Chapter Six
The next day was a day off. Well, almost, but they did both sleep in.
Elle had to answer interview questions from half a dozen different music blogs, but they were written and she could email her replies, so she didn’t need to leave the apartment for that. She also had to answer a set of generic questions from Marcus. They would then be sent to lesser music blogs, who could choose which questions and answers to pair with their article about Elle and her new single. The music charts were finalized for the week on Friday, so every bit of publicity helped.
No one was expecting her to get into the Top 40 with a first single, and a cover at that, but breaking into the Top 100 was attainable, and that was what Marcus and Sonic Music were hoping for.
Conrad checked her email before she began typing her answers to be sure there was nothing nasty waiting for her.
There were two new messages from the deranged stalker. One from last night didn’t contain any plagiarized stories. It was just a self-pitying rant about how she couldn’t see that he only wanted what was best for her. He mentioned her performance on the Julia Jones show.
Of all the letters so far, this one was the most . . . real. There were a few threats in there, but mostly it veered between sadness and anger at the fact that she wouldn’t be his.
The one sent this morning was back to form—a long, sick and twisted tale of what he would do to her.
Conrad forwarded them to his own email account, so he could peruse them at his leisure, then deleted them and gave her the laptop back.
Calling down to the concierge, he arranged for some groceries to be delivered from a local shop. Then he emailed Jed to see if they had found any connections or people in common with the fiction writers that the stalker had plagiarized.
They hadn’t, but they had inserted IP capture software on the accounts and stories of all four writers, hoping they could find a common IP. As long as he wasn’t using a VPN, they could then track the stalker to a home address.
He considered asking Browning’s to investigate the people behind the accounts too, but given they lived all over the world, the chances of them having a real-life connection were slim.
Browning’s did have a preliminary background report on Marcus, and he was totally clean, nothing worse than a speeding ticket in his past. They would dig deeper, looking into previous employers, university and school records, but those sometimes took a little longer to find.
Conrad was well aware that monsters usually seemed perfectly normal, but if you went back far enough, before they had learned to control themselves and perfected the art of blending in, you could often find troubling incidents not present in adult records.
Elle yawned, and Conrad noticed the dark circles under her eyes; she clearly wasn’t sleeping well. In fact, she’d been rather subdued since she got up this morning, but answering questions seemed to be distracting her.
He went into the kitchen to make her a coffee. They had one of those fancy Nespresso machines that used little capsules of coffee to make espresso shots. He had to admit, he was a bit of a coffee snob and had his own machine at home with the strongest coffee capsules available, simply because nothing cured a hangover quite like strong coffee.
He made her the larger serving, so it was more watered down than an espresso shot, then he added milk and two sugars, which is how she’d asked for her coffee at one of her interviews.
Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he waited for the cup to fill, he realized that he didn’t just want to protect her anymore. He wanted to look after her. She was becoming more than just a client, and honestly, that was a little terrifying!
“Here,” he said as he placed the cup before her.
“Thank you.” She looked up into his face, surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You look like you need it,” he offered with a small smile.
She nodded and offered him a wan smile.
“Why don’t you take a break?” he suggested.
“I only have two more to go, so I’d rather get them over with. You mind checking my emails in about twenty minutes, before I send them off?”
“Not at all. Just give me a shout.”
She thanked him and went back to work.
Conrad walked the perimeter of the apartment again, just making sure everything was still locked and trying to release some of the restless energy that accumulated whenever he spent too much time cooped up indoors. The concierge called to say their food had arrived.
Conrad took the food, paid the man at the door, including a nice tip, then brought the bags to the kitchen. He began to unpack.
“Okay, I’m done,” Elle said with a small sigh as she joined him.
“Let me finish putting away this stuff, then I’ll check your email.”
“I’ll put it away, if you’d like.”
He hesitated for a moment, but it didn’t really matter who finished.
