I sit in the bar and nurse my drink for a full fifteen minutes before lightning finally strikes, and I get it. And, yeah, maybe I should have made sense of the whole convoluted mess faster, but my head wasn’t in the game. Instead, it was on those never-ending legs. That soft skin. Those sultry, penetrating eyes.

Not to mention a mouth that was made for both sin and sarcasm.

I’d been distracted, yes. And more than a little slow on the uptake. But I give myself credit for pulling it together at the end. And the moment I do—the moment I finally understand the complete and total clusterfuck that was our conversation—I bolt out of my chair and head for the door.

Jez, of course, is long gone.

Damn.

I head back inside and drop into the chair I’d abandoned. My watered down drink is still there, although the bus boy’s about to grab it. I practically growl at him, like an alpha lion claiming the last scrap of a downed gazelle, and he backs away, eyes wide.

I slam back the dregs of my drink, then chew on the ice as I tap my phone thoughtfully.

Now that I see the big picture, the real scenario is painfully obvious. I’d come here expecting to meet my hook-up. She’d come expecting to hire some unreliable cop-in-a-box who hadn’t showed.

Or had he?

I frown, pondering the coincidence. Had he? More specifically, had I showed?

With a groan, I lean back in my chair, and take a deep whiff. Because right now, I’m afraid I smell a rat.

I pull out my phone, dial Kerrie’s home number, and wait for her to pick up.

“Don’t I get enough of you at work?” my sister says.

“You can never get enough of me, and you know it.”

She snorts. “Seriously, what’s up? I’m running a bath, and there’s a sexy Scottish laird waiting for me to join him.”

“Anticipation,” I say. “Makes everything all the sweeter.” Our mother had a collection of Barbara Cartland novels that my little sister discovered when she was eleven and I was twenty-one. She was my parents’ surprise-it’s-not-really-menopause-yet baby, and because of that she spent more time hanging around the house as a kid than I had. My parents were older and working and less inclined to drive her all over creation, and I was in the Middle East for my first tour, and not around to play big brother.

Apparently Dame Cartland is a gateway drug, because I’m pretty sure that Kerrie has now read every romance novel ever written. All of them, that is, except for ones featuring ex-Special Forces heroes. She says she pictures me and that it’s just too weird.

“Especially since you’re hardly romance hero material,” she once quipped. And considering that a romance requires more connection that a late night hook-up, she’s probably right.

Now she sighs dramatically. “What do you need?”

“Did you schedule a meeting between me and a woman named Jezebel Stuart?”

“Wait—what?” Her voice is sharp now, interested, and I’m certain that she’s my culprit.

“Dammit, Kerrie. If you schedule an appointment, you have to push it through to the calendar. That’s about as basic as your job gets.”

“I know how to do my damn job, and I didn’t schedule an appointment with you. But—”

“With Cayden? Connor?” I rattle off my partners’ names.

“No. No appointment. Nada. Zip. Now do you want to drop the bullshit and tell me what’s going on?”

“Are you at your computer?”

“Yes, I have a computer in my bathroom.” I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “What do you need?”

“I want some background on this woman. Jezebel—”

“Stuart. Yeah, I know. You said. I don’t need a computer for that. She’s from Phoenix, but she’s lived in LA for the last ten years. She’s in Texas right now, though. Her sister’s filming a movie. And why am I telling you all this?”

“Are you already online? How do you know all that?”

“Um, maybe because I have a life and read things other than Tactical Weapons and Security Magazine.”

“And Peanuts,” I add dryly. “I never miss Snoopy in the Sunday paper.”

“Her sister’s Delilah Stuart,” she continues, ignoring me. “And Jezebel’s her manager. Is that why they’re hiring us? Because of all the harassment Delilah’s been getting since she cheated on Levyl with Garreth Todd?"

“Not exactly.” I have no idea who Levyl is, but I’m familiar with Garreth Todd. Mostly because all of my spare time isn't spent buried in my magazines, despite what my sister thinks. I also have a deep affection for any movie with a high body count and at least one kickass car chase, and Todd has starred in three of my recent favorites.

