Susan May Warren - Mission - Out Of Control

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?”