Mission: Out of Control Page 11
Your love gives me wings…
He walked around the back of the stage to the stairs underneath. After the song, she’d drop through a hole, then dash to the dressing area. He liked to be there, just in case.
Who was he kidding? He just liked being around her. Even as Vonya. Her creativity, her energy, her laughter—it all made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt since long before Shelby. Okay, maybe never.
The music stopped, the applause thundered through the musical palace and Vonya appeared, running down the stairs. She hustled past without looking at him and slipped behind the dressing curtain. Leah helped her into her final costume, one of his favorite outfits—a black flapper dress with a white wig, feather boa and headband. It went with her “Cha Cha, Love You” song. At least that was what he called it since those were the only words he understood.
Still, it was his favorite, and the closest thing to capturing her true voice, in his opinion.
She shimmied past him, and he wished he could stop her and apologize. But the show had to go on.
She let the lift bring her onto the stage to more applause, and in a second she was belting out the last tune.
For a moment, he was back in the cavern, listening to those husky tones, feeling them winding through him.
He’d simply been taken with her voice—the way it took over his thoughts, made him move to the stage. He’d never grabbed a microphone in his life.
This was what a woman did to a man. Made him think with his emotions.
He moved back to the wings to watch.
The worst part of all this had to be that he had absolutely nothing, nilch, nichevo, in common with Vonya. Shelby had been a healer, a rescuer. Vonya—he wouldn’t call her Ronie again—was nothing but sheer chaos. Out of control.
Okay, there was Lyle. And the orphanage. And that Zimbalan tour that the media had made a fuss over. He’d spent the night looking her up on Google—and not because he couldn’t get her out of his mind, thank you, but because he had to know just why she’d hang out with a guy like Damu.
He’d discovered plenty of pictures of her during the tour. A few had even made him smile, like the one of her trying to balance pineapples on her head. And, well, he supposed camouflage pants, a pair of high heels and a black netting top could be considered normal for Vonya. At least she had that body leotard under her outfit.
Which, he’d realized, she wore most of the time. Even in D.C., if he’d looked closely instead of assuming.
Okay, so he had made some very inaccurate assumptions about Vonya. From that first moment until now.
He remembered the woman he’d seen on Martha’s Vineyard, and the woman her father had described. Did he even know his daughter?
Which led him to more Google searches, all the way back to her sister’s death. Savannah had died of cancer at the age of twenty, and he’d found a number of pictures of her posted on an outdated MySpace page set up by Ronie.
Ronie had inherited her flamboyance from her sister, apparently, and had posted shots of her sister dressed in crazy getups—in fact, he’d seen a few of them on Ronie. And then there were shots of her singing, even at drama camp.
In fact, it seemed that Ronie had been every face of Savannah—but never just herself.
Why did it have to be you to make me sing the blues…
Until last night?
Her song ended and the stage faded to black. According to plan, she stayed in the shadows, and then, during the encore, let the lights come up slowly.
He waited for it watching as the spotlight slipped over her. She sparkled under it, a sizzling star.
He turned away as she sang her last song, a soft little melody that made her sound like Marilyn Monroe.
That Tommy D was a genius because, so help him, Brody had become a fan of Vonya—the crazy, kind, talented, fun performer.
But he didn’t have to love her.
He’d keep his distance. No macchiato during rehearsal. No hunting down Nutella.
No late-night pizzas.
The last note faded out to thunderous applause. She waved and blew kisses to her audience, and finally the stage went dark. He expected her to walk off on his side, and when she didn’t, he spoke into his mike. “I’m headed to her dressing room.”
He’d just stand outside the door, of course. And then he’d walk her home.
And he probably shouldn’t tell her that she knocked the audience out cold tonight.
Or that she looked amazing. And took his breath away.
Maybe, though, he’d mention how sorry he was for being a jerk.
And even promise never to kiss her again.
Or…not.
Yes! Definitely. He’d make that promise.
He went to her dressing room in the back of the palace. The light bled out from under the door. He could hear her inside, humming. Something soft. Bluesy.
“Downhearted Trouble.” Or…no, something else.
He leaned against the door, trying to hear it but couldn’t make it out. It stopped.
Then started again.
That same humming, in perfect rhythm, without a change even in inflection.
“Ronie? Uh, Vonya?”
She kept humming.
He knocked on the door.
The humming stopped.
“Can I get you anything? A macchiato? A—”
The humming started again.
“Okay, listen, I’m really sorry for what happened. We probably need to talk about it. Tonight.” He sighed. “How about if I track us down a pizza? I know a place on the other side of the river…”
More humming.
He grabbed the handle, knocking again. “I’m coming in there.”
He turned it. Locked, of course. “Ronie, let me in.”
Okay, that should have gotten some reaction. He put his shoulder against the flimsy door and banged. It shuddered.
Still she hummed.
“Ronie, if you’re in there, you’d better clear the door.” Then he stepped back and kicked right at the jamb, dislodging the ancient lock from the door. It banged open, hitting the wall behind it.