“Sure.” He shot her a reassuring smile because she looked nervous. “If you tell me what to send where, I can email the files for you.”
“Oh no, you don’t have to do that.” She brushed his offer away. She sounded as if she longed to have this small piece of worry lifted from her shoulders.
“It’s fine,” he assured her.
“Well . . . if it’s really no bother. The documents I have to send are all on my desktop, all titled Interview ‘something.’ They all need to be sent to David. He’ll know how to distribute them.”
He rather loved that she thought sending an email for her was somehow an imposition.
He checked carefully, but there was nothing nasty waiting in her account, so he sent the email as she’d requested.
Back in the kitchen, Elle had finished putting the shopping away and was now kneeling on the kitchen counter as she looked through the top cupboards.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” he asked as he entered.
“Just seeing what’s up the back,” she said, brandishing a packet of something.
He stepped closer to help her down, but before he could reach her, she had turned around and hopped to the floor.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he chided her. “You could fall and hurt yourself.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. I’m-Over-Six-Feet.” She gave him a wry smile. “But it’s either climb on the counter or never see what’s in a top cupboard ever again. Trust me, I’ve been doing it for years!”
He was a little annoyed with himself for overreacting, but the sight of her in danger, even a little danger, brought out his protective streak.
Along with the packet she’d gotten down, she had also taken a number of ingredients out and had set about finding pots and pans to cook them in.
“You don’t mind if I make dinner tonight, do you?” she asked as she worked.
He had been planning to cook, but he could tell that she needed to keep busy.
“Sounds great. Is there anything I can help with?”
“I think I’m okay. Although”—she reached for something behind her and brandished it—“are you trying to get me drunk?” It was a bottle of vodka.
“Almost,” he teased. “Actually, it’s for medicinal purposes, to help take the edge off when you’re feeling bad.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she assured him, smiling brightly.
“And you don’t need to lie to me,” he said kindly. “I know what it’s like to have someone on your tail. It might not be exactly the same thing, but I know how it feels to know that someone out there is tracking your every move and wishing you harm. It is not something you live comfortably with.”
Her smile faded as he spoke, and by the time he was finished, she looked ashen.
“It’s always there,” she admitted. “No matter what I do, the knowledge is there—that someone out there wants to hurt me!” Her voice rose, and hearing herself, she deliberately tried to calm down.
“I try to distract myself and stay busy, but it’s always at the back of my mind, and as soon as I stop keeping busy, it’s there at the forefront again, like a big blinking neon sign, reminding me that someone wants to do sick and depraved things to me. I mean, that’s bad, but strangely enough, the waiting is almost worse.” She bowed her head, hair hiding her face, while her fists clenched.
“Part of me wishes he would make a move and do something so he can be caught, even if I’m hurt in the process. This interminable wait, the constant wondering when the next shoe will drop, having to navigate my life to avoid him as much as possible . . . it feels like it’s all designed to keep me on edge, wondering, waiting.” Her hand rose to her bruised cheekbone. “I’ll take a punch over this endless waiting any day.”
Conrad understood how she felt, but he had never heard it put quite so eloquently before.
There were times when he was being tracked and he felt like he would never get away. He’d even considered making himself vulnerable just to get the confrontation over with. His longest mission like that had only lasted a week, however, while Elle’s stalking had been going on for a while now.
He stepped closer to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t feel like you have to put a brave face on for me,” he said softly. “With strangers, Marcus, hell, even David, pretend you’re fine all you want. But not here, not with me.”
“That’s hardly fair to you,” she remonstrated, shaking her head. She seemed touched by his offer, though.
“It’s not about what’s fair, love.” He looked down into her face. Her eyes ran over his serious expression, intently focused on what he was saying. “It’s about knowing what sort of state you’re in so I can better protect you. If you’re zoning out, if you’re feeling close to a panic attack, or just feeling antsy and on edge, I need to know those things so I don’t trigger a panic attack while trying to get you out of somewhere unsafe.”
