Chapter Two Sienna
I pull Darcy into a full-body hug. I know I’m taking advantage. She doesn’t do big hugs. Back in high school, she was never one for the boob-squishing embraces I loved. Hell, I still love. For Darcy, there was a "good to see ya" hug and a "see ya later" hug.
Our future career paths could’ve been predicted by those hugs.
She pats my back and eases away. “You’re safe. We’re here. How are you holding up?”
I let out a long, relieved exhale. “Okay, I guess. I came back from my morning run, went into the kitchen, and there was my coffee on the counter. I swear I didn’t pour a cup before the run.
I set it to brew and left. Blake put the coffee in my angel mug, which is the only mug I brought with me.
And he put in the exact amount of half-and-half.
The color is perfect. How does he know how I like it? ” Tears prick the backs of my eyes.
“He probably watched you prepare your coffee at a coffee shop.” Darcy glances around the foyer. “How did he bypass your alarm system?”
“I forgot to turn it on. I was juggling my headphones and finding my shoes. But I won't make that mistake again.”
Darcy turns to the man beside her. I barely registered him when they came to the door. He’s eerily still and almost blends into the background. “This is Oliver Campbell. He’s the bodyguard I was telling you about.”
He’s about a foot taller than me, probably close to six-five. His hair is dark and thick, and not too short. A navy T-shirt gives the impression of a solid physique. In dark gray joggers and running shoes, he looks like he, too, just went for a morning run.
I hold out my hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m Sienna Hopkins.”
We shake hands. He’s got light hazel eyes, almost green, and they give nothing away. In all my years of working with clients, I’ve never met anyone this impassive. I’ve also never met a man described as being “born for protection." I pictured a human condom when Darcy called him that.
He lets go of my hand after the mandatory three seconds. “I’m sorry about situation you’re facing.” The remark is compulsory and plain but delivered in a deep baritone that's innately reassuring.
“I didn't touch anything in the kitchen. It's exactly the way I found it,” I say, leading them across the parquet-floored foyer to the bright white marble and stainless-steel kitchen. It’s so unlike my kitchen in Houston with its sage cabinets and cream countertops. The best thing I can say about this kitchen is that it’s easy to clean.
And hopefully good for picking up fingerprints. So far, we haven't gotten any prints to connect Blake to the stalking incidents.
I show them over to the counter and press my fingers against the side of the mug. It’s still warm. I back off the ceramic surface like it was hot enough to burn me.
Fear claws its way up my throat. “I'm never going to feel safe here, am I? He's gotten inside. This is it. I have to find another place to start over.”
Darcy snaps on a pair of latex gloves. “Your next move is to return safely to Houston. We’re going to do the police’s work and get the evidence you need to get him off your back.”
She crouches down and looks at the mug eye-level. “I’m going to take some pictures. We’ll have to get the coffee tested to see if there’s anything in there besides coffee and half-and-half. That and a set of Blake’s prints will go a long way to getting you back to Houston.”
“You want me to tap in?” Oliver asks Darcy like he means to help her with the coffee mug evidence.
Darcy shakes her head, not raising her eyes from the mug and the countertop, like she’s appraising a rare antique.
“Why don't you take a look around? Get a look at the yard and the neighbors’ yards. I wonder where Blake’s hiding that he can see her coming and going.
” She looks at me. “Can you show Oliver outside?”
“Of course.” I love seeing Darcy flexing her authority and ordering this big stoic bodyguard around.
I lead Oliver out the back door. The sea breeze is infused with the jasmine and plumeria planted around the course. Golf carts and landscaping equipment buzz along with the hum of light conversation from the morning golfers.
Oliver inspects the back deck and descends the stairs to the lawn. He looks at the underside of the deck and surveys the bushes around the house. We walk past the firepit patio with the super comfy loungers to the swathe of palm trees between the yard and the eighth hole.
“The trees are supposed to keep the golf balls out, but I find them everywhere,” I say, breaking the silence.
He crosses his arms, his gaze on the fairway.
How do his partners handle the stoicism?
I glance down at his left hand. No ring.
I can’t hazard a guess whether he’s getting laid, which is rare for me.
Usually, I can tell exactly how much sex people are having and their favorite sex acts within minutes of meeting.
Oliver has stored all that information behind an impenetrable wall of blankness.
“It’s incredible how many places Blake could’ve hidden back here. You should move.” His voice is calm and controlled, barely a hint of intonation.
“I just got here. I can’t keep moving to avoid him. Besides, I need a place with the kind of security and privacy this place offers.”
“Darcy says you’re a wellness instructor?” Oliver narrows his gaze.
“Certified family therapist specializing in sexual wellness.” I articulate each word out of a maddening desire to get any kind of emotional response from Oliver.
“I have millions of social media followers. I make videos about topics related to sexual health. I also work with people who need help with their sex lives. Most of my clients are married couples who are in a rut. I show them techniques they can use to connect more intimately. Some of that work is online and some of them come to me.”
Is he taking this in? Will he ask the follow-up questions everyone asks like “what kind of techniques?” and “do you sleep with your clients?”
He turns away. “I want to get a look at the front of the house.”
Nope. No questions from the bodyguard. He’s acting like he didn’t hear a word I said. But he absolutely heard me, and no one who hears about my profession walks away. It’s almost amusing.
He walks around the front of the house and out the driveway past Darcy’s shiny dark Kia and his shiny dark Kia.
“Do you want a tour of the neighborhood?”
“Will you show me how you get to the clubhouse? Whichever route you usually take.”
I lead us down the road toward the clubhouse. “Sure. I go this way every morning on my runs.”
“I suspected as much.”
As he says the words, it clocks. By using the same route every day, I’m giving Blake an easy way to track my movements. “Do you think Blake is watching me from the clubhouse?”
