8. Cole

8

COLE

T his whole case has me twisted up inside. But not nearly as much as Emory's mere presence.

Sure, she's beautiful, but LA is full of beautiful women. Emory is special. I can't put my finger on it, but she's got the secret sauce. I'm comfortable talking to her, which is saying a lot.

Probably too comfortable. I try to push business back into my mind, and the conversation.

"Hey, listen," I say.

She glances over at me. Emory had been staring at the window, watching the lights of the city go by. Ever since dinner she's been quiet.

"What's up?" she asks in the voice of someone whose mind has been far, far away.

"I need to talk to a contact of mine about a possible lead on Lovejoy and his crew, maybe even a way to find their hideout. I'll get one of the boys from Platinum Security to babysit you while I'm gone."

The temperature in my truck drops about thirty degrees. The look she gives me is enough to kill all on its own.

"Babysit?"

I grit my teeth.

"Poor choice of words. I should have said protect. I'll get someone from the office to protect you while I'm gone."

Her lips twist into a sour frown.

"I'm not sure I like the idea of you just dumping me off with someone. Besides, whoever your contact is, I doubt Julian would expect me to be there."

I mull it over. She has a point. It would probably be safer to bring her with me. But what if I'm wrong? I was wrong in the Red Sea, and it cost me my best friend.

Then I realize, the point is moot. Emory is the customer, and the customer is King. Or queen, in this case. Besides, I know better than to try and talk her out of this. There's iron behind those blue eyes.

"All right," I say at last. "But you're going to need a fancy dress."

She gives me a look. "Just who is your contact?"

"Diego Lopez."

Emory blinks for a few seconds, and then she snickers.

"Oh, shut up, who is he really?"

"Diego Lopez," I say again. "Of course, he used to be called Diego Sanchez back in the day."

Emory shakes her head.

"How do you know one of the biggest film producers in Hollywood? Don't tell me he was in the SEALs with you."

"Hell no. Diego was a drug dealer."

She does a double take. "Say what?"

"Not the grungy street dealer type. Diego was high class. His clientele was among the elite in Hollywood. He got busted once or twice but never gave up his client list. That decision really paid off."

"No kidding."

"I'll say. All right, I'm sure I have something in my closet that will work. What kind of event is it?"

"A film premiere. Ghostchasers 9, Breaking New Ground."

That isn't the official title, but it gets the desired effect. She starts laughing. Maybe it didn't banish all of the darkness out of her sky blue eyes. Not quite. But it certainly helps.

When we get back to her place, I do my circle the block thing. Emory peers just as intently out the window as I do.

"At least you live in a well lit neighborhood. Still too many places to hide for my taste."

"I don't think they're here."

I don't either. But I won't let her go in, or even get out of the truck, until I log into her security system and check the footage personally. Nothing, and no breaks in coverage.

"All right, we're good. Keep close to me and walk quickly. Don't stop until we're inside the house."

"Yes Sir," she says, snapping off a salute. "I'm starting to feel like the president."

I snicker, but I'm too focused to really find anything funny. I keep my eyes peeled the whole way inside, and even when the door shuts behind us I don't relax. I check out the windows for good measure before locking up.

"So, how come Diego is on your friends list? Don't tell me you used to get nose candy off of him."

"No, I wasn't a client. I saved his life once. Kind of an accident, but now Diego treats me like his knight in shining armor. Have you ever met him?"

"No, not personally."

"We first met at a one-percenter biker bar in Fresno. He's…high energy."

She nods, and gestures toward the steps.

"I'm going to get ready. Help yourself to anything in the fridge."

"Thanks."

I watch her go up the steps. My gaze drops to her perfect bottom. Something stirs inside of me. Emory checks all the boxes. And then some. But I'm just the bodyguard.

I go to her fridge and get one of those fancy magnetized waters. It doesn't taste different, but it kind of hits my stomach differently. Maybe I should start buying it myself.

I walk past her bedroom on my way upstairs. I resist the urge to peer in the door, even though it's open. When I get to Emory's bedroom, I go through my clothes and find something presentable, an ash gray blazer I pair with a pressed white shirt and charcoal trousers.