That wasn’t really true. He was pretty sure he could protect her even if she passed out cold on him, but he didn’t want to see her brave face; he wanted to see behind her public persona.
“Okay.” She nodded her acceptance of his reasoning, her eyes caught on his. “As long as you understand that sometimes my brave face is for my benefit too.”
He nodded, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and stepped back, pleased that she would accept his comfort.
“So what are we having?” he asked, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.
“Carbonara and seashell pasta.”
“We don’t have any pasta, do we?”
“I found some pasta in the cupboard and some garlic bread in the freezer,” she said happily.
“Sounds perfect, but isn’t it a little early to cook?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
She grinned with that hint of mischief that was becoming so endearing.
“It is never too early for a good carb-fest!” She grimaced comically and leaned in to confide quietly, “It’s either this or my two-by-two stress reliever.”
He grinned back. “All right, I’ll bite. What’s your two-by-two stress reliever?”
“Two pints of chocolate ice cream and two bottles of wine, of course!” She threw a laughing look at him and turned to her pots.
Conrad chuckled and laid a companionable arm over her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze.
“I wish I’d thought of the chocolate ice cream part! I always just went for the wine part of the stress relief, but your version sounds much more effective.”
Elle snickered as she began to dice the bacon. “Really? You buy me Vodka, but you expect me to believe you were drinking wine?” She threw him a disbelieving look. “When was the last time you had an actual glass of wine?”
Conrad blinked sheepishly. She’d found him out.
“Truthfully, I can’t really remember . . .”
Her laugh rang out.
He watched as she began frying off the strips of bacon, using slightly more than he thought the recipe needed, but carbonara could be a little bland, so extra bacon would be welcome.
“So who usually stays in places like this?” she asked while she worked.
“People who have an immediate threat to their safety,” he explained. “The hotel is good for people in general danger, but this place is more for people who need witness protection levels of security.”
She turned to face him, looking interested. “I didn’t know we had a witness protection program.”
“Not like the Americans have,” he explained. “But we do sometimes have witnesses who are in danger, especially with terrorism trials or large criminal gangs. Then once the trial is over, the government can provide new identities. There isn’t the same need in this country, which is why they use firms like Browning’s. Browning’s has this place and a couple of others.”
“That doesn’t sound very safe, if there are only a few places to choose from.” She added some pasta shells to a saucepan and set it to start cooking. Then she put the frozen garlic bread in the oven.
“The company is vetted and security cleared by MI5,” he assured her. “And they haven’t lost anyone in years.”
“So what about the rest of the time. Who stays in these places?”
“When MI5 uncovers a terrorist threat with a specific target, usually people like government officials, they’re brought to places like this until the threat has passed. Visiting foreign dignitaries with questionable policies and prices on their heads, paranoid businessmen, that sort of thing. Because of the precautions taken against bugging, I’ve even heard of high-level government negotiations happening in apartments like this.”
She shook her head and turned her attention back to the pan. She removed it from the heat. “There’s obviously a whole side of life I never knew existed.”
“Don’t feel bad,” he assured her. “I have no idea what goes on in a recording studio.”
She conceded his point with a shrug.
“So have you ever stayed in a place like this before?” she asked.
“Twice,” he replied. “Although not here. They change the places regularly, to keep them from becoming too easily discoverable.”
“Who were you protecting?”
“Blackwall executives.”
“Blackwall?”
“It’s a paramilitary organization. I joined them after I left the forces.” He didn’t feel the need to mention his short-lived bodyguard career in between.
“Aren’t they American?” she asked as she began cracking eggs into a bowl.
“They are, but they’ll hire anyone who is good enough. And it’s convenient to have global staff because, for example, they don’t have to apply for a visa for me when they visit the UK.”
“So why do Blackwall executives need protection?”
He knew she was just making conversation, but she was reminding him of things he’d rather forget.
