“I’m sorry you have to bother with me today. I’m sure you have more important things to worry about.”

  The crowd thickens around us as more people finish the last-minute details for their floats and the accompanying performances. Rand turns watchful. Tense. He looks at everything and everyone with suspicion. “I don’t.”

  He’s on the job, and he takes work seriously. I get it. I’m still nervous before the start of every gig, too… But he acts as if every minute could be life or death. Then again, in his world it might.

  “I appreciate you putting up with me in the crowd and this heat.”

  He doesn’t reply until we reach the float. Then he fits his hands around my waist as if I’m no bigger than a doll and lifts me onto it. “You making it to the end in one piece is thanks enough.”

  Suddenly, he’s beside me on the float, a red, white, and blue spectacular celebrating America’s past and future with a pair of flags and a stage between them. Once he hands me up to the platform, I’m surrounded by a troupe of dancers in patriotic costumes.

  Rand positions himself behind them, doing his best to blend into the background, but he still stands out.

  This dress leaves no room for my phone, and I can’t wear a watch with this getup, but from the crowd and the flurry of activity, I surmise it’s nearly time.

  Frowning, I glance around for the microphone prop that’s supposed to be waiting. Finally I spot it, then take the familiar shape in hand.

  A middle-aged woman dashes by and looks up at me, clipboard in one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. “Thanks for joining us today, Ms. Larsen. It’s an honor. Are you ready?”

  “Thanks for inviting me. I am.”

  “Don’t forget, when you cross that intersection there”—she points—“your music will begin. You’ll sing for that block and part of the next, then your music will drop off. All you have to do after that is smile and wave until your float rounds the last corner.”

  I haven’t done a ton of parades, but I’ve played arenas all over the world. This should be a piece of cake. “I understand.”

  The woman stops looking harried long enough to smile at me. “Really, thanks for doing this. Our parade is always popular, but you coming back to your hometown today with us has probably tripled our spectators. We’re so excited!”

  “I’m happy to be here.” The good food, the community atmosphere, and the friendly people all remind me why I miss Texas.

  The organizer moves on, and the humid air stands absolutely still as I wait, wishing I could get my long hair off my shoulders and claw off at least half the makeup the stylist put on me less than an hour ago.

  It seems like forever before the parade begins and the floats in front of me lurch forward, crawling down the parade route. Then mine follows suit, dragging across the black asphalt. The heat is oppressive, shimmering off the road in waves under the pounding sun.

  I look down at Rand, standing silent and stoic, feet apart, hands at his sides. I feel the coiled tension coming off of him. There’s nothing restful about the man.

  It’s almost as if he’s expecting trouble.

  But I can’t ask why because the crowd is too loud and we’re quickly approaching the intersection that will mark the beginning of my music piped through the overhead speakers. So I quell my worry, grip the microphone, smile for the folks lining the parade route, and get ready to look like I’m giving the performance of my life.

  Everything is great as the float creeps through the intersection. The intro to my latest single cues up. My stomach tenses; it always does before a performance. Then I’m dancing my way through the opening bars of the song and enjoying the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  Until gunshots erupt and all hell breaks loose.

  Rand

  The moment I hear the first gunshot, I grab Sophie Larsen and tug her off the platform, shielding her with my body. Around me, people scream. I draw my weapon. Pandemonium ensues. Parents grab their children. People run everywhere. Others, especially those less mobile, either drop to the pavement or scramble for the nearest doorframe, looking for some semblance of protection.

  That’s all moving in my periphery, but what I’m really aware of is finding the asshole with the gun—and the beautiful blonde behind me, breasts rising and falling at my back with every rapid breath she takes.

  “Are you hurt?” I shout over the noise.

  “No.”

  Her reply is faint, but I hear it. That’s enough for now.

  Another shot rings out, so close I hear the bullet whiz past my temple. It’s not my first rodeo with this kind of shit, but if I don’t move, it might be my last. Still, I’m under no illusions. I’m not the target of whoever’s pulling the trigger. Since his first shot went way over my head, to Sophie’s platform above, I know he’s aiming for her.

