Guarding Sophie (3 page)

S
OPHIE PULLED BREATH
into her lungs and toyed with her iced tea glass. Every time she told her story was a risk, but she was lonely and needed to talk to someone. The relief of getting away was tempered by the isolation of little human contact.

She heaved a sigh. “There is something wrong. And nobody knows I'm here.”

“What happened? And what about your parents?”

“I sent them a text and told them I was fine and I would contact them when I could.” She'd left her former cell phone on long enough to assure her family that she was safe and that she wasn't going to tell anyone where she was until Peter was in jail or had no way of following her. She didn't want to think about how long that might take to happen.

Maybe that was a fantasy. Maybe she was nuts. Maybe she was going to spend the rest of her life on the run. Right now, though, she was a bit surprised. Kyle seemed to be a lot more observant than she gave him credit for when they were in school together.

“Is law enforcement involved?” he asked.

“I have a restraining order against him in Florida. I'm not sure it's going to help.”

“So he's violent.”

“Yes.” And crazy, and she didn't want anyone else to suffer because she'd managed to attract her worst nightmare in human form. She couldn't spend the rest of her life alone, but she also didn't want to endanger the people around her. It was a hell of a choice.

Kyle leaned a little closer, and she got a whiff of subtle, expensive cologne that smelled like the sea. Except cleaner. “I have a secret too,” he said.

“Please tell me you don't have a crazy stalker.”

“People follow me around, but they're not dangerous or anything,” he said. She had to smile. “I'm hiding out from my parents. And most of my friends.”

She blinked at him. “Why would you do something like that?”

“Because I needed a break.”

“The usual family stuff, or something more exciting?” she asked.

“Oh, it's much more exciting.” He took another sip of iced tea. “Needless to say, it looks like we're both trying to stay away from everyone right now. Maybe we should hang out together.” He swirled the tea around in his glass.

“You're famous, aren't you?” she asked. “This might be a problem.”

“It's the off-season. Nobody's looking for me here.” He touched his glass against hers and grinned. “Let's enjoy the anonymity.”

Less than a minute later, a teenager wearing a Seattle Sharks T-shirt and black board shorts approached their table. “Aren't you Kyle Carlson?” he said. “Will you sign my hat?” He whipped off the ball cap he was wearing and held it out to Kyle.

Sophie had to laugh at the astounded look on Kyle's face. “So much for the sunglasses and ball cap disguise,” she murmured to him.

“Sure,” Kyle said to the kid. “Let me find a pen.” He searched his pockets in vain while Sophie reached into her purse and grabbed out a ballpoint pen.

“This might work,” she said and passed it across the table.

Kyle signed the teen's ball cap, told him (and the three kids who quickly lined up for autographs behind him) that he was passing through town on his way to Spokane, and gave Sophie her pen back. “It was great meeting you guys, but we have to go,” he said. He reached out for Sophie's elbow and helped her to her feet. “See you around,” he told them.

“Go Sharks,” one of the teens said.

“Tell Reed not to retire yet. We need to win a few more championships first,” another teen said.

“I'll be sure and do that,” Kyle said. “He'll love it.”

“Well, my secret's out,” he said in a low voice. He waited until the teens walked out of the coffee shop. “Are you hungry yet? Let's go grab a bite somewhere else.”

K
YLE TURNED ONTO
Noel's Main Street. Sophie glanced up at the banner suspended overhead advertising Santa Claus's appearance at the annual Noel Easter Egg Roll in a couple of weeks. Portraying Santa Claus must be a full-time job in this place. Maybe it was like Vegas and Elvis impersonators: one on every corner.

“Does that happen to you often?” she said.

“What do you mean? Seeing someone I know at the coffee shop? I knew Michael lived here, but I didn't know he got a part-time job. Collins is going to lose it. Michael still has to take his finals in a month or so. He should be studying—” Kyle pulled off the road and into Noel's gas station.

“Who's Collins? And I was actually wondering about your getting recognized by people.”

“Derrick Collins is a big defensive tackle.
Everyone
comes up to him when he's out in public. He's a huge pain in the ass, but I love him.” Kyle grinned at her. “And the only reason why those kids recognized me is because they're superfans. I walk around all the time, and nobody cares. Nobody recognizes me with my helmet off.”

“Is Michael going to tell all his friends that you're here?” She wanted to ask Kyle if Michael was going to tell other people that
she
was here, but it seemed a bit paranoid. She was willing to bet that Michael and his friends were less than interested in anything she was doing. They'd want to talk to Kyle.

“Hell no. He knows better. We'd never get a minute's peace.” He shut the ignition off and opened the car door. “I'll be right back.”

She had a few minutes to think while Kyle filled his gas tank. She wanted to spend some more time with him, but she wondered if she should tell him how bad it got before she left Cocoa Beach. He might not want to hang around with her after he knew, and she wouldn't blame him.