“We did a lot of work for the US government in the Middle East. It earned us a lot of bad press.”
“Oh God, yeah,” she sympathized as she added cream, cheese, and seasoning to the eggs. “I’ll bet ISIS doesn’t like you very much.” She turned to him, looking stricken. “I mean you in the general sense, like your organization, not you as in . . . you personally, because ISIS tried to kill people over here who haven’t been trying to stop them so you must . . . You . . .” She sighed at her inability to explain herself, and he found himself laughing at her guilelessness.
“I understood what you meant. No offense taken,” he assured her.
She turned back to her cooking and whisked the contents of the bowl, then she checked the garlic bread.
“This won’t be long now, but there’s plenty, so you can come back for more later.”
“I’m easy,” he assured her.
“Easy, you say?” She shot him a teasing look, her eyebrow raised as she turned back to her pan.
She crushed some garlic and added it to the bacon pan, which she put back on the heat. Then she tested a pasta shell by cooling it and biting into it. After draining the pasta, she combined all the ingredients in the frying pan, stirring until the pasta shells were coated with sauce.
She served a healthy portion into some very expensive pasta bowls. Then she halved the garlic baguette, putting one half on each plate, and tossed some chopped parsley over the pasta.
“It looks lovely,” he said as she joined him at the breakfast bar and passed him his plate.
“I hope it tastes good too,” she said, grabbing them some cutlery.
He moaned as he took his first mouthful. Elle fought to keep her eyes on her plate, trying not to completely creep him out by staring at him.
“This is amazing! What’s your secret?”
“A little bit of Worcestershire sauce in with the cream.”
“Really? It’s lovely,” he said, taking another mouthful.
“So what do Blackwall do?”
“Almost anything the regular military does,” he said with a shrug, hoping she’d drop the subject.
“Like what?”
“Transport weapons, supplies, money—”
“Money, as in cash?”
“War is not the sort of environment where you can do a bank transfer.”
“Who is the money for?”
“Some of it is to pay and train the local army, some for the government to rebuild infrastructure, and you have no idea how many bribes are necessary in war zones.”
“Wow.” She looked a little shocked. “So where did you serve before you joined them?”
“Iraq, mostly.” She clearly wasn’t going to drop it. “The SBS was far more interesting. Those missions were behind enemy lines, just me, my team, and our wits.”
“Oh wow.” She leaned forward. “Can you tell me about a mission?”
“Well, I could,” he said seriously, “but then I actually would have to kill you, so that kind of defeats the point of my being here.” He narrowed his eyes at her, as if mapping her vulnerabilities.
She laughed at his terrible joke, but perhaps realizing he was uncomfortable, she changed the subject.
“So have you got any family?”
“Only child. Just my mum and I,” he said shortly.
“No dad?” she asked, a hint of hesitation in her voice.
“He died in the Falklands War.” His eyes moved to the wall behind her, gritting his teeth.
“I’m sorry.” She winced.
Conrad studied her, her sympathy evident, and his expression softened. She knew what it was like to grow up without a father too.
“Don’t be. I hardly knew him. I have one memory of waving him off, but I honestly don’t know if it’s real or if I invented it from the stories my mum would tell me.”
He grimaced. He was bringing the mood down, and Elle needed cheering. He decided not to ask about her family.
“So are you looking forward to the charts tomorrow?”
“Err.” She made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know. Part of me is thrilled I’m even in the running. The other part of me is sure I’m not even going to hit the Top 100 and just wants to hide until it’s over.”
“We’re going to David’s house, right?” He knew her schedule like the back of his hand, but he asked anyway.
“Yeah, and he’s going to feed us. Have you met Stacey and his kids?”
“No, not yet.” Tomorrow was going to be a new experience for him, relatively speaking. He hadn’t played nice in a family environment for years. How did one act around friends’ wives? All his friends had been in the military or paramilitary with him, their wives thousands of miles away, so Conrad never got to meet them. Or their children. He hoped—
“Hey.” She waved her hand in front of his face. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry, just zoned out for a second.” He forced a smile to his lips. “Who else is going to be there?”