  “We’ve got to move!” With a curse, I hop off the float, then pluck her off behind me. To her credit, she lands on her feet, despite those ridiculously impractical, totally sexy heels. Even more impressive, she actually manages to run.

  Still, I’m twitchy. It’s the screaming. And the suggestive music filled with Sophie’s smoky voice singing about sex that’s unsettling me. The adrenaline isn’t helping, either. But the back of my neck starts to itch.

  The next shot is coming.

  Abruptly, I swerve into a nearby doorframe, jerking Sophie with me, again shielding her with my body as the next shot hits a window frame inches from us, splintering the wood. She starts in fear. I yank on the doorknob to the right to try and dive inside. It’s locked.

  Fuck.

  I’m hyperaware that my back is vulnerable and that she’s pressed against my chest, looking up at me with those hypnotic eyes she’s so well known for, a tumultuous shade between blue and gray. Only now, they’re panicked. I see past the stage makeup and the false lashes to the terrified woman underneath.

  “Breathe.”

  She shakes her head. “We can’t stay here.”

  “No. C’mon.”

  I tug on her arm again and sprint down the sidewalk. Another shot whizzes through the narrow space between our shoulders. From the timing and position of the shots, I suspect there’s one shooter across the street, probably on an upper level or roof. And if I can’t hustle Sophie around the next corner before he fires again, at least one of us stands a good chance of being dead.

  Air burns my lungs as I sprint toward the corner of the big building on my right. Sophie does her best to keep up. She’s got a death grip on my hand.

  Another bullet zings between us, this one near our hands. The screams of the spectators grow even more shrill. Sophie gasps. She’s unnerved. I don’t blame her. Dodging a killer isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. Worse, we’ve still got fifteen feet before we reach any semblance of safety, and this asshole is going to get off another shot before we can make it. I’d love to turn and off him, but he’s probably a few hundred feet away. The shot isn’t impossible with my Glock, just unlikely. And in the time it would take me to find him, set, aim, and fire, he’d probably tag and bag me. And if something happens to me, what happens to Sophie?

  I’m not waiting around to find out.

  “Run!” I pick up speed and yank on her wrist.

  She stumbles in the ridiculously high-heeled shoes. “Wait!”

  No time for that. I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her against my side, and haul ass for safety. Another bullet whizzes by, where Sophie stood just moments ago.

  Then we’re around the corner. We’re safe—for now. We can’t stay long, but we can regroup and strategize for a minute or two. Hopefully, it’s enough.

  Panting, I lower her to her feet and press her back to the wall, blocking her from any possible threat. “You okay?”

  More screaming fills the streets. Sirens roar closer to the scene. She presses a hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath. “I-I’m not hurt.”

  She doesn’t try to claim that she isn’t terrified out of her mind. I know she is.

  “Are you familiar with this area?”

  “Not really. I’m from DFW, but never spent much time in Arlington.”

  Damn. I’m only slightly familiar with this chunk of the city.

  We’ve got to get out of this alley—and this fucking vicinity—fast. Then we need a safe location without anyone knowing where Sophie is hiding. Only then can I figure out who wants her dead and why.

  I scan our surroundings and come up with an idea. “Take off your dress.”

  “What?” A whole lot of hell no crosses her face.

  Does she think I’m propositioning her right now? Don’t get me wrong. In a less dangerous situation, if she was willing, I’d be more than game. Sophie may have been a pretty girl who burst on the music scene when she was still in pigtails, but she’s a hella beautiful woman now. I certainly wouldn’t turn her down. But that’s not why I’m asking her to disrobe.

  “Your red spangly dress is a bright, shiny target to this shooter.”

  “Oh.” She frowns. “But I can’t run around naked.”

  As much as I might like the view, she’s right. Everyone has a camera on their cell phones these days, and she doesn’t need that kind of exposure. Hell, we’re lucky that everyone is too busy running for their lives to notice us tucked into this narrow alley.