"At least it's not burgundy," I mutter to myself.

I head back downstairs and wait. And wait. And wait. I check the time and find that we'll need to leave soon even if we want to be fashionably late.

Then I hear her coming down the steps. I look up at the sound of her heels and my jaw drops open. Emory fills out her little black dress perfectly. The mesh sleeves go up past her shoulders and form a choker of sorts, but there's still a plunging neckline to show off her assets. I tell myself not to stare at her chest. But I know she catches my eyes drifting down there.

"Do I look alright?" she asks, playing with her hair. She's got it in an up-do, held in place with a black lacquered comb.

"You look perfect."

It just came out of my mouth. I wasn't trying to fawn over her. Emory blushes, and her gaze drops, showing me the smoky eyeshadow on her lids.

"Thanks. You look pretty amazing yourself."

I check and double check the perimeter before I let her leave the house. Until we make it out of her neighborhood, I don't relax. Only when I'm positive that we aren't being followed do I actually breathe a sigh of relief and start for the premiere.

The premiere isn't where the action is at, though. It's the premiere party where we would find Diego. The pimple-faced valet takes my keys as we park in front of the skyscraper hosting the event.

Paparazzi, news crews, and tons of onlookers cluster around the entrance. A bunch of people pop flashes off at us, even though we are hardly celebrities. I worry about losing Emory in the chaos, so I take her hand.

Emory glances sharply at me when I do so, but she squeezes my hand warmly. It feels good. Right, somehow, that I am holding her hand.

We make it inside the party, and leave most of the cameras behind. A marble floor polished to a mirror-like shine reflects an enormous glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Rows of catering tables, literal rows of them, take up the west side of the gala.

Lots of well-dressed, well-heeled people mill about while a ten-piece orchestra plays medleys of popular hits. Some people sway on the dance floor, but most people are here to schmooze and press the flesh. Emory's azure eyes stare at the swirling bodies on the dance floor. I detect the tinge of longing in her gaze.

"Is this your first big Hollywood party?" Emory asks.

"Not really. I think Easton took the whole Platinum crew to a premiere a while back, but I was pretty wasted."

She chuckles, but I don't tell her the dark reason I was so wasted. Easton's premiere had coincided with the anniversary of Jake's death.

No need to bring her down with my drama.

"I think I need a drink," she says.

Emory's lovely features are marred by a hint of anxiety. I think I know why.

"This place has more security than Fort Knox. Even if Lovejoy knows you're here, which is highly unlikely, he wouldn't take the risk. Way too many cameras."

Emory's shoulders relax a little. "Ok. But it's still a party, right?"

She tugs me toward the bar. I check and double check for both Diego and Lovejoy or his men. No sign of any of them. Yet. Diego, at least, will show himself sooner or later.

We belly up to the bar and she orders a glass of champagne. I wave off the bartender.

"I'm good, thanks."

Emory gives me a look.

"What, don't tell me you don't drink."

"I drink. Just not on the job."

"No one's asking you to get shit-faced or plastered," Emory says, rolling her eyes. "Just have one glass of champagne with me, please. Otherwise, I'm going to feel like such a lush."

God damn it, I don't think I can say no. I don't want to say no to anything Emory suggests. She's really gotten under my skin.

"All right. Just one glass, though."

She gleefully calls for a second glass. Emory arches her brows before we touch glasses together.

"What should we toast to?"

"How about keeping you safe?"

She rolls her eyes, but obligingly does the toast.

"Fine. To keeping me safe. Anyone ever tell you that you need to lighten up, Mr. Cole Drake?"

"All the time."

She laughs, and we sip the champagne. Her eyes glow like the morning sky as our gazes meet. I should be looking for Diego. But I can't help being captivated by Emory.

"Dance with me?" she says, her voice lilting at the end with hope and eagerness.

"We're here for Diego." Even as my lips form the words I know I've already lost this argument.

"Just one dance, come on. Don't we need to blend in a little?"