“I’m not sure. He invited a few people. The chart is announced at four, but we’re not meeting until seven, so I’ll know by then if I made the charts or not.”
“Isn’t there a blues chart? I thought there was a chart for everything.”
“There’s a jazz and blues chart but only for album sales, not singles.”
“I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you.” He smiled reassuringly.
“Thanks.” Her eyes wanted to cling to his, but she forced them away, swallowing hard. Her jitters were her own.
“So do you want to watch a movie tonight?”
“It’s that or Scrabble, and I suck at Scrabble!”
“You choose,” he offered.
“I chose dinner! You get to pick the movie.”
“All right. I’ll look, and once we’ve eaten, you should have a vodka. It’ll take the edge off. There are some mixers in the cupboard,” he directed.
“Why not now?” she asked, seemingly amused, thinking she could really use a drink about now.
“Because you should never drink on an empty stomach,” he intoned piously. He shook his head at his own words, unable to remember the last time he’d taken his own advice.
“Is that like not swimming after you eat?” She grinned, but held up a hand when we went to reply. “No, you’re right. I think I’ll wait. Do we have any ice cream?”
He gave her a long look, trying to keep the frown off his face. Dear God, what is she planning to do to the vodka? He shuddered as her playful smile broadened.
“I haven’t seen any, and I didn’t think to order any,” he replied. “I can order some next time, if you’d like.”
“It’s okay. I probably shouldn’t indulge anyway. You done?” She pointed to his plate.
“Yes, thanks. That was lovely.”
“Do you want seconds? There’s another garlic baguette in the freezer.”
“Not right now . . . maybe later.”
She cleared their plates away, and he went to peruse their movie choices. He opted for Jurassic Park since he knew that movie would hold her attention.
“Do you want a drink?” she called through.
No, he didn’t. He hadn’t wanted one since he took this job, which was odd.
“I’m okay, thanks,” he called back.
Maybe it wasn’t that he had a drinking problem; maybe he had a living-with-himself problem.
Ever since he’d gotten home, he knew he had to say something, but to whom? Who was going to believe him? Blackwall would put him in the ground, figuratively speaking . . . and possibly literally. And they had bought so many politicians—chances were they’d never be brought to justice.
“You okay?” Elle put her hand on the small of his back and the contact instantly pushed his negative thoughts aside, replacing them with rather impure ones . . . except that when he turned to her, and she smiled up at him, they were actually rather pure.
Yes, he wanted her, but he wanted to make love to her, not like the few quick—and yes, drunken—fucks he’d been used to in recent years.
“I’m fine,” he smiled down at her. He handed her the Jurassic Park DVD and closed the closet door as she went to put the movie in.
“Going old school,” she teased as she put it in. “I wonder if the special effects hold up?”
“How old were you when you saw it?” he asked as he moved to the sofa and sat. She laughed reminiscently.
“Oh God! I guess I was ten? Eleven?” She shook her head. “A bunch of friends and I rented it for a sleepover.” She chuckled at the memory. “You never heard so much shrieking! I’m amazed we didn’t get yelled at for making so much noise! All the other girls were terrified of the T. rex. I was as well, come to think of it! But I was fascinated by the science too. For a while I seriously considered becoming a paleontologist.”
“Why didn’t you?” He watched her expression.
Elle shrugged. “I was really more interested in music.”
Conrad smiled. “From what I’ve heard, you didn’t make a bad choice! You’re really very talented.”
“Well, thanks.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I bet not a lot of paleontologists get stalked and attacked!”
Conrad grasped her hand. “No, Elle. Don’t think like that! You haven’t done anything wrong! Having talent and sharing your music is not asking for crazies to harass you! And paleontologists can be stalked too, you know.” He squeezed her hand, willing her to believe him. “Stalkers are sick bastards, and they do it for their own twisted reasons, not because their victims have done anything to deserve it.”