  I yank my T-shirt from my waistband and jerk it over my head, leaving my torso covered in a thin wifebeater. The T-shirt is damp with my sweat and it smells like me, but that’s all I’ve got to give her. “Put this on.”

  Sophie takes the shirt from my hand, her gaze glued to mine. “Where am I supposed to change?”

  But she knows the answer; I see it on her face.

  “I’ll block you.” After all, she’s tiny. I’m pretty big. We’ll make it work. “But we don’t have time for modesty.”

  She hesitates an instant, then drops one strap of her low, scoop-necked dress down her arm, followed by the other. As she does, one thing becomes obvious: Sophie Larsen isn’t wearing a bra.

  I start to sweat again, and this time it has nothing to do with heat or danger.

  Holy shit.

  Jerking my gaze back to the street, I give her what privacy I can. I’m sure weirdos and jackoffs say skeevy things to her all the time. If not, she would never need to hire a guy like me.

  From my peripheral vision, I see her lower her dress to her waist and catch her lipstick in her hand. She’s wearing some sort of nude-colored stickers over her nipples that adhere to the upper swells and lift her obviously full rack. But I’m not staring. Really, I’m not. But…they’re right there. I blow out a breath as she shimmies from the dress to reveal she’s wearing one of the tiniest, most transparent thongs I’ve ever seen. A single glance—damn, I did not mean to look—and I can tell she’s a natural blonde.

  Seconds later, she whisks my shirt over her head, covering everything. It swallows her small frame and hangs to the middle of her thighs. It conceals way more than the dress she had on.

  “Are you attached to this?” I fist the red fabric.

  She shakes her head. “It’s horrible.”

  Grateful for the nearby dumpster, I toss it, glad when the bright, glittery ball of sequins clears the rim and disappears into the heap. “What about your shoes? Can you run in bare feet?”

  She steps out of one stiletto. The instant her foot touches the hot asphalt, she hisses and jerks away. “No.”

  “Understood. Let’s do something about your hair.” Because pale curls hanging nearly to her pretty, swaying ass definitely draws attention.

  She had mine the moment I set eyes on her.

  “How?”

  I rummage in my pocket. I’ve got a rubber band I used to hold together a couple of boxes of ammo I loaded into their magazines on my way here. “This work?”

  “Yes. Will you hold this?” She hands me her lipstick.

  As I pocket it, she grabs her hair and shoves it without much care into a messy bun, then twists the rubber band around it until the pale mass stays. It’s not optimal, and I wish like hell she had a hat and athletic shoes, but this will have to do. At least she’ll be a less obvious target now.

  And we’ve been in the alley too long. We’re sitting ducks.

  I jerk my head to the side. “Up for running? We have to get across the street.”

  She nods. “Let’s go.”

  I take her hand again and slink to the edge of the building. Pandemonium still rules the streets. With the mad dash of people and all the barricades closing off the parade route, I imagine local law enforcement is having a difficult time getting their vehicles into the area. Instead, police are pouring in on foot, but we can’t afford to be swept up in the crowd. It’s not safe for Sophie since I have no idea who’s behind this attempt on her life. We can’t get separated. It’s my job to lead her to safety, and I intend to do it.

  Since I haven’t heard anymore gunfire, I suspect the shooter has closed up shop and is doing his best to blend in with the crowd. We need to do the same, so I lead Sophie out onto the sidewalk. Then we jog across the street. If she was anyone but a well-known star, I’d pull her into the drugstore—one of the few businesses open during the holiday—and wait for the area to be cleared. But her face is liable to cause a commotion, which is the last thing we need. And just because I don’t see anyone on our asses now doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. The shooter could be blending in to hunt her down.

