I’ll go—we’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. Listen, you’re all packed, you just need to get yourself there on time. No more holding the plane while you run through security.”

“They didn’t believe I was Vonya—what could I do?”

“That’s your fault for traveling as yourself.”

Yeah, see, no one recognized her when she simply played…herself. Not even her, anymore.

Leah hadn’t moved from the door, and Ronie stilled. She closed her eyes when Leah said softly, “I’ll be praying for you. For the record, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

Her feet clicked on the cork floor down the hallway. Ronie pressed her hand to the foggy mirror and pulled it away, watching her handprint. The right thing.

Yes, eventually it would be.

A half hour later, her face scrubbed clean, wearing her green Hulk pajama pants and an oversize Harvard sweatshirt, she found the Thai food in the kitchen in the middle of an otherwise empty countertop.

The entire apartment on the top floor of her building in SoHo reflected Vonya’s eccentric style, thanks to Tommy D’s vision for who she should be—at least for the various magazines that wanted an “insider look” into her life. The past year and a half, she’d risen in popularity so much she barely recognized the woman who just loved to write songs in the quiet of her room. From the S-shaped workspace suspended on cables in the middle of the kitchen, to folding Japanese screens that separated the spaces, to the two-story windows overlooking the skyscape of New York, the place exuded the artistic, eccentric flare of Vonya.

The only room Ronie claimed for herself—and she’d practically had to throw her body over it—was the tiny library with the round window that overlooked the rooftops of her neighbors’ buildings. Yes, she could be accused of sitting in the darkness, watching people as they stargazed on their rooftops or sometimes serenaded the city. She often grabbed her guitar and played along.

Her library contained her books, a white shag carpet, a chaise lounge she’d picked up at an estate sale and re-covered in lime-green, her old acoustic guitar, and a pile of lined music sheets and notebooks filled with her handwritten songs.

Not that any of them would be sung by Vonya. Even if Ronie did bring them out into the light, they’d die under the bright glare of Tommy D’s criticism.

Aw, she didn’t really want to be a blues singer anyway, did she?

She’d definitely picked the wrong song to sing on Talent Night at the Harvard Business School. Wow, talk about getting in over her head.

Ronie brought the Thai food to the white sofa, curled up on it, and flicked on the television. She avoided the entertainment and fashion channels, ignored the soaps, and finally settled on a cooking show. Bizarre foods. Could be fun to eat fried squid on a stick, right?

The phone rang and she gave herself permission to let it go to the machine. Probably just Tommy, letting her know he’d be late.

“Veronica Stanton Wagner, this is your father, and if you’re there, I expect you to pick up.”

Ronie caught a long noodle with her chopsticks.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to say…” He cleared his throat. She paused, her food halfway to her mouth. “Have a good trip.”

Oh, see, now that was nice—

“Please try to stay out of the newspapers. And don’t drive your bodyguard mad. We’ve paid him good money to keep an eye on you.”

Ronie sucked in a breath.

“And your reputation.”

He hung up.

Ronie caught a piece of baby corn. Perfect. Just once, she’d like to hear his daddy voice instead of the senator voice, but frankly, it had been so long she probably wouldn’t recognize it.

She stirred her food, then set it down. If only she could have figured out another way to raise money other than go crawling back to her father.

Maybe she shouldn’t have given away quite so much of her money to charity. But she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help—after all, she had so much to make up for.

She clicked off the television and stared at the glittering lights of the city, fatigued to the bone.

From inside her messenger bag next to the door, her cell phone buzzed. She put down her carton of food, got up and retrieved it.

A new text message. From Bishop.

Keep your promise, I’ll keep mine. Good luck.

It came with an attachment. She opened it, her heart racing.

Kafara. She knew him like her own handprint, despite the grainy image. He stood with three other boys about his age in a field next to a green truck. They wore dirty green pants and black shirts, their eyes dark and solemn.

Gravel filled her throat.

Each one of them held a black-as-night AK-47 on his hip.

She sank to the floor, ran her finger over Kafara’s twelve-year-old face. She knew it, she just knew that when his letters stopped, when she’d heard of the raid in his village, that General Mubar had “recruited” Kafara into his private army of enforcers.

Please, God, don’t let him have been used for minesweeping, or to murder someone.

Her hand shook as she saved the picture to her files. Yes, she’d most definitely have to shake Brody Wickham off her trail, whatever it took.

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