Elle nodded. It was surreal to realize that she’d become the center of someone’s sickness, but she really was trying to remind herself that it was his problem, and not something she’d done.
Not wanting to dwell on negative things, she changed the subject back to the film, and they settled in to watch it, laughing at themselves for jumping at the scary bits, even though they already knew what was coming.
When the film ended, she decided to change into her night clothes—the God damn pandas again—and they moved on to Jurassic World. With two vodkas in her, she became rather cuddly and asked if he minded her resting against him. He could see nothing wrong with that, and she literally snuggled into his side.
He glanced down at her occasionally, and he wondered if she was making him into a better man. Being around her certainly made him feel better, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that she wasn’t making him a better person. She was reminding him of who he used to be, before he fought an illegal war and worked for a company responsible for war crimes.
He used to stand for something. He used to have principles. He used to know right from wrong. Elle, with her uncynical, guileless ways, reminded him of who he had been before the military machine chewed him up and nearly swallowed him whole.
As the film was nearing its end, he realized from her deep breathing that Elle was asleep, and he smiled as he looked down at her. Her head was resting on his chest. One of her hands was behind his back, and the other sat on his thigh.
She looked so comfortable that it felt like sacrilege to move her, especially as she hadn’t been sleeping well. When the movie ended, he found something else to watch and vowed to stay where he was until she stirred awake.
Unfortunately, he just ended up falling asleep too. They both woke to some rather stiff muscles from their unusual sleeping positions.
Conrad knew he needed to open his eyes. He just couldn’t. Something needed his attention, though, something . . .
The telltale ding came again, the notification he’d set on his email account, so they didn’t miss any messages.
Now he just needed to open his eyes, but it felt as if they were closed with glue.
A sweet feminine voice mumbled something, and his eyes flew open as he took in his surroundings.
He was fine. They were safe in their apartment, and Elle was sleeping soundly. Her lips moved slightly, so she was probably dreaming.
His laptop beeped again, and he reached for his phone to silence the notification without leaving his seat and disturbing Elle, but when he tried to use it, he quickly remembered this his phone had no service in here.
Elle was fidgeting a little, and the hand on his thigh was creeping closer to his morning wood. They had both slid down the sofa in the night, and now her head was resting on his belly, just above his waistband. Her arm had wrapped around his hips, and he could feel her slow breathing warming the skin around his navel.
He stared down at her sleeping face, fighting the urge to brush her hair back. His hand lay gently over the back of her head, it would be so easy to . . .
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all!
As gently as he could, he disentangled himself enough to slip out from under her before she awoke, but as he laid her back down, she moaned softly and rubbed one eye.
“Where am I?”
“On the couch,” he said softly. “We fell asleep.”
She sat up immediately and rubbed at both eyes. He thought that if she had been wearing makeup, she’d resemble the cute pandas on her pajamas.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He checked his watch and was surprised to realize it was past eight o’clock. They must have both needed the sleep.
She might have looked surprised. It was hard to tell through her disheveled and disoriented yawns.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” he told her, making his escape before she got an eyeful.
“I’m going to hunt out some coffee,” she said, pushing up off the sofa and staggering into the kitchen.
His shower was quick, although he did take care of his erection in the hopes it would enable him to be a little more professional around her for the rest of the day.
When he emerged fifteen minutes later, Elle still looked adorably disheveled, but she seemed more compos mentis as she sipped on her coffee at the breakfast bar.
“Hey.” She smiled at him. “Sorry if I was grumpy earlier. If I get too much sleep, I seem to have a hard time waking up.”
“It’s no problem.” He was right, having allowed himself a little relief, it was easier to look at her cute, bedraggled appearance and not wonder if she’d look the same after a nice long night of making love.