As a general rule, I’d rather shove bamboo under my fingernails than read, discuss, or think about Hollywood gossip. But now that Kerrie’s brought it up, I do remember a conversation a while back. A date of mine kept droning on about some former child actress who’d recently skyrocketed to superstardom as an adult. At first, she’d been beloved by fans. Not only because of her breakout role, but because she was dating the lead singer of a popular boy band. The kind of band whose songs send tween girls into convulsive fits and have grown women secretly buying unauthorized biographies in the grocery store checkout line.

Apparently, the actress and the singer’s romance played out in the tabloids, with the two being a sugary-sweet power couple that everyone rooted for.

But then the actress was awarded a plum part in a major movie opposite Garreth Todd. When the news broke that the actress had slept with Todd—thus breaking the singer’s heart—she immediately went from being America’s sweetheart to being a soulless harpy who shredded men’s lives. She was still making the front page of entertainment magazines, but now it was because she was reviled and hated by females the world over, all of whom were taking the singer’s broken heart way, way, way too personally.

As far as I know, there were no death threats against the actress, but considering my date’s vitriol when she relayed the whole soap opera to me, I wouldn’t be surprised.

My date had ended the story by saying the actress got what she deserved. Apparently, she’d been fired from some big franchise movie, and was pretty much a pariah as far as getting a job was concerned.

Like I said, a soap opera.

At the time, the actress’s name meant nothing to me. Now, I’m certain it was Delilah Stuart.

Before I get the chance to ask Kerrie for more details, she plows on. “This is going to be great. I bet Delilah has all sorts of security assignments coming down the pipe. And if we have her business, we can get more entertainment jobs. There’s so much film and music work in Austin, and even with all the controversy, a recommendation from Delilah would be golden. We could totally plug the hole left by Talbot, you know?”

I did know. Blackwell-Lyon is still a relatively new business, and when the guys and I broke off from our old firm we’d anticipated a steady stream of contracts with Reginald Talbot, a Silicon Valley billionaire who moved his family and his business to Austin about ten years ago. But five months after Blackwell-Lyon opened its doors, Talbot decided to retire, sold the entirety of his operation to some huge corporation, and headed to the Mediterranean with his wife.

In other words, he’s working on his tan, and my partners and I are scrambling to fill the gap in our client base.

“So what exactly happened?” Kerrie asked. “You had a meeting with her? How?”

“Irrelevant,” I say, because once Kerrie knows the real story, I’ll never hear the end of it. “Right now, I just need to find out where she’s staying.” I’m a security expert, not a PI. But over the years, I’ve cultivated some resources. “Call Gordo and tell him I have a rush job.”

“Please would be nice.”

“Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

“Kerrie.” There’s a warning in my voice.

“I’m just messing with you. I don’t need to call Gordo. Delilah’s staying at the Violet Crown. So I bet Jezebel is, too.”

“And you know this how?” I ask, already mentally calculating how long it will take to drive there. The Violet Crown is a high-end boutique hotel in central Austin. And, conveniently, just a few miles away from Thyme.

“Twitter. Someone at the hotel snapped her picture and posted it. Hashtag Delilah Stuart.”

I frown. “When was it posted? Are there others?”

She’s obviously at her computer now, because I hear her tapping keys. “Um, the post went up about fifteen minutes ago. And it’s got a couple of dozen likes.” There’s more tapping. “But I don’t see any more posts. Lots of retweets, though. Why?”

I ignore the question. “I’ll call you later.” I’ve left a fifty on the table, and I’m already on my way to the valet stand.

“Pierce,” she presses as I pass my ticket to the valet. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I hope.”

“But—”

I hang up, then drum my finger on the ledge of the valet stand. I want my car, and with every second that passes the knot in the pit of my stomach cinches just a little tighter.

I may not have the full story yet, but I know enough.

I know that Jez came to Thyme because she was looking to hire a security detail. I know she mentioned her sister in our conversation.

I know that Delilah’s still reviled by fans.

And I know that her location is now public.

Call me paranoid, but that doesn’t sit well with me.