He followed it in.
The humming came from her iPod, set on repeat on the counter, under a row of hot lights.
But the room was empty.
“Luke, eyes on Vonya?”
“She exited the stage. She was heading toward the dressing rooms.”
“She’s not here.” He ran down the hall and back up onstage. Tommy D was flirting with one of the stage-hands. “Sorry to interrupt, TD, but have you seen Vonya?”
Tommy glanced at the redhead, winked. “I thought that was your problem, Boy Scout.”
Oh, he wanted to hurt him. “Listen, she’s gone, so if you know where she is—”
Tommy rounded on him, his smile gone. “She’s not gone. She’s here. Just calm down.”
Brody shoved him away, turned, and nearly knocked over Leah. “Ronie’s gone. Have you seen her? Do you know where she went? The truth, Leah.”
He didn’t need to waste his breath. Her wide eyes betrayed nothing but confusion.
He spoke into his mike. “Luke, I think our little song-bird has flown the coop.”
TEN
Of all the crazy moves Vonya had pulled, nothing compared to the insanity of standing in the dark corridor outside Tyn Cathedral, with only Brody’s words for company.
How she wished he were standing here with her, if not holding her hand, at least close enough to hear her scream should someone jump out of the shadows.
Yeah, right. Like he would have come with her. After the way he’d shoved her away yesterday on the street, like he’d actually been repulsed…
She shivered, despite her leather jacket, jeans and boots. She’d pulled the feather headband from her hair and replaced it with a hat, although she’d kept the white wig.
And of course, she wore the red scarf around her neck, just as Bishop had said.
What a fool she’d turned out to be. To think a man like
Brody might find her beautiful—she spent most of her time looking like other people. And that stunt in the blues café—that had been her playing, too, hadn’t it?
No. For the first time, she’d let herself really sing. Let herself access what was deep in her heart. Why? Because with Brody she felt safe. And real. And like she didn’t have to put on an act.
She’d wanted him to kiss her.
Perhaps that had been the most foolish part of all.
What if you left it all behind and just performed as Ronie?
She’d let him egg her on. But he didn’t understand. Being Ronie wasn’t good enough. She had to be more. Or rather, she had to make up for what Ronie wasn’t.
Out of all the people on earth, however, she’d thought he’d understand that.
She drew her coat closer around her. Perhaps she’d pinpointed the problem. What kind of woman walks right into danger?
His words from Damu’s party can back to her, melded with his story about his lady doctor friend. Shelby? What if Ronie reminded him of the woman who had nearly gotten him killed? Who’d made him do the one thing that almost destroyed him?
See, she knew she couldn’t tell him about tonight’s adventure.
Little did Brody know that during their excursion yesterday, she been mapping out her route back to the square.
She pulled off her wig, shoving it into her pocket. She placed the cap over her curls.
Her hand curled around the computer in her pocket.
Where was Bishop’s computer guru?
The cathedral door recessed back from the street in a sort of alleyway. It suddenly seemed too conspicuous a place to meet someone—in this closed space, where she might be trapped. And for her contact, too. Maybe he meant to meet her in the street.
She edged out and tucked herself in a pocket of shadow next to a restaurant.
The wind skittered leaves across the cobblestones, and she smelled rain in the air. A couple out late—a tall woman leaning heavily on her date—shuffled by. Across the square, Lyle’s window light in the hotel flickered on. She looked for Brody’s light, but his bedroom remained dark. She had no doubt Brody had ramped up the search to full rampage by now.
“Do you have a song for me?”
She startled at a young man who looked about eighteen, if that. A thin stocking cap half covered long, unruly dark hair, and he smacked his gum, probably to the beat pulsing through his earbuds. He held a backpack and looked the part of a student with a dark suit coat, collar up, over a T-shirt, and a pair of dirty tennis shoes.
“Did Bishop send you?”
“Whatya have?”
She looked for the red scarf and found the bandanna on his backpack. Relief shot through her. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the computer. “You’re late—”
A crack shocked the air, and she jumped back as blood splattered her face, her neck, her hands.
The kid’s head jerked back. He collapsed. His body spasmed on the sidewalk.
She stood there, unable to move. Or breathe. She needed…
Her hands shook as she stepped back and fell over a chair behind her, sprawling on the sidewalk.
The boy had stopped shaking, now lying with his eyes wide in the dim glow of a jewelry store’s night display.
A second shot shattered the glass window beside her.
She screamed, diving out of the way, and crawled across the cobblestones as the glass spilled onto the sidewalk. She turned over, gasping, then hit her feet.
Her legs moved then, fast. She didn’t know where she was running to—not toward the hotel, but away, just away, down the street.
She heard her own sobs ripping out of her, but she couldn’t think and just kept moving. She ducked down another road, her feet loud against the cobblestones, turned into another alley and sprinted.
She emerged right out into the square, half a block down. She’d run in a circle—now what? She stood under the lamplight and held out her hands.
Blood, drying into the lines of her hands, splattered along her arms, her coat. Sirens.