He got back into the driver's seat and pushed the button to start the car. “So, I meant it about a bite. I'm kind of hungry. What do you feel like eating?”

“I've been to the bakery. Their sandwiches are really good. They make a quiche of the day that's delicious,” she said.

He shook his head as he turned out of the gas station. “Maybe we should get some hot food.”

“I don't understand.”

“I've eaten a lot of sandwiches over the past few days. They're easy to make, and I don't burn them.”

“You bought three hundred dollars' worth of food earlier! Didn't you buy a prime rib?”

“Maybe I could cook it on the grill—”

“No,” she said. “No, no, no. It won't work. You have to cook prime rib slowly, and it needs to start on high heat.” She almost groaned aloud. “That piece of meat was seventy dollars! I thought you were serving dinner for ten or something. Please tell me you know how to cook.”

He stopped at the red light and turned to face her. “What would you say if I told you that I don't?”

She was mystified, but she found herself smiling at the amusement in his face.

“Why did you buy all that food if you don't know how to cook?”

“I thought I could teach myself. I have a gas stove; I have a brand-new grill—what could be so hard?”

She couldn't imagine how one person could be so handsome and so infuriating at the same time. He was tall. He had muscles, but he was leaner than other pro football players she'd seen photos of. His dark wavy hair was smoothed into a low ponytail, which he'd pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. His tapered brows, chiseled cheekbones, and strong jaw framed dark, twinkling eyes, a straight nose with a scar on the bridge, and full lips. Stubble looked good on him too. She saw laugh lines when he smiled. He'd turned the bill of his ball cap off-center and rested one tanned wrist over the steering wheel of his Lexus.

It wasn't his fault that she was a cooking-show junkie when she lived in Cocoa Beach. She loved to cook. Leaving the kitchen she'd scrimped and saved to outfit with the best cooking equipment and gadgets she could afford was almost as painful as leaving her family and friends. Her family offered to pack the stuff up and put it in storage for her when she'd called home. Of course, she was worried they'd have an ugly encounter with Peter while they were doing so.

She thought about explaining to Kyle that cooking was a lot more than dumping something in a pan and turning on the stove, but maybe she needed to cut him a break. So he was a little clueless. They'd have no chance of being spotted if they were making a gigantic prime rib or something together. Teaching him some basics might be fun.

Making food would mean they'd have to go to his place. She didn't have a stove in the teeny kitchen at the mother-in-law apartment she lived in. Was it too weird to go to his house? They weren't putting the moves on each other. They were friends.

Seventy dollars' worth of prime rib. She started making a shopping list in her head.

“Do you have a roasting pan at home? My kitchen stuff didn't make the trip,” she said. She'd brought her three-and-a-half-quart Caribbean blue Le Creuset Dutch oven and a microplane in her suitcase. She couldn't use the Dutch oven right now, but she couldn't leave it behind.

“What's a roasting pan? Is that like a skillet?”

She couldn't decide if she wanted to cry or scream first. “No, it's not. We need to go back to Noel Foods. We'll get a disposable one, and you can order a better roasting pan from Amazon if you decide you'd like to roast more stuff after this.”

S
HE WAS CHATTERING
away about peppercorns, kosher salt, and au jus (he'd had the stuff before; he wasn't a complete idiot) and a big knife they needed to cut the finished prime rib with as she pushed a cart down the seasonings aisle at Noel Foods. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud. Unless he was really mistaken, she'd just invited herself over to his house to save the prime rib.

“I have a knife set. We're covered there,” he said. “What else do we need?”

Most guys spent hours trying to come up with a way to ask a woman out they were already attracted to or, in his case, had been since he was in high school. Expensive cuts of meat must have some mystical power over Sophie. She evidently couldn't wait to get in the kitchen and straighten things out for him.

He wanted an actual date with her—dinner at a great restaurant, maybe a movie afterward—but right now, he knew she'd run like a cheetah if he suggested it. If she wanted to break in his new kitchen, she was free to do so. Hanging out at his place also had the added bonus of privacy. He wasn't going to make a move on her quite yet, but he really wanted to hear her story. He wondered if there was anything he could do to help. She shouldn't spend the rest of her life being afraid of her own shadow.

Sophie was glancing through the stuff in the cart. “Okay. We have aluminum foil, peppercorns, kosher salt, fresh rosemary, garlic, olive oil, a disposable roasting pan, and a big fork to take the roast out with. I'll grab some fresh horseradish. Do you have a cutting board? We also have potatoes, cream, butter, and broccoli. How about a bottle of red wine? It might be good with the meat.”

“Does this mean you're coming over to help me cook?”

“Help you cook?” she joked. “I thought I was cooking.”

