He misread her expression. “Fine. Ten grand. I’d pay that just to stare at you for an hour with my cock in your hand.” He flashed a spread of white teeth. “I’ll double it to twenty grand if you’ll do it with your shirt off.”
Nathan put his mouth next to her ear. “I don’t like this. They’re fucking media darlings.”
“Twenty grand. Shirt on. In a private, secure area. No media.”
He threw his fist up. “Done. How do I reach you?”
She waved over a hovering waitress and borrowed a pen and a napkin. “Here’s my address.” Nathan’s office address.
He stuffed it in his jean pocket and blew her a kiss as he walked backward toward the doors to the dining room.
She snapped herself out of the surrealism of meeting Laz Bromwell and realized she’d never hear from him again. He didn’t have to pay for a tattoo. He’d have busty artists lining up to do it for free. And stroke him off while they did it. “Laz?”
He put his hand on the door and raised his brows. “A parting kiss?”
Since she hadn’t been able to find on photo of Jay without his shirt, she had to ask. “What did Jay end up doing with his tattoo? The one on his back?”
A strange expression fell over his face, and he stared at her as if he were staring through her.
Nathan blew out a loud exhale. “Fuck.”
Fists banged on one of the doors behind them. A clamor of voices shouted on the other side.
Nathan jerked his head toward Laz, his face red. “Paparazzi?”
Laz lifted a shoulder. “Probably.”
Shit. If their only way out was through a barrage of snapping pictures, Roy’s facial recognition software would find her.
A kitchen rag landed on her chest, and she caught it. Nathan grabbed another one and pushed her toward the banging door. “Keep your face covered with that. Head down and away from the cameras.”
She unfolded it and draped it over her nose and mouth as they swerved around a steel counter.
“Wait.” Laz’s voice chased them. “Maylynn, is it? That’s your name?”
“Keep going.” Nathan shifted them around a tiered rack of pastries.
The back of her shirt caught and pulled taut, halting her forward motion. She looked over her shoulder, around the edge of the towel, and met Laz’s green-eyed glare.
“There’s only one person who knows about that tattoo besides Jay and myself, and her name was Charlee. Her eyes were so blue, you’d never forget them. I know this because we have three hit songs written about those damned eyes.”
Hers widened.
“So tell me, Maylynn, what the fuck is your real name?” His jaw was set, his tone more forceful than she thought him capable.
Nathan grabbed his wrist and squeezed. The fingers in her shirt flexed, released.
“His tattoo artist must have talked.” Her voice was thready, dammit.
Laz tsked. “I’m not an idiot. You disappeared three years ago. Now you’re—” He flicked a hand over her body “—undead and running from the press faster than we do.” He leaned against a shelf of can goods and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “Our limo is waiting at the side entrance. There won’t be paparazzi there.”
“Stay back, stay back.” Voices shouted in the dining room, just outside the kitchen doors.
The air in her lungs cut off. Were the fans pushing in?
“That’s our guards.” Laz grinned. “Sounds like the party wants to move to the kitchen.”
Nathan shuffled backward, taking her with him. “Get us out of here.”
“Right this way.” Laz jogged toward a pantry.
19
Charlee couldn’t tamp down her pulse as she followed Laz through the small room crowded with food supplies and into a hallway on the other side. The silent sentry at her back was in as much danger as she was if their faces were posted on the Internet. With all those camera phones, it was probably too damned late.
A sea of fear sloshed in her stomach and robbed the strength from her legs. She stumbled, caught the edge of a shelf.
Laz pushed the bar on an exterior door and stopped at the black limo waiting in a narrow alley just outside.
The cool night air stirred with the rustling of litter. Cars rumbled somewhere around the corner, and there was not one flashbulb in sight. She strained her neck left to right and discovered why.
Tall privacy gates blocked both ends of the alley, each guarded by a man in head-to-toe black. She released her breath in a puff of steam. How many bodyguards did they have?
A woman with a stiff posture and hair combed into a severe bun opened the passenger door for them. “Good evening, Mr. Bromwell.”
“We’re in a hurry, Tony. To the hotel, please. You’ll have to come back for the guys and the rest of the security team.”
“Yes, sir.”