She takes my hand and I don't resist as she leads me onto the floor. The orchestra starts up a new number and she scowls.

"Oh, Cole, let's wait for a slower song," she says, her brow furrowed. "This is a tango."

"So it is."

She yelps a little as I grab her body and hug it to my own. Our hearts beat mere inches from each other. I run my hand down her face and she dips her head back in perfect time to the music.

We trot across the floor with the beat. I drop her into a dip and she follows my lead with perfect grace. It's like we were born to dance together. I pull her back up and our eyes meet, lips mere inches away. I long to kiss her, but the beat is the master. I send her out for a spin. Her skirt flies up, showing an expanse of shapely legs.

I wind her back in and hold Emory against my chest. Emory gasps, and lifts her gaze to me before the music sends us across the floor again.

When the song ends, a lot of people applaud us. That makes me uncomfortable. When I'd been on the dance floor with Emory, I only thought about the two of us. Just me, Emory, and the music.

"Oh my God!"

Emory's eyes are wide and filled with energy. The light sheen of sweat highlights her lovely skin. Her chest heaves with every breath.

"Where did you learn to dance? You're so good! I've never had such a perfect partner."

"Ballroom dancing is one of the first things they teach you in the SEALs."

Emory sputters with laughter.

"Shut up, it is so not like that!"

The band plays a slower, more intimate number. Something by Sinatra but I can't name the tune. I bring her in close until our bodies touch.

"Tell me, please," Emory says as we sway to the downbeat tempo.

"All right. My Dad was an enlisted man, too, and of course I worshiped the ground he walked on. But my Mom, she thought that I could be more…how did she put it?...oh yeah. She wanted me to be more well-rounded. So she signed me up for dance lessons."

"Wow! The dancing SEAL."

I let out a frustrated chuckle as I send out to the end of our outstretched limbs. Slowly, I wind her back into my embrace. My body missed her in that brief parting.

"Oh hell, don't start in on that. I got enough of that in the Navy. You know, I made it all the way through basic training without anyone learning my secret."

"Then how did it come out? Did you suddenly bust a jig on the deck of a ship?"

I normally don't talk this much. Especially not to women. But here on the dance floor, it almost seems like we have our own little world to ourselves. I find I want to tell Emory what's in my head.

"No, not exactly. My friend Jake, he thought it would be funny to be Facebook friends with my Grandma. She spilled the beans and then he put up a picture in the barracks from when I was 12, in my full glittery pants and shirt."

Emory laughs, and it proves infectious. It suddenly occurs to me that I've just shared a positive memory of Jake without feeling the usual wave of depression. Weird, but that makes me feel guilty for some reason. Like I'm dishonoring his memory.

"Uh oh," Emory says, her lips pursing in worry. "That was a sad look that just came over your face. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything's great. When did you decide that dancing was your thing?"

"Decide?" She laughs softly. "Oh, my parents signed me up for lessons as a kind of compulsory thing. I did it because I had to. Ballet. I hated every moment of it."

"If you hated it, why did you make it your career?"

"You didn't let me finish the story. One day, as a reward for our hard work, the instructor played some pop music and we did a ‘fun' dance. That's the first time I enjoyed myself at dance lessons."

She shrugs and lets out a little sigh.

"My Dad was super disappointed, but my parents agreed to let me switch to more contemporary dance lessons. Along the way, I figured out I had a talent for choreography. It lets me feel both creative and in control, I guess."

I tilt my head to the side.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act like you feel guilty about liking what you do."

Emory frowns. "Don't you think it's kind of frivolous? I mean, what you did, serving our country, isn't that so much more important?"

I give a shrug. "I don't know. I think there's a school of thought that says the whole reason I served my country was so that people can live their lives and be happy. Besides, art makes the world a little bit less painful."

Emory smiles. "I like the way you put things."

I stare into her sky blue eyes and find myself lost in them. Her lips are slightly parted, plump, inviting…

Without thinking, I lean in and press my lips against her own. She stiffens up for a moment, then melts into my arms.