  At the back of the drugstore’s parking lot, I spot a horse-drawn buggy with a traditional canopy. The entire thing is decorated in red, white, and blue streamers for the parade. A teenage boy hovers beside it nervously, watching everything around him. His eyes go wide with fear when I approach, gun in hand.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. Fifty bucks to let me borrow your ride.” I drag a bill from my pocket.

  The kid swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. “I-I can’t. It’s my grandpa’s. I promised I’d bring it back.”

  “A hundred bucks for ten minutes. I won’t take it far.” We have to get out of the vicinity. It’s about a mile to my truck. Once we’re there, we can get anywhere.

  The teenager opens his mouth to reply, then his stare falls on Sophie. And his eyes go wide with recognition. “Oh, my god! You’re—”

  “Keep it quiet,” I hiss.

  “Please.” Sophie grabs his hands. “I need to get out of here safely.”

  “I’ll take you,” he insists in a rush, head bobbing.

  My first instinct is to refuse. I don’t want to deal with amateurs or risk this kid with so much life in front of him, but if he won’t lend me his buggy and I don’t have another way out of this place, I have to compromise.

  “You’re sure?” I ask. “It could be dangerous.”

  “I-I’m not afraid.”

  Clearly, he is and doesn’t want to seem scared in front of Sophie.

  “You don’t have to play hero, kid.”

  He scowls at me. “My name is Dustin, and I’m eighteen.”

  So he’s touchy about being an adult. Got it.

  I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”

  Maybe this kid’s stubbornness is a good thing. If the shooter sees him, he has no reason to connect Dustin with us.

  Sophie squeezes his fingers. “You don’t have to get involved.”

  “Were the shots for you?” he asks her.

  I nod.

  “I’ve got an idea.” The guy bends down and flips up a lid to a compartment tucked beneath, then produces a blanket. He hands it to me. “You can cover up with this.”

  It’s a hundred fucking degrees, but this is another way to hide. “Good thinking.” I tell Dustin the intersection where I parked my truck. “Get us as close as you can.” I turn to Sophie. “Up you go.”

  She nods, and I lift her into the buggy. When she’s settled on the black leather seat, I hop in beside her, spread the blanket over us, and urge her to hunker down. I pull the blanket over our heads as the teenager hops onto the driver’s seat and gives the reins a flick.

  The horse takes off, and the buggy clambers down the street, maneuvering between terrorized dads, stricken mothers, and crying kids still running for their lives. I hear the terror in their rapid footfalls.

  “I got this,” Dustin assures. “Sit back.”

  There’s nothing else we can do.

  I turn to Sophie. She’s still breathing hard. It’s hot and humid as fuck under this scrap of wool. Our faces are inches apart. Her lips open softly. Her breath is sweet. Her stare is direct.

  “Do you have any idea why this is happening?”

  “Do you?” I counter. “Have you received any death threats?”

  “Not recently. Nothing credible, anyway.”

  But the fact she receives them at all fucking bothers me. Why would anyone want to hurt Sophie?

  “Can you think of a reason someone would have anything against you?”

  “Except angry moms who chastise me for not singing wholesome music anymore or stalkers berating me for swinging my hips and singing about sex because they’re convinced I belong to them, no.”

  What a creepy world she lives in. I can’t imagine people feeling so entitled or delusional that, despite being strangers, they genuinely believe they can control an artist. But I’m not shocked. There are a lot of unhinged loons out there.

  “But no specific threats recently?”

  “Unless David knows something I don’t…” She shakes her head.

  Sophie brings up an interesting point, and I’ll get to him later, but for now I just nod. “Did you have another appearance scheduled tonight?”

  “No. I’m on a break until the album drops next month.”

  Good. She’s less likely to be missed, so that gives us more time to get to the bottom of this.

  Then she bites her lip, mouth pressing into a grim line that tells me she’s fighting tears. “I’m afraid.”

  She’s right to be.

  I squeeze her hand. “Ever been shot at?”

  “No.” And the look on her face tells me she can’t imagine why anyone would want her dead.

  “You’ve never been a threat, so this kind of malice makes no sense to you.”