“I made you a coffee, but it might be a little cool.” She gestured to a second cup he hadn’t noticed, and he sat opposite her to try a sip. The wait had cooled it just enough to be palatable, and she’d made it just that way he liked—black, strong, no sugar, and an extra splash of boiling water.
“How’d you know how I like my coffee?”
“I saw you make it yesterday morning.” And she’d remembered.
“Thanks.”
He heard the email beep again and figured he’d better check, so he took his coffee through to the living room.
It was a message from David. No final figures, but the chart was looking good, and he’d lined up a few more telephone interviews with local newspapers and radio stations over the next two days.
Still no national coverage, but after the Julia Jones show and if she broke the top 100, David was hopeful that some larger outfits would show interest before her original single was released.
In the meantime, her first telephone interview was with Heart Radio at 11:00 a.m., and when she went into the bedroom for privacy while she made the calls, he worked out in the living room. He would rather go to the building’s gym in the basement, but even that felt like too far to keep her safe.
His preferred form of exercise was running, then some weights at the end, but he wasn’t about to leave the building to run. He settled for basics like push-ups and sit-ups.
After a quick wash and change, he called down to the concierge desk to see about getting some ice cream and wine delivered, plus a little surprise. He didn’t know if Elle would need her two-by-two, but he wanted to be ready if she did.
After that, he checked in with Browning’s to see if they had any more information on the background checks he’d asked them to do or tracking down the CCTV footage from around the florist’s.
He checked Elle’s email periodically, but no new messages from her stalker had come in, which left him feeling antsy. The stalker always sent one or two a day and in his experience, change was never a good thing.
He made tuna sandwiches for lunch, which Elle seemed absurdly pleased with. Then, in the absence of anything else to do, he checked the previous email messages and hunted down the stories that had been plagiarized for the more recent emails. They were all from one account that they already knew about, so no new leads to follow there.
The stories the stalker was lifting from were all labeled consensual nonconsent, but he could see no hint of consent anywhere. Vicious and cruel, they made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shuddered, nauseous at the idea of this sweet girl being the subject of that bastard’s sick fantasies. Conrad forced himself to read the rest of the stories, looking for some indication of who it could be. He was relieved when it was time to go, and he could shut his computer off and wash his hands.
David lived outside of London where his family could have a garden without both parents needing to sell their organs. It would probably have been cheapest to catch a train and then a cab to David’s, but Conrad wanted the utmost safety, so they left the apartment, walked a few hundred feet to another street, then hailed a black cab. The fare would be horrendous, but if they paid in cash, there would be no record of them.
David had said the affair was smart-casual, so Conrad had opted for black pants and a blue shirt, open at the neck, plus a Mackintosh, while Elle had opted for a long, floaty black skirt and a white grandad shirt delicately embroidered with understated white beads and clear sequins. It looked rather bohemian, and as sexy as her suits and dresses usually were, Conrad thought this suited her much better.
Rush hour—more like three hours—is early on Friday afternoons, but they still caught the tail end, so they were a little later than Conrad anticipated.
David greeted them warmly and eagerly.
“Congratulations!” he said, throwing his arms wide and embracing her.
“You mean . . . ?”
“You haven’t checked yet?” he said, pulling away.
She shook her head and bit her lip, her eyes wide. She was nervous despite his encouraging greeting.
“Number 51!” David laughed.
Elle’s jaw literally dropped, and she looked both stunned and elated. Her hand reached blindly behind and grasped Conrad’s, squeezing tightly. He squeezed back with a firm, steadying pressure.
“Really?” she squeaked.
“Really!” David grinned. “You’re on your way, and your original single is going to smash its way onto the charts. I can feel it!”
He ushered them into the living room and quickly introduced Conrad to his family and the other guests. As well as the album’s producer there were people from the agency, the record label, as well as their partners and spouses. In all there were about two dozen people.
David told everyone that Conrad was her friend, not her bodyguard.
