Mission: Out Of Control. Susan May Warren
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even more grueling today, and instead of showering at the studio, she’d raced home to her own digs.
“Wick—that’s his nickname. He seems nice. And genuinely concerned for your safety.”
“Yeah, too concerned if you ask me.” She would need another layer of remover to wipe the last of the indigo blue from around her eyes, but finally, she’d begun to see hints of her real self. Unremarkable hazel-green eyes, brown hair chopped short, the color of prairie mud, now knotted in a mass from a brisk towel-rubbing. A few freckles formerly concealed with powder. And pale yet plump lips that others probably envied, but on her it looked like too much effort for too little result.
“This coming from the woman who still winces when she moves her arm.”
Ronie lifted her left arm, letting the mirror reveal the purple-black bruise encircling the top of it. It still hurt to move it; tears still sprang to her eyes when someone bumped it.
“There’s no such thing as too concerned. I think Brody Wickham is the real deal. I saw him watching you all day—I’m telling you, if you had slipped from that swing, he has arms that could catch you.”
“I think he’s just as likely to let me hit the ground.”
“He’d take a bullet for you. I can see it in his eyes.”
Perfect. Just what she wanted—another person dying because of her.
Okay, yes, maybe she couldn’t dislodge him from her brain—especially that smug expression as he tried to catch a glimpse at her phone.
Good thing she’d deleted the text. See, a person shouldn’t save text messages on their phones—not in the new age of spy games.
No, she’d just have to keep his attention diverted while she played out her extracurricular activities.
“I thought rehearsals went okay today, didn’t you?” She peered in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes, a few gathering wrinkles around her mouth. Okay, she shouldn’t be quite so hard on herself. With the right makeup, she could turn the head of a photographer. At least as Vonya.
“I think you’re brilliant. I love the swing song.”
She thought it was one of her cheesier pieces, but the crowds loved it. And Vonya vamped it up well, although it was one of the few songs that felt most like one Ronie might sing. All the same, it didn’t matter what persona she played onstage, as long as it opened doors. As Vonya she’d held a concert for the troops overseas, she’d raised money for UNICEF, she’d visited the refugee camps in Africa…
All, of course, Tommy used for the good of her career. She used it for the good of her heart.
And in Zimbala, she’d met Kafara Nimba, a nine-year-old orphaned boy who had captured her heart.
This trip, she’d bring him home.
“Is it okay if I take off? I left the Thai food on the counter. And Tommy said he’d be by later to check on you and go over the itinerary.”
Ronie cinched the towel around her and opened the door. “Are you picking up Lyle or am I?”
“I’ll go—we’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. Listen, you’re all packed, you just need to get yourself there on time. No more holding the plane while you run through security.”
“They didn’t believe I was Vonya—what could I do?”
“That’s your fault for traveling as yourself.”
Yeah, see, no one recognized her when she simply played…herself. Not even her, anymore.
Leah hadn’t moved from the door, and Ronie stilled. She closed her eyes when Leah said softly, “I’ll be praying for you. For the record, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
Her feet clicked on the cork floor down the hallway. Ronie pressed her hand to the foggy mirror and pulled it away, watching her handprint. The right thing.
Yes, eventually it would be.
A half hour later, her face scrubbed clean, wearing her green Hulk pajama pants and an oversize Harvard sweatshirt, she found the Thai food in the kitchen in the middle of an otherwise empty countertop.
The entire apartment on the top floor of her building in SoHo reflected Vonya’s eccentric style, thanks to Tommy D’s vision for who she should be—at least for the various magazines that wanted an “insider look” into her life. The past year and a half, she’d risen in popularity so much she barely recognized the woman who just loved to write songs in the quiet of her room. From the S-shaped workspace suspended on cables in the middle of the kitchen, to folding Japanese screens that separated the spaces, to the two-story windows overlooking the skyscape of New York, the place exuded the artistic, eccentric flare of Vonya.
The only room Ronie claimed for herself—and she’d practically had to throw her body over it—was the tiny library with the round window that overlooked the rooftops of her neighbors’ buildings. Yes, she could be accused of sitting in the darkness, watching people as they stargazed on their rooftops or sometimes serenaded the city. She often grabbed her guitar and played along.
Her library contained her books, a white shag carpet, a chaise lounge she’d picked up at an estate sale and re-covered in lime-green, her old acoustic guitar, and a pile of lined music sheets and notebooks filled with her handwritten songs.
Not that any of them would be sung by Vonya. Even if Ronie did bring them out into the light, they’d die under the bright glare of Tommy D’s criticism.
Aw, she didn’t really want to be a blues singer anyway, did she?
She’d definitely picked the wrong song to sing on Talent Night at the Harvard Business School. Wow, talk about getting in over her head.
Ronie brought the Thai food to the white sofa, curled up on it, and flicked on the television. She avoided the entertainment and fashion channels, ignored the soaps, and finally settled on a cooking show. Bizarre foods. Could be fun to eat fried squid on a stick, right?
The phone rang and she gave herself permission to let it go to the machine. Probably just Tommy, letting her know he’d be late.
“Veronica Stanton Wagner, this is your father, and if you’re there, I expect you to pick up.”
Ronie caught a long noodle with her chopsticks.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to say…” He cleared his throat. She paused, her food halfway to her mouth. “Have a good trip.”
Oh, see, now that was nice—
“Please try to stay out of the newspapers. And don’t drive your bodyguard mad. We’ve paid him good money to keep an eye on you.”
Ronie sucked in a breath.
“And your reputation.”
He hung up.
Ronie caught a piece of baby corn. Perfect. Just once, she’d like to hear his daddy voice instead of the senator voice, but frankly, it had been so long she probably wouldn’t recognize it.
She stirred her food, then set it down. If only she could have figured out another way to raise money other than go crawling back to her father.
Maybe she shouldn’t have given away quite so much of her money to charity. But she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help—after all, she had so much to make up for.
She clicked off the television and stared at the glittering lights of the city, fatigued to the bone.
From inside her messenger bag next to the door, her cell phone buzzed. She put down her carton of food, got up and retrieved it.
A new text message. From Bishop.
Keep your promise, I’ll keep mine. Good luck.
It came with an attachment. She opened it, her heart racing.
Kafara.