that’s too much to ask.”
In the stillness, it seemed he could hear the thrum of his own pulse. “You just want to be one of the guys?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Her tone was stem, her small face somber. “Just one of the guys.”
“You don’t have the balls for it.”
“Try me,” she said, and turning, left the room.
O N F RIDAY , B RENNA WATCHED the road crew set up the stage, oversaw Nathan’s interview, took notes on a thousand minute details, and finally saw The Fox safely to his hotel room.
That night, dressed in panties and an oversized T-shirt she’d inherited from a brother, she sat cross-legged on her bed and went through more mail. There were hundreds of letters from all over the world. The majority of them were from women—a lot of gushers, a few marriage proposals, and a couple of really pathetic cases offering to bear his child.
It was long past midnight when she came across a letter that struck a familiar and disconcerting note in her sleep-fogged brain. Brenna shoved her gold-rimmed glasses farther up her nose and read it again. It was handwritten on pink stationery with a kitten at the top. The beginning read like most of the others, praising Nate’s musical talents and sexy good looks. It was just a couple of lines near the close that seemed out of place. Just a couple of lines, but it was enough.
“Take care of yourself, Nathan. Make sure you eat right A heart attack can be just as fatal as a bullet.”
What kind of woman would say that in a fan letter? Andwhy? Did she know about Nathan’s eating habits? And if so, how? In all the articles Brenna had read, she’d never heard any mention of his love of food—everything else, but not that.
Brenna read the letter again, then again. It was signed Angela and postmarked Eureka, Nevada, but there was no return address. That, too, was strange. Surely a fan wouldn’t discourage any kind of return mail from her hero.
Tossing the letter aside, Brenna rose and stretched, her body tense and her mind buzzing. She needed to take better care of herself, but how could she do that when she spent the whole day dogging an overcharged superstar who exuded sex appeal and raw humor with mind-numbing regularity? Her first day of following him around had explained his lack of fat.
Circling her small sitting area, Brenna rolled her shoulders and tried not to think of how he had looked while talking to the latest batch of reporters. He’d dressed in nothing more shocking than a pair of black jeans, a chamois-colored corduroy shirt, and his huge, signature belt buckle. He’d left his hat behind and his eyes had sparkled with that deadly kind of mischief that would inspire the reporters to compare his eyes to something ridiculous, like maple syrup.
But they had not looked syrupy when they turned on her. No. For her, they registered flat rejection, as if she weren’t even there, even though she’d never been more than three steps behind him all day.
There was no more of that teasing innuendo, that nervetingling closeness. Just one of the guys, he’d said, but it was obvious she was less than that And it was a good thing too, Brenna reminded herself quickly.
He was her boss. And not only that, he was a chauvinistic boss with no more faith in her abilities than her own family had. She was here to prove him wrong, to prove them all wrong. To find out who was sending the letters, to stop the threats, to solve the mystery. And the key lay in the letters.
Turning wearily, Brenna retrieved another bag of mail and hauled it onto her bed.
“H EY , O’S HAY . Y OU AWAKE ?”
Brenna opened her eyes. Blank white made up her first view of the morning.
“Hey. Wake up.”
A minute ago the voice had come from the hall. But now it sounded from beside her bed. Brenna sat up with a start, a letter stuck to her cheek as she scrambled for a blanket. But she’d never burrowed under the covers. The paper that had been stuck to her cheek, fell
In the stillness, it seemed he could hear the thrum of his own pulse. “You just want to be one of the guys?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Her tone was stem, her small face somber. “Just one of the guys.”
“You don’t have the balls for it.”
“Try me,” she said, and turning, left the room.
O N F RIDAY , B RENNA WATCHED the road crew set up the stage, oversaw Nathan’s interview, took notes on a thousand minute details, and finally saw The Fox safely to his hotel room.
That night, dressed in panties and an oversized T-shirt she’d inherited from a brother, she sat cross-legged on her bed and went through more mail. There were hundreds of letters from all over the world. The majority of them were from women—a lot of gushers, a few marriage proposals, and a couple of really pathetic cases offering to bear his child.
It was long past midnight when she came across a letter that struck a familiar and disconcerting note in her sleep-fogged brain. Brenna shoved her gold-rimmed glasses farther up her nose and read it again. It was handwritten on pink stationery with a kitten at the top. The beginning read like most of the others, praising Nate’s musical talents and sexy good looks. It was just a couple of lines near the close that seemed out of place. Just a couple of lines, but it was enough.
“Take care of yourself, Nathan. Make sure you eat right A heart attack can be just as fatal as a bullet.”
What kind of woman would say that in a fan letter? Andwhy? Did she know about Nathan’s eating habits? And if so, how? In all the articles Brenna had read, she’d never heard any mention of his love of food—everything else, but not that.
Brenna read the letter again, then again. It was signed Angela and postmarked Eureka, Nevada, but there was no return address. That, too, was strange. Surely a fan wouldn’t discourage any kind of return mail from her hero.
Tossing the letter aside, Brenna rose and stretched, her body tense and her mind buzzing. She needed to take better care of herself, but how could she do that when she spent the whole day dogging an overcharged superstar who exuded sex appeal and raw humor with mind-numbing regularity? Her first day of following him around had explained his lack of fat.
Circling her small sitting area, Brenna rolled her shoulders and tried not to think of how he had looked while talking to the latest batch of reporters. He’d dressed in nothing more shocking than a pair of black jeans, a chamois-colored corduroy shirt, and his huge, signature belt buckle. He’d left his hat behind and his eyes had sparkled with that deadly kind of mischief that would inspire the reporters to compare his eyes to something ridiculous, like maple syrup.
But they had not looked syrupy when they turned on her. No. For her, they registered flat rejection, as if she weren’t even there, even though she’d never been more than three steps behind him all day.
There was no more of that teasing innuendo, that nervetingling closeness. Just one of the guys, he’d said, but it was obvious she was less than that And it was a good thing too, Brenna reminded herself quickly.
He was her boss. And not only that, he was a chauvinistic boss with no more faith in her abilities than her own family had. She was here to prove him wrong, to prove them all wrong. To find out who was sending the letters, to stop the threats, to solve the mystery. And the key lay in the letters.
Turning wearily, Brenna retrieved another bag of mail and hauled it onto her bed.
“H EY , O’S HAY . Y OU AWAKE ?”
Brenna opened her eyes. Blank white made up her first view of the morning.
“Hey. Wake up.”
A minute ago the voice had come from the hall. But now it sounded from beside her bed. Brenna sat up with a start, a letter stuck to her cheek as she scrambled for a blanket. But she’d never burrowed under the covers. The paper that had been stuck to her cheek, fell
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