Stacey ensured they both had drinks, champagne for Elle, and ice, soda water, and lime for Conrad, which looked like a G&T, and let him blend into the chattering group of people.
David called for quiet shortly after Stacey returned from the kitchen.
“Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, Elle’s single, ‘The Sound of Silence,’ broke the Top 60 today, and nearly broke the Top 50!”
Everyone clapped, and Elle blushed.
“Because of that, I know that her next single is going to catapult her to superstardom, and leave everyone asking how she got so famous overnight!”
Everyone laughed at the irony—not only had the album taken eighteen months to finish, but Elle had also been working as a music professional since leaving university eight years ago! Some overnight success!
“I also have another piece of news, which is that Elle’s video views on YouTube have topped one million!”
Conrad didn’t know much about YouTube, but he knew one million was probably excellent for a new artist. Mind you, some of those might be repeat plays, not that that was a bad thing.
“Now, in recognition of this feat, we have a little gift for Elle. Simon?”
David’s older boy, Simon, emerged from the kitchen carrying a wrapped guitar case with a giant purple bow on the head.
She tore off the paper, and Conrad could see Martin and Co. embossed on the case.
“Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hand. “This is too much!”
“Nonsense. It’s an investment in your next album,” Stacey teased her.
“So everybody, if you’d like to raise your glasses,” David said holding his up. “To Elle, the newest and brightest star in the McAdams Agency! Cheers!”
Everyone raised their glasses and toasted her. Then other people began to approach, and she accepted their well wishes.
Glancing over at David, she saw him lean down and kiss his wife’s cheek, and she wondered how she could ever have considered him a suspect. He obviously adored his family and would never risk losing them. Marcus meant well, but he was clearly barking up the wrong tree.
Conrad tensed as people surrounded Elle, offering their congratulations. The noise level rose dramatically, and he stayed at her elbow while she spoke to each of them briefly. These people were unlikely to pose a threat, here in David’s home, but he only relaxed as they began to drift away, involved in other conversations.
Then Marcus came over and Conrad tensed, expecting him to find some way to hurt Elle’s feelings.
“Well done, Ella,” Marcus said as he approached. “I’m so proud of you.”
Conrad noticed him take her outfit in and a brief expression of distaste flashed over his features, but Elle didn’t seem to notice, and he evidently decided to keep his views to himself.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Marcus.” She reached out and set her hand on his arm, smiling up at him with stars still in her eyes.
He looked as pleased as punch at her praise, and Conrad began to wonder if he’d gotten the man all wrong. Maybe he was just fighting for his place in a cutthroat business, and that made him seem like an ass sometimes.
Conrad stayed close to Elle all night, but he didn’t crowd her. Both David and Stacey took turns standing with him so he didn’t look like a bodyguard.
Conrad was almost distracted by David and Stacey’s sons, who at six and nine were adorable little tykes. He’d expected David to have an older family, but his wife looked about twenty years younger than he was. Although, considering how sun damaged David’s skin was, she probably wasn’t much more than ten years his junior.
As they spoke, Conrad became more and more impressed by Stacey, especially when he realized that she had started this agency from scratch. Its name, McAdams, was her maiden name.
“David doesn’t mind being employed by you?” he had to ask, curious to see his former commanding officer in a subordinate role. They turned to watch David laughing with another record executive.
“He doesn’t seem to.” She smiled fondly at David over her glass. “He’s good at his job, so he has a fairly free reign.”
“What does he do, exactly?”
“Oh, we all do a little of everything, but his main skills are negotiating contracts for artists and finding new talent. I have to drag him out of an open mic night at least once a month,” she joked.
The food was buffet style but tasty, and there was plenty of it.
Sammy, the younger son, had taken a shine to Elle and had offered to fetch her a plate of food, which she thanked him for. He seemed to like doing things for Elle, which Conrad heartily approved of.
The head of Sonic Music’s jazz and blues division approached Elle and offered his congratulations just as the lights went out.