She backed up, pressing herself against a building, shaking.
An arm snaked around her, clamping over her mouth, hard, unforgiving. “I found you.”
She felt a scream tear through her and went berserk, slamming a fist back into her captor’s leg, landing her foot into his instep. He woofed out a breath, let her go, and she whirled, fully intending on jamming her fingers into the well of his neck.
He caught her wrist. “Ronie!”
She gulped a breath. Brody. Oh… “Brody!”
She launched herself, full on, into his arms, holding on with everything inside her.
And then, once again, he lifted her and carried her away.
“Where are you hurt?” He wanted to put her down, but if he wasn’t mistaken, someone had just been shooting at her.
Shooting. He knew it. Why hadn’t he listened to his instincts?
Oh, wait. He knew why. Because he’d become an idiot.
Brody tightened his grip around her—so tight he might never let her go—and lost himself in the winding streets of old-town Prague.
“Where are you hurt?” He didn’t mean the anger in his voice—okay, he did, but not like that. It was more relief than anything. He’d get back to anger later.
Once he figured out if she was going to live. Please, God.
And yes, he’d actually prayed as he’d run out of the theater, after Artyom had caught her leaving the building on video. He’d taken a wild guess that she would head to the square—something about the way she’d been taking everything in on their tour had bothered him somewhere in the back of his brain.
Never did he expect to show up and see her across the square seconds before—she didn’t actually shoot that kid, did she? Or…
He found a set of stairs leading into a building and put her down on them. She shook, her face white. “Don’t go into shock. Stay with me, honey.”
But she had begun to crumple, her beautiful face tightening before she hid it in her—
“Your hands are bloody.”
She looked up at him and he saw that her face bore traces of blood, too. “Please tell me you’re not hurt.”
“It’s not my blood.” Her voice emerged, whisper thin. “I…I didn’t know him. Is he… I think he’s…”
“He’s dead.” Indeed, Brody had reached him seconds after she bolted, and had stopped only long enough to check for vitals.
He’d called Luke as he sprinted after Ronie. Thankfully Luke hadn’t asked any questions. Well, not yet.
“Ronie. Tell me what happened. What were you doing there?”
She shook her head, her gaze glued to her hands.
“Ronie.”
“No!”
Okay, this wouldn’t work. He needed to check her out, confirm for his panicked brain that, really, she wasn’t bleeding and just couldn’t feel it. But not here, not in this alley.
Not with the police on her tail.
He scooped her up again, and she curled into him, trusting him. About time. Then he stalked through the streets toward his apartment.
The lights of the Charles Bridge glared on the water, the city bright and dangerous as the sirens whined in the air. He stayed in the shadows, smiling at a couple tucked in a love knot as they followed him with their eyes.
He took the stairs off the side of the bridge and made his way to his tiny flat on Nosticova.
He punched in his code, took the stairs and dug the key out of his pocket.
The two-bedroom flat smelled like Luke’s socks, but thankfully his roommate had left it clean. The night poured in through the double window in the main room. He kicked the door shut, then set her down on the leather sofa, closing the curtains.
Towels. He locked and bolted the front door on the way to the bathroom.
She sat hunched over, still trembling when he returned. He knelt before her, cupped her chin in his hand and wiped her face with the wet washcloth.
She held them out. Only a mild scrape remained after he washed off the blood. He’d seen that sheet of glass come down and thought…
He sucked in a hard breath. “Anything hurt?”
She kept her big eyes on him. “No.” Actually, no noise came from her mouth—he had to read her lips, but he got it.
And then, because as long as they were out of their element, he sat on the sofa and carefully moved her into his lap. He curled his arms around her, and held her.
He sat there, probably too long, considering all the possibilities, expecting his anger to return, and was shocked when it didn’t.
But he was okay with that, for now.
She drew her legs up in a ball, as if she might be trying to crawl inside his chest.
“Shh. It’s going to be okay.”
“That guy died.”
Yes, finally, a voice.
“You didn’t… I mean—” He cleared his throat. “I’m just going to ask once. You didn’t have anything to do with his death, right?”
She pushed away from him, her eyes on his. “Yes. Yes, I did.” She started to shake again.
Yes? “Shh. Okay, Ronie, calm down.” He held her face in his hands, hating the coldness her words had stripped through him. “What do you mean?”
“It was my fault that he was there. My fault…and…” Tears now spilled down her face, her nose ran. “Who would want to kill him?”
“Uh…I don’t want to suggest this, but what if the killer was after you? I mean, there was another shot.”
“You know that? You were there?”
“Of course I was there.” He left out the part about rabid fear. “That’s my job. And if you had let me in on what you were doing—”
“I couldn’t!” She bounced out of his lap, backing away from him. “See, that’s the thing. I couldn’t tell you because you would have stopped me.”
“From doing what?”
She pressed her hands over her ears.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But tell me—what’s going on here?”
She closed her eyes.
“Ronie, who was that guy?”
She turned her back to him.
Oh, brother. He crossed in front of her. “What were you doing with him?”