“Well, then,” he said, “I accept.”

K
YLE PULLED UP
in front of his place with Sophie and another seventy-five bucks of groceries. She'd offered him cash for the stuff they bought, and she'd tried to pay for her own iced tea today. There was no way he was letting her pay for any of it. She was doing him a favor by trying to help. Plus, he could afford it. It had been a while since he'd had someone so much as offer to pay for anything while they were out together. Just knowing she didn't expect him to foot the bill for everything was refreshing.

“You're the first person to see this besides the interior decorator and my real estate guy,” he told her as he grabbed the grocery bags out of the backseat of his crossover.

“I'm honored,” she said. “Thanks for inviting me.” He saw her grin. “I should have brought a housewarming gift.”

“Hell no,” he said. “Come on in.”

He opened the front door, disengaged the security system, and gestured for her to precede him inside. The soaring ceilings of his cabin kept things cool. The late-afternoon sun brushed everything it touched with soft gold. He still smelled the lemon-scented stuff the cleaning people had used before he'd moved in too.

“It's beautiful, Kyle. You must love this.”

“I do.” His new condo back in Bellevue had an incredible view of Lake Washington, but he was enjoying the fresh air and privacy of this house nestled in evergreens.

“Don't you have to cross the pass to go to the Sharks' headquarters every day?”

“I don't have to be back in Seattle for six weeks,” he said. “Want something to drink?”

“That would be great.”

S
OPHIE STIFLED A
gasp as she walked into the kitchen of her dreams. Hand-scraped wide-plank hardwood floors were stained a rich dark brown that coordinated with the lower custom cabinets. The upper cabinets were a snowy white. Gray-veined quartz countertops were accented with a subway-tile backsplash that went up to the ceiling. A farm sink beckoned, complete with a dual-function faucet and generously sized window that looked over Kyle's backyard. She did her best to not gawk at the state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances. She moved closer to a quartz-topped center island with plenty of storage and a place to eat.

She could spend all day every day cooking on the six-burner extra-large gas cooktop and baking in the double ovens if they belonged to her. She wondered how many batches of cookies she could bake at once. Her Le Creuset Dutch oven would be right at home here too. It was quite a contrast to the hot plate and the small countertop convection oven in her mother-in-law apartment.

A round wooden table and chairs flanked by windows on all sides sat on a colorful area rug behind her. She ran her fingertips lovingly over the quartz countertop on the island and let out a sigh.

“What do you think?” Kyle said.

“It's incredible. I wouldn't want to leave the kitchen at all.”

“You haven't seen the upstairs yet,” he teased.

“I think I'm afraid to. If it's as perfect as this is, I won't want to go home.”

He put the grocery bags on the island. “I have a couple of guest rooms, you know. We could work something out.”

She glanced up at him in surprise. She did her best to keep her voice light.

“You're funny.”

“I don't know how to cook; you do . . . It could work out well for both of us,” he said. “I'm a very appreciative eater.” He grabbed a pound of butter out of the bag and crossed to the refrigerator to put it away. “So, tell me about your place. Actually, maybe we should start with why you moved to Noel.” He turned to face her once more. “Want a beer?”

“Yes, please,” she said. She reached into one of the grocery bags and started removing items. “I can help get the stuff put away, and we can talk a little more. It'll be fun.”

She heard a few seconds of Jessie J's “Price Tag.” He reached into his pocket, grabbed his cell phone, and frowned at the screen.

“I'm really sorry, but I need to take this. It's my agent.” He hit the speaker function. “Hey, Bruce.”

“Kyle. It's a relief to hear you're okay. What's going on there?”

“Excuse me?”

“You might want to call your family. They've hired a private investigator to find you. They claim they haven't heard from you for three weeks. Is there something wrong? How can I help? I know some guys have trouble during the off-season . . . ”

“I'm fine. Everything is great.” Kyle blew out a breath. He hadn't called home in two weeks, but he'd responded to texts from his parents during that time. “Would you please call them back and tell them I will be in contact soon?”

“I'm not sure they're going to accept that from me, man. They think that something's wrong, and they need to see you to verify that you are safe.”

Sophie watched the color spread up Kyle's neck and into his face. “I can see I'm going to have to explain. To make a long story short, my family and friends are bleeding me dry financially. I've had enough.”

“You're not the first client I've heard that from,” Bruce said.

“I realize that,” Kyle said. His voice was dry as dust. “I would prefer to have no contact with them for a few more weeks while I finish the arrangements I've made to protect myself.” Kyle shook his head at the phone. “I understand you probably don't want to be involved here, but I would appreciate your help.”

“Today's kinda rugged for me. Could you send them a text?”

Sophie saw Kyle close his eyes and pantomime banging his forehead on the kitchen island.

“Why don't you give me the number of the private investigator who called you, and I'll call him or her instead?”

