Chapter 3
Ismeralda
Gabriel was surprised that he was driving, although I laid out all that information in the lengthy email I sent to Winston and him last evening. Does the man not read? He’s got the looks of a movie star, so maybe he’s used to coasting on his sexiness and not using his brain.
Peering through the glass partition between us, I admit that Mr. Martin is quite a hunk. That tight polo shirt sure highlights those broad shoulders, well-developed chest, and strong forearms. When he loaded my assortment of bags—I may have overpacked slightly—my heart rate skyrocketed. Oh my! All those muscles got a workout for sure. At least he’s easy on the eyes, because his attitude could use an adjustment. I’m going to start calling him The Grump.
We’re headed to my uncle’s bookstore in San Diego. I insisted on including our family stores on my book tour. Other than the Denver and New York megastores my agent insisted I visit, there’s no other massive chain stores on the docket this time, thank goodness. My previous tour was exhausting, with huge crowds and long lines. Considering the current threats to my life, I felt it expedient to appear at smaller, more intimate venues.
I tap on the glass partition between me and the driver, and it slides down several seconds later.
“Gabriel, the directions to our first stop are programmed into the GPS system. Do you have any questions?”
He grunts. “No, ma’am.” His eyes remain firmly fixed on the road, which is good for safety reasons, but it’s rather frustrating to speak to the back of his head.
I try another tack for the sake of instigating a conversation. I’m already bored staring at my email, plus there’s another suspicious-looking one in my inbox that I’m avoiding reading like the plague.
Plowing on, I say, “We should be there in about two hours. The book signing starts at eleven o’clock, so we’ll have plenty of time to check in to our hotel first.”
Should I mention I expect him to be properly attired in a suit for the event at the bookstore? Those details were in the email I sent, but I have a feeling he didn’t read that part either. On the other hand, Gabriel should have plenty of time to switch clothes.
Glancing down at my own outfit, I cringe. Why did I think it was wise to travel in this stuffy suit when there’s time to change? I selected this outfit this morning mostly to ensure that Mr. Martin sees me as his employer and not as a fun traveling companion. Although when was the last time anyone described me as fun?
His lack of a verbal response to my trip details—I think he did nod his head—removes my filter and words flow from my mouth like water from a burst pipe.
“The bookstore is owned by my uncle. Barnaby’s Books is part of the Harrington family of stores throughout California, Arizona, and Nevada, several of which we will be visiting on this tour. I hope you like scones! Barnaby’s is famous for its in-store coffeeshop that features those world-famous scones. There’s a variety of flavors. Blueberry... Cranberry...” My voice trails off when I see his shoulders shake. “Are you laughing?” I squeak, trying to hide my embarrassment and stem my oversharing.
A couple laughs sneak out accompanied by a snort. He wipes the corner of his eyes, all while watching the road. “Oh, Izzie,” he says as he shakes his head. “Why don’t you admit you’re bored? Come sit up front with me,” he suggests, his voice cackling with amusement.
“It’s very cozy back here,” I huff.
More howls of laughter greet my words. “Right. Then why are you rambling on about scones?”
My lips tip into a frown and I sigh. I need to come clean—he is my bodyguard after all. I take a deep breath. “I saw a suspicious email in my inbox and I’m avoiding reading it.”
Tires squeal as he abruptly pulls off the road onto the shoulder. The limo rocks back and forth as it screeches to a stop on the gravel surface. My purse slides across the seat and falls onto the floor.
“Was that necessary?” I squawk as I clutch the armrest. That vehicle maneuver seemed very unsafe, even though we’re taking backroads rather than the always-overcrowded freeway.
Opening my mouth to remind him of safety first, I cut myself off when he pivots in his seat, pins me in his gaze, and wiggles his fingers. “Hand over your laptop. Let me read that email.”
The firm command brooks no argument, so I thrust the laptop through the small opening. He flips it open, his fingers tap on the keyboard, then his eyes widen. Several beats of silence hang between us as he reads while I hold my breath.
“Izzie, this isn’t good. Your stalker knows exactly where we’re going,” he says.
His eyes bore into mine as I nibble on my lower lip.
“Who knows your itinerary?”
Squirming in my seat, I say, “My itinerary is public knowledge. It’s posted on the book tour website.”
He mutters a curse under his breath.
“What did the email say exactly?”
“This one is a very pointed threat pertaining to today’s event.” He hands the laptop back to me, swivels in his seat, pulls off the shoulder, and resumes driving at a high rate of speed. The trees whiz by, but I ignore his speeding as my eyes land on the email.
Gasp!
The email text is written in bold capital letters:
WILL SAN DIEGO BE THE FIRST STOP ON YOUR BOOK TOUR OR YOUR LAST?
I HEAR THOSE SCONES ARE TO DIE FOR.
The blood drains from my face. “What are we going to do?” I whisper.
“The best line of action is to cancel the event until I can round up more security personnel.”
“But—” I start to protest.
“I know, it’s too late to cancel. Let’s go straight to the bookstore and see what our options are. Could you pre-sign a bunch of books and have the store manager hand them out?”
I can’t help but pout. “The goal of the event is so my fans can meet me.”
He scoffs. “And my goal is to keep you alive. Those sound like opposing goals right now.”
I slump back into the luxurious leather seat, and my head sags onto the headrest. I feel a sudden migraine coming on, so I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are there any other options?”
My book launched just two weeks ago to glowing reviews and leaped to the top of the bestseller list. We’re expecting a crowd at this event.
“Well, we can have you in a separate room and no one can bring in any personal items. Only one person at a time gets in to see you. That won’t be optimum, and some people won’t be happy at how slow the line is going to move, but that should mitigate the threat.”
Tears of frustration leak from the corners of my eyes. I was looking forward to mixing with fans. Now I’m going to be scared to death to see any of them.
“Let’s see what Uncle Barnaby says,” I say in a wobbly voice. Closing my eyes, I focus on warding off the headache. I’ll let Gabriel focus on how to save my life.