Susan May Warren - Mission - Out Of Control

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.

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.