“Sure.”

Sophie gathered up the items that needed refrigeration and crossed the kitchen while Kyle told his agent he'd talk to him later and hung up. She pulled the package of prime rib out to rest on the counter before getting it ready to go into the oven. She turned to Kyle, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don't apologize. I'm sorry this is happening to you.”

He let out a long breath. “I know it's rude, but I have to call this guy—”

“Do you mind if I get things ready to go into the oven while you're on the phone?”

“Of course not. Make yourself at home,” he said.

K
YLE STEPPED INTO
the alcove off the living room the interior decorator had made into a small office for him. He was embarrassed that Sophie had witnessed his conversation with his agent. He shouldn't have answered the phone while she was there in the first place; it was rude, but even more, he didn't want her to know about his problems. She had enough of her own right now.

His hands shook as he stabbed the numbers on his business cell with one finger to dial the private investigator. He stared out the window overlooking evergreen trees and blue skies to calm himself as he listened to the rings.

He'd always thought guys who let their families and friends spend every cent they made were spineless. He never thought it would happen to him. He wanted to spend the evening reminiscing and laughing with Sophie. Instead, he was dealing with yet another problem with his family.

He wished he had the supportive, loving families most of his teammates had. Mostly, his family (specifically, his parents) let him know early and often that he owed them, and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like they were at all of his games. Well, until he became famous, and then nothing could keep them away. He'd done his best to be generous to them even if they were uninterested in his challenges and struggles. He paid off his parents' mortgage when he was drafted into the league, made sure he paid for their late-model cars and a nice vacation each year, gave out more “loans” (which were never repaid) than he could count, and picked up the tab for everyone's cell phones. They weren't grateful for any of it. When his playing days were over, they sure weren't going to help him out financially. He needed to get out with enough money to get started on a post-football career, and he'd like to get married at some point and have a family of his own.

He couldn't figure out why he was still giving them money. Once upon a time, he'd thought they'd at least thank him for his generosity. They didn't bother, and the money he offered them was never enough.

He wondered what Sophie would say if he told her the truth about his family. He'd kept his problems with them concealed for a long time now; he didn't want anyone else to know how bad it was or how much it hurt. He remembered that her family was close and loving when he'd met them previously. She said she'd contacted them to let them know she was fine, but they had to be in hell right now with worry about her.

Maybe there was a way to reassure them without tipping Peter the Psycho off to where she really was. He'd do his best to protect her while he was in Noel too. In the meantime, he needed to tell the private investigator to buzz off. He heard the click as the guy answered his phone.

“Rick Thomason.”

“Hello, this is Kyle Carlson. I'm fine. Your services are no longer needed.”

Kyle dropped into the leather desk chair. The decorator had hung his framed college jersey on the opposite wall surrounded by a grouping of photographs of his on-field exploits. She cost a lot, but she'd made a home instead of a place to sleep and do his laundry. She'd done the same at the condo in Bellevue.

“Your family is convinced you are being held against your will. I'll need to see proof that you are not being coerced in any way, Mr. Carlson, or I'll contact the local authorities in—Newcastle, isn't it? I do have information that you've sold that home in the past two weeks. Where are you living now?”

“Are you with law enforcement, Mr. Thomason?”

“No, but I'm on very good terms with the local police departments in Newcastle and in Bellevue. Would you like me to call them?”

“Absolutely. Maybe you could tell them that you're harassing me, and you have no business involving yourself in my private life. I'm an adult. I don't need to give you any information at all as to where I am, whom I'm with, or what I am doing. I don't need to give anyone else that information, either.”

The private investigator adopted a fatherly tone of voice. “Look. They're worried about you. Why don't you make it easy on everyone and contact your family? They want to be sure you're okay.”

“That's interesting, Mr. Thomason. They're more concerned about access to my bank accounts than they have ever been about me. And I want you to know that if you persist in bothering me, I will call the police and my lawyer, give them your contact information, and let them do their jobs. Are we clear?”

“Maybe you could answer a few more questions before we hang up—”

“I'm not answering any more questions. And I'm hanging up now. Don't contact me again.”

Kyle hit End on his phone with relish and settled back into the chair. He bought this place because he hoped for a little solitude, but he'd barely lasted twenty-four hours before going out to find some human contact, no matter how fleeting.

He missed his teammates and their easy rapport. They knew what it was like to deal with the challenges of fame and money. He enjoyed his time with them. Maybe he should invite a couple of them over for a barbecue or something.

Most of all, he needed to get it together. He pulled his business cell out of his pocket and tapped in a text to his mother.

I AM FINE. I WILL CONTACT YOU ALL SOON.

There were a million other things to say, but they could all wait. He could still enjoy the evening with Sophie, the woman he couldn't quite forget.