Oliver looks over at the sprawling Mediterranean-style clubhouse around the bend. “That’d be my bet. He figured out when you leave for your morning runs and took advantage of it this morning. Does he golf?”
“He might. I don’t think he works. He's got family money. He used to do offshore racing. You know, the speedboat racing everyone bets on.”
The sound of our footsteps scraping the road falls into a predictable rhythm. “I'm not sure I'll take this job, so you don't have to answer. But I was wondering how Blake came to stalk you.”
“I can tell you. But, there's something you should know first. After college, I ended up doing escorting work for a few years. I made good money and decided to enroll in grad school, which marked the end of my escorting career."
Oliver's expression doesn’t change from that steady wall of blankness. Not once did he look at me, either, while I was directing every word to him. Incredible.
“Earlier this year, Blake got in touch through my social media profile.
He's the older brother of an old friend, so it didn't feel weird. At first, we chatted about things in general, catching up on what our families and mutual friends were up to, his work and my work. Nothing special, although looking back on it, he was a demanding communicator. He asked lots of questions he wanted answers for in a relatively short period of time.”
The road forks with one road going toward the clubhouse and the other continuing around the neighborhood. “Do you want to visit the clubhouse?”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
We move to the gravel walking path beside the clubhouse road right as the roar of an approaching car comes out of nowhere. A white BMW tears down the road toward us.
Oliver has his hands on my shoulders before I realize what’s happening and pulls me off the side of the road.
“That driver.” I glare at the back of the BMW barreling toward the clubhouse.
Oliver removes his hands from my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What could possibly have been his rush this morning? Someone can’t afford the fifty-dollar penalty for missing tee time?”
Light amusement flashes across Oliver’s face.
Did I almost make him smile? Wouldn’t that be something?
He resumes our walk with his large body between me and the road. “You were talking about how you and Blake were chatting online?”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t mind chatting with Blake. I thought he must be lonely, and he was my childhood friend's supercool older brother. She always hated him, but I could never see why. When I told her what was going on, she was pretty surprised.
“Then in April, I had a work conference in Normandy, in the north of France, and I told Blake, like I told everyone, that I’d be out of communication for a few weeks. I was planning to travel by myself after the conference. It was the first vacation I'd taken since starting my practice.”
I look over at Oliver. He’s got his eyes on the clubhouse.
So, this is what it’s like to have a bodyguard?
He’s paying attention to a thousand things at once, while I chat away?
But he's listening, right? “When I got back from France, my place was trashed. Someone had broken in. At first, I thought nothing had been stolen, but I still haven’t found several articles of clothing and a pair of pajamas.”
“Did you go to the police?”
I nod. “A friend went with me to the police. I filed a report. Nothing ever came of it. I never suspected Blake at the time.”
“Does he live in Houston?”
I shake my head. “We’re all from Florida. Blake lives in Ponte Vedra now, or at least he did until he moved to Sunbreak Harbor. I went to college in Houston and stayed there.
"Anyway, after I got back from France, Blake and I resumed talking.
Shortly after, he asked if he could hire me as an escort.
He said he found out what I used to do from online searching.
That's preposterous. I've covered my tracks.
I presume he found out from breaking into my home.
I've never told anyone outside the escorting world about those years escorting, except for Darcy. And I only told her recently.
“Naturally, I refused to take him as a client. I stopped escorting, and I’ll never go back to it.
Besides, I never would’ve taken a client among someone I know.
Then Blake asked if he could hire me as therapist. I refused that, too.
At that point, I was uncomfortable with how insistent he'd become. Then, he showed up at my house and tried to get me to let him in. I refused. After that, he lost it.”
We stop at the top of the clubhouse driveway, a few steps from the front stairs.
“I'm pretty sure he went through my trash several times, and I assume he was the one who slashed my tires. He also sent me flowers and meals and clothes and a Chanel handbag. He took credit for the good stuff. But I gave all of that away. It felt icky having those things anywhere near me.”
His gaze shifts sharply and his impassive face tenses like a missile is about to fall from the sky. Only the missile is behind us. I turn to look as he grabs me by the arms and yanks me to the side.
The white BMW speeds toward us on a driveway that’s not made for speed.
Oliver lifts me over the shrubbery. We teeter. The BMW barrels towards us. Putting his body between the car and I, Oliver twists me to the side.
The BMW misses us by inches and takes out a chunk of the bushes.
Through the gap between Oliver’s elbow and side, I watch the car veer back onto the clubhouse driveway and speed away. “What…?” I’m short of breath and shaking uncontrollably. “What just happened?”
Oliver holds me by the upper arms and surveys me top to bottom.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
If he wasn’t holding me, I’d have already fallen over. Shaking, I take quick breaths. “No…. I mean yes. I mean, I’m okay I guess.” Intensity, likely fueled by adrenaline, lights up his hazel gaze. “How about you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He glances toward the clubhouse. “We need to get you inside.” Gently, he lets go of my arms and pulls me to his side in a half-hug. His body is hard with muscle. I never want to leave it.
He brings me up the stairs to the inside of the clubhouse. Staff members come by to ask how we are and give us bottles of water. Several of them go outside to check on the damage done to the bushes. We sit on a bench in the foyer and Oliver calls Darcy to come get us.
“What kind of car does Blake drive?” Oliver asks once his finished with the call.
I shrug. “A white BMW?”
“That’d be my guess.”
He asks a staff member in the lobby if she knows anyone at the club with a white BMW four-door sedan. She mentions several names. None of them Blake’s.
Through the front windows, I watch Darcy’s shiny dark Kia come down the clubhouse road. I turn to Oliver. “Please, take the bodyguard job. I need your protection.”