Chapter 3

Chapter Three

LILY

‘W inston Radstock the Third?’ I ask, approaching the bar. It feels daft saying ‘the Third’ out loud, it’s not like I knew One and Two. I smile politely at him, and I’m the epitome of smooth professional once more. Inside it’s a very different story. My insides feel as if they’ve been rattled about, rearranged and abandoned in the wrong places after my encounter with Tate bloody Donaghue. Discombobulated doesn’t begin to describe it.

Whisky glass in hand, Winston swings round from the bar to face me. More handsome than his pictures suggested, he’s a tanned, fit sixty-something, with a wide smile and very white teeth.

‘You must be Lily.’ He sizes me up with the shrewd assessment of a corporate shark, despite which there’s a likeability about him. ‘Do I shake your hand?’ His mouth curves very slightly into a smile. ‘Or will you toss me over your shoulder like some super ninja?’

I like him straight away. I extend a hand and say with a polite smile, ‘I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.’

‘Phew.’ He leans in and says in a loud indiscreet whisper, ‘I mean, you don’t look like your typical close-protection officer, but Pennington tells me you’re the best.’

I want to say Pennington, my boss, exaggerates. But, one, he doesn’t, and two, this guy is paying a lot for my services. I simply nod.

I’m horribly aware that all eyes are on me, which is really not how I would have orchestrated things but Winston Radstock III is the client and this is how he wants to play it.

‘Can I get you a drink, Miss Heath?’ asks a short man on the other side of Winston, who is dressed in an extremely sharp suit and bears a passing resemblance to a slightly less rumpled Ed Sheeran. ‘I’m Shane Dooley, General Manager of the Austin Armadillos.’

‘Nice to meet you. And, please, call me Lily. Soda water, thank you.’

‘Excuse my manners,’ says Winston, gesturing at a man who’s been scowling at me with undisguised scepticism. ‘This is John Tierney, Head of Security.’

I’m unfazed. I’ve met attitudes like Tierney’s a dozen times over, but as I turn to greet him, I spot Tate, and my heart does that stupid miss-a-beat thing– just like the very first time he spoke to me back in college. He’s among a group of what have to be ball players, they’re all huge. Their stares are by turn: admiring, the tall, lanky guy; suspicious, a handsome guy to Tate’s right; and downright hostile Tate, of course. As if I’ve wronged him. I give him a cool stare and turn away. Fuck my traitorous heart. I’m cool, professional and totally in control. That heartsick, lost girl is long behind me.

‘Nice to meet you, gentlemen,’ I say. ‘Shall we find a place to talk? Pennington said you’d fill me in some more once I arrived.’ I gesture to one of the empty booths on the other side of the bar area. Winston smirks as he catches Tierney tightening his jaw. Mr Head of Security is clearly one of those men who underestimates women and is allergic to them taking charge.

We sit, and the three men fidget with their drinks, all of them have small tumblers of what I’m guessing is whisky.

‘So, Mr Radstock,’ I prompt, as no one else seems to want to get to the point.

‘Call me Winnie, everyone does.’ There’s a blank look around the table. ‘Almost everyone.’ No one interrupts. ‘Okay, no one does. I’m Winston. I was gonna try Winnie out for size. I feel like I need to change things up a bit since you know…’ Around the table the others give sympathetic smiles. I nod along.

‘I understand that one of your players, Don, has been receiving threatening letters,’ I say. I’ve seen them. They’re creepy and insistent. Proper old-school cut-out letters stuck on paper type-thing.

‘At first I thought they were a joke, but your boss didn’t agree.’

‘No. We’ve looked at them. And had one of our profilers study them, too. It’s easy for a troll on social media to dish out threats but these… well, someone is going to some trouble to make their point, not once but over and over. They’re quite fanatical,’ I add, remembering the profiler report. ‘They’ve fixated on this particular player, for some reason, but it seems as much because he’s an intrinsic part of the team. Why don’t they want him to play?’

‘Because,’ explains Shane, the manager, ‘Don is pivotal to our success. His talent and work ethic are the glue that holds the team together. None of them ever want to let him down.’

I nod, maybe I should have done a bit more homework, but I couldn’t bring myself to open Pandora’s Box. It’s a point of principle. I avoid anything to do with American football, I have no idea who the stars are. Okay, Tate was first pick for the Patriots in his first season, but I never checked again after that. It was bittersweet knowing that he’d achieved his dream of playing pro-football.

I fold my arms, as much to keep the memories at bay as to maintain my professional image.

‘Whoever’s sending these letters seems to know the movements of the team between now and the Superbowl. Which events they’re attending, when they’re flying into New Orleans, where they’re staying, which I understand is confidential. Is there any chance of a leak within the organisation?’

