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I let him go and grabbed my things and walked away. Belated humiliation hot-wired my system and I was pissed at Grant for showing up the way hedid.
“Where are you going?” he snapped behind me before taking my arm and spinning me around to facehim.
“Home,” I snappedback.
“You use thesubway?”
“I always use thesubway.”
“Today was the last time,” he decreed. Before I could challenge him on it, a Black Escalade glided to a stop besideus.
Grant opened the door. “Getin.”
“Why are youhere?”
A muscle ticked hisjaw.
“Val told you,” I exhaled in resignation, suddenly exhausted. This was an argument I wasn’t going to win. I was supposed to be a recluse and I’d gone to a bar. “Where’s your Maserati?” I asked, climbing into the car. This was the first time I’d seen the Cadillac. And when did he get adriver?
Grant got in beside me. “The brownstone,Tyler.”
“Yes,sir.”
Who was this guy? Grant didn’t seem interested in making the introductions as he seemed more intent in ignoring me to scowl out the window. When he was extremely angry, he had a habit of shutting down. Grant said he had a tendency to say hurtful words that could ruin arelationship.
“Hi,” I told the driver. “I’mBlaire.”
Tyler’s eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms.Callahan.”
“Have you always worked forGrant?”
The driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Mr. Thorne will explain my role when we gethome.”
“What do youmean…”
“Blaire,” Grant interrupted in a voice that scraped like gravel. “We’ll talk athome.”
The street light caught the lines of fatigue on his face and, rather than argue, I kept mysilence.
* * *
That nightburst the bubble I had lived in for the previous eight months. When we got home, Grant informed me that his father was announcing his reelection bid. White supremacists had been vocal about their opposition to the Senator’s politics to the point of threatening Marcus Thorne and his family. The senator’s office had received anonymous mail containing pictures of Valerie walking the Harvard campus and Grant leaving his office in Manhattan. All the pictures had red bullseyes drawn on theirheads.
This wasn’t the first time Grant’s father had received such threats, but there’d been indication from the feds that this fringe group had ramped up recruitment to their militant division that necessitated the hiring of bodyguards. Jake Donovan had always been Grant’s head of security, but he specialized in security for their interests abroad, providing executive protection in countries with volatile political situations. This time, Grant wanted Jake to concentrate on personal protection detail and had met with the senator’s own security team to outline the new threats and countermeasures that needed to be taken. It was obvious that Grant himself was having trouble with the changes to our privacy. Tyler was to be my bodyguard and driver. I couldn’t take off on my own to the park or drive myself to the cape any longer. I considered giving up my artclass.
What was more troubling were the questions Jake asked about my family and background. I realized they needed to investigate every possible weak link that could compromise the senator’s protection. I was a basket case until I got hold of Liam to tell him what was going on. After cursing Grant quite colorfully, he told me that he would “handle it.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. Pay someone off the streets to pretend to be my parents? That was another sticking point Grant had with me. He wanted to meet my parents and I had to make up some bull crap excuse that they were alwaystraveling.
Grant and I had not had a private conversation for several days. Most of our exchanges had been brief and impersonal, but I’d sensed a gradual thawing the night before. He’d come to bed early, drew me immediately into his arms and brushed his lips across the top of my head. I welcomed his innate affection and curled into his embrace. Though I wanted to talk about his inability to communicate when he was pissed, I was wary of forcing a confrontation while Jake was doing his backgroundchecks.
Oh, to be held captive by mylies.
Two days after the art class debacle, I entered the brownstone and watched Grant walk out from our bedroom in the process of fastening the cufflinks on the sleeves of his dressshirt.
“Hey, Angel,” he smiled as he greeted me in the foyer, bending down and kissing me sweetly on mylips.
Uh, what?I melted inside, but I wasn’t going to let a kiss sweep our issues under therug.
“Are you over being pissed at me?” I askeddryly.
