That Night on Thistle Lane. Carla Neggers
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you have an imagination?” She caught her breath. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t mean it as an insult. You’re just so...evidence-oriented. I’m a lawyer. I can relate.”
Noah had learned not to dwell on people’s stereotypes about him but he was tempted to tell Loretta that if he didn’t have an imagination, there would be no NAK, Inc.
Nor would there be a fortune for anyone to scheme and fight over.
If that was what was happening.
He didn’t know if the man’s reasons for tailing him were personal, professional or money related—or even involved him.
“This guy could be a reporter,” she said.
“I suppose,” Noah said, unconvinced. So far, most journalistic interest in him since NAK had taken off had been legitimate, professional. No sneaking around, no following him.
“I wish you’d gotten a better look at him. Tall, gray hair, trim, wearing a dark gray suit. That’s not much. You’re sure you’d recognize him again if you saw him?”
“Yes.”
Loretta sighed. “Maybe he’s looking into one of your Hollywood ex-girlfriends. A paparazzi type.”
Noah grimaced as he watched a young couple run across Boylston Street hand in hand. “All I need is some idiot with a camera popping up out of nowhere and snapping shots of me dressed as a swashbuckler.”
“A swashbuckler?” Loretta gave a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “That I’d like to see. Dylan says you’re damn good with a sword. Master fencer, right?”
“Something like that,” Noah said. The couple disappeared from his sight. He drew back from the window. “I should get ready for this thing tonight. I really appreciate your help with this situation, Loretta.”
“Happy to do what I can. I dealt with a few crazy stalker fans back in Dylan’s hockey days. I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here, but you might send me a list of your ex-girlfriends.”
It would be quite a list. “I’m not going that far, Loretta. Not without more to go on.”
“See? I said you were evidence-oriented. I’ll pick at a few more possible leads, but I’m not optimistic. Keep your eyes open. If this thing gets serious and I think you have a real threat on your hands, I’ll take additional steps.”
“Such as?”
“Calling the police. Recommending a bodyguard.”
Noah shook his head as if she were in the room with him. “No bodyguard. Not without an actual threat.”
“Have you told Dylan about this guy?” Loretta asked.
“No. I don’t want to distract him. He’s moving on from NAK, as he should.”
“He’s still your friend. What if your mystery man is on your tail because of Dylan? Have you considered that?”
He had. “Now we’re speculating. First things first. If there’s a reason, I’ll talk to Dylan. Right now there isn’t.”
“All right. Fair enough. How was your hike?”
“There were mosquitoes,” Noah said with a smile, then assured Loretta he’d keep his eyes open and let her know if there were any new developments.
After they disconnected, he did a series of stretches. In addition to a master fencer, he was a brown belt in karate. He’d concentrate on advancing to black belt once he got over the nonstop work and pressure of taking NAK public—and the loss of his best friend and closest business ally to New England.
And to pretty, talented Olivia Frost.
She was the love of Dylan’s life. And he of hers.
No question.
Noah centered his mind, focused on his movements, the rhythm, the technique. Everything else—doubts, questions, fears, noise—fell away as he did his basic shorin ryu karate warm-up routine of calisthenics, blocks, punches and kicks, then eased into a series of simple katas.
When he finished, he was sweating and loose, and he felt grounded, aware, in the moment.
His costume arrived. He laid it on the bed as if it were a dead musketeer and took another shower. He debated tripling his donation to the neonatal ICU and bowing out of tonight’s festivities. He could stay in his room and watch movies.
No point. Dylan would just hunt him down. Might as well get on with it.
Still damp from his shower, Noah donned the all-black costume, including the cape and the fake sword. He winced at his reflection. It wasn’t so much that he looked bad or foolish. He just didn’t look like himself.
At least there was a mask. It, too, was black, but fortunately it covered most of his face.
In San Diego, someone might recognize him even with the mask. In Boston?
Unlikely.
“Good,” he muttered, and headed down to the ballroom.
Three
Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming toward her as if they were the only two people in the crowded, glittering ballroom. As if nothing could stop him and he was determined to reach her.
She was standing by a pillar, next to a table of empty champagne glasses. She’d arrived twenty minutes ago, wanting just to watch the festivities with a glass of champagne. Olivia had left one of Dylan’s extra tickets behind in case Phoebe decided to go after all, but she’d been so adamant about not going that now she didn’t want to have to explain why she’d changed her mind. Because she was captivated by a dress, by the fantasy of an elegant masquerade ball?
Best just to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then go back home with no one being the wiser. Let Olivia and Maggie enjoy their evening without worrying about her.
She adjusted her mask. Of the half-dozen masks Ava and Ruby had made for tonight, this one provided the most coverage. Her eyes and the line of her jaw were all that anyone could see of her face.
Perfect.
With this swordfighter gliding toward her, Phoebe appreciated the anonymity.
And he really was gliding. He moved with such smoothness, such an air of masculine purpose and self-control. He didn’t pull away to the bar or meet up with another woman. His mask covered most of his face, as hers did, and he was tall and lean, wearing a black cape over sleek black trousers and shirt, with a sheathed costume sword at his side. He looked as if he could handle the sword, fake or not.
His eyes locked with hers.
Phoebe started to duck away, but she was transfixed.
Why not stay?
There was a lull in the live music provided by a small, eclectic band near the separate dance floor. Her swordfighter continued toward her, his eyes still on her. She stared right back at him, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of self-consciousness.
Do I know him?
She shook her head. Impossible.
So far she’d managed to avoid running into Maggie and Olivia. It definitely helped that she knew what they were wearing. Even so, she’d almost turned back several times before arriving at her pillar. First, when she’d started onto Storrow Drive into the heart of Boston. Then when she’d eased her car into a tight space in the parking garage. Finally on the escalator up to the ballroom. She’d glanced down at the hotel lobby, full of giant urns of fresh flowers and artfully arranged sofas and chairs. Above her, she could hear people gathering outside the ballroom.
If she hadn’t been on an escalator, she’d have bolted then, for sure.
Once she reached the ballroom, she got caught up in the crowd,