Tierney’s look of disgust says it all. I hold up my hands. ‘I have to ask.’

‘There are no leaks. Everyone with access to that level of information has been on the team for years. We’re family.’

Winston nods vehemently. ‘Family.’

‘Can you think of someone who has a grudge against Don?’ I ask.

The men exchange glances. ‘No one,’ says Tierney. ‘I mean, he occasionally plays the field. Has a bit of a rep. But I think this is more than a disgruntled bunny boiler. Why insist he’s axed from the team?’

‘Bunny boiler?’ I give him a deadly stare. ‘Because women have no right to call men out on bad behaviour.’

He shrugs but goes a little pink. ‘He doesn’t have time for relationship commitments. Always training. His absolute priority is the team. No one thinks otherwise. I don’t think that the threats are coming from that quarter. Plus, why are they coming to Winston?’

That was a good point.

‘We don’t want news of this getting out,’ says Shane, exchanging a nod with Winston. ‘We need to focus on the football. And if this got into the media– the hysteria would be even more crazy than it already is.’

From my time in college, I know football dominates the tabloids and social media over the few weeks leading up to the finals.

‘Okay. So, when do I meet Don?’

The men look at each other, like a bunch of boy scouts hiding a confiscated magazine. I sense there’s something they’re not telling me.

‘Tonight,’ says Tierney, as if he drew the short straw. ‘He’s here at the dinner. You’re sitting next to him.’

‘Great. And I assume he knows about our cover story… as to why I’m around.’

There’s that covert glance among them again.

Winston looks at Shane as if he might rescue him, but Shane just nods encouragingly.

‘The thing is… well…’ Again, Winston looks at Shane, who looks at Tierney.

I take pity on Winston. His uber-cool corporate-shark persona seems to have taken an early holiday.

‘He’s a bit resistant to having a new girlfriend thrust upon him?’ I supply for them. ‘Especially one who is actually his undercover bodyguard. Thinks it might cramp his style?’ I give them a warm reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done this a few times before. I’m very good at keeping it professional. It’s all part of the job. After a day or two, he’ll be used to me.’

‘Of course. You’re a professional.’ Winston’s gratitude is palpable.

I nod. It’s true. This isn’t new territory. I’ve done plenty of protection work, looking after people in the public eye. Posing as the party girl in plain sight.

There’s a lull in conversation around the room and then the tapping of a spoon on glass. We’re being invited through to dinner.

‘Why don’t you introduce me and then we can go from there?’ I suggest.

All three men look down at their drinks.

Interesting. Why so skittish? ‘Is there a problem?’

This time they shuffle in their seats. It’s Shane who caves first.

‘Thing is, Miss Heath.’

‘Please call me Lily,’ I say.

‘Thing is, Lily.’ He glances at Winston. This time his wince is more pronounced. ‘He’s refusing.’

‘Refusing?’ For some reason I think of a horse baulking at a fence and I’m confused.

‘Oh, you mean he’s reluctant to have protection?’ I ask. Now this is a new one. Most ‘details’, as they’re known in the business, are happy to have the reassurance of someone looking out for them.

‘Not so much reluctant,’ says Tierney, with a very faint hint of triumph. ‘Adamant.’

‘But,’ says Winston, in that trying terribly hard to be positive way, ‘I do have the final say. I hold the winning card. I own the team. He has no choice if he wants to play.’

I frown at that. ‘Kind of counter-productive because that’s what the person who’s threatening wants.’

He nods and sighs. ‘Which is exactly what Don says. He’s playing hard-ass.’

‘He is a hard-ass,’ interjects Tierney. ‘And hard-headed. The guy’s not taking the threats seriously.’

‘Thing is, when we told Don we had arranged protection, he was furious. Hung up on me. He’s not happy at all.’

‘Understatement of the century,’ mutters John.

‘But he has to have protection,’ sighs Winston. ‘I’m not dicking around. The boy is like family. If anything happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.’

‘Have you tried that line on him?’ I ask. Emotional blackmail is one hell of a tool.

There are blank looks all around the table. Men.

‘Have you sat down and discussed it with him? I take it this was a phone conversation.’

Again, doubtful looks.

‘Does he know you’ve already hired someone?’ I ask.

‘Not yet,’ says Winston.

‘When are you proposing to introduce us?’

‘In about five minutes?’ says Shane diffidently.

I smile brightly. It’s a job. I’m a professional. Just another day at the office.

‘Come on, then, let’s get on with it.’ With my British accent I probably sound just like Mary Poppins.

Here we go.