Susan May Warren - Mission - Out Of Control

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.