Bound to His Shadows - Book 1

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Jake Reynolds disliked celebrity protection.

Not because celebrities were inherently difficult, but because enough of them had spent years surrounded by assistants, managers, publicists, handlers, and people paid to say yes that eventually someone telling them no became a personal insult.

Protection depended on no.

No, you cannot use that entrance.

No, you cannot post your location.

No, you cannot wander away from security because you recognize someone across the room.

No, the man smiling behind the barricade does not get backstage because he says he loves your work.

Jake had learned years ago that people who hated the word no made dangerous clients.

He looked down at the file Marcus Hale had dropped onto the battered desk between them.

COLLINS, KRISTINA

Twenty-eight.

Author.

Romance.

Jake looked up.

Marcus sat opposite him with one ankle resting over his knee, drinking coffee that had gone cold at least an hour ago.

“Romance novelist.”

“You can read.”

“That wasn’t admiration.”

“Neither was mine.”

Jake flipped another page.

Seven published novels. Two major bestseller lists. International translations. Book tours. Signings. Charity events. Television appearances.

And a publisher apparently willing to pay a considerable amount of money for private protection without first obtaining the client’s enthusiastic cooperation.

Jake stopped.

“She agreed to this?”

Marcus took a drink. “No.”

Jake looked at him.

Marcus lowered the cup. “Technically, she hasn’t been asked yet.”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“I don’t take clients who don’t want security.”

“You take governments that don’t want security.”

“Governments pay better.”

“This pays well.”

“Not enough.”

Marcus leaned back. “We need the work.”

Jake closed the folder. “We need good work.”

“Money has surprisingly few opinions about how honorable the contract was before it entered your account.”

“The last protection detail nearly got three people killed because the client decided a scheduled route was boring.”

“And the client paid.”

“He disappeared from the hotel for ninety minutes because he wanted sushi.”

“Excellent sushi, apparently.”

Jake stared at him.

Marcus shrugged. “I read the incident report.”

“You wrote the incident report.”

“Still read it.”

Jake shoved the file across the desk. “Find somebody else.”

Marcus didn’t touch it.

“Vale asked for you.”

“That sounds like his problem.”

“He asked around.”

“Worse.”

“He wants threat assessment and close protection until police determine whether the correspondence is credible.”

Jake looked toward the narrow office window.

Rain pressed against the glass, turning Blackridge into a gray smear of brick, headlights, and low clouds. He and Marcus had rented the office six months earlier. Calling it an office remained generous.

Two desks.

Three chairs.

A dented filing cabinet.

A coffee maker that deserved combat pay.

The lease was due next week.

Marcus knew it.

Jake knew Marcus knew it.

Neither mentioned it.

Jake pulled the file back.

“What’s the threat?”

Marcus’s expression changed.

That was enough.

Jake reopened the folder.

The first page was a summary from Vale House Publishing.

Unwanted correspondence over approximately seven weeks.

Initially filtered as excessive fan contact.

Escalation in specificity.

References to unpublished scheduling information.

A photograph taken outside a private industry dinner.

A package left with building reception despite courier procedures requiring identification and electronic logging.

No viable sender information.

Jake stopped.

“When?”

“Package came this morning.”

“Before Vale contacted us?”

“After.”

Jake looked up. “He hired security before today’s delivery?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why?”

Marcus slid another sheet across the desk.

Jake read.

Three excerpts.

Not threats exactly.

That bothered him more.

Threats were easy.

I’m going to hurt you.

Simple. Specific. Actionable.

These weren’t.

A line from one of Collins’s books followed by commentary about the way she had described loneliness.

A reference to the restaurant where she’d eaten three nights earlier.

A remark about her wearing her hair down more often lately.

Jake read the last line again.

Blue suits you better than black. You should wear it more often.

“That event wasn’t public?”

“Publisher says no.”

“Guest list?”

“Controlled.”

“Photos?”

“Some social media afterward.”

“Blue dress visible?”

Marcus shook his head. “Not in anything they found.”

That was the detail Jake didn’t like.

Someone wasn’t merely consuming Kristina Collins’s public life.

They were standing close enough to observe the private edges of it.

“Police?”

“Vale filed reports. Nothing chargeable yet.”

“Of course.”

Jake turned another page.

Professional photograph.

And stopped.

That irritated him immediately.

Kristina Collins looked directly into the camera with pale blue eyes much too sharp for the soft lighting around her. Long silver-gray hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder.

Not blond.

Not platinum.

Silver.

Striking enough that Jake initially assumed the photograph had been heavily edited until he noticed the candid images clipped behind it.

Same hair.

Same eyes.

Petite.

A curved mouth that suggested whoever had taken the picture had caught her somewhere between patience and saying something rude.

Beautiful.

Objectively.

Annoyingly.

Jake turned the page.

Marcus said nothing.

Jake kept reading.

“Don’t.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was enjoying the silence.”

Jake ignored him.

The next section contained background information relevant to security.

Residence: detached house in Willow Ridge.

No spouse.

No children.

Work schedule inconsistent due to author profession.

Frequent travel tied to publishing events.

Then medical.

Jake’s attention slowed.

Motor vehicle collision at twenty-two.

Head-on impact caused by intoxicated driver.

Bilateral lower-extremity trauma.

Multiple reconstructive surgeries over several years.

Internal fixation hardware.

History of infection following surgery.

Periodic stiffness and pain.

Fully ambulatory.

No routine mobility aid.

Jake read the section twice.

Not because he cared about her medical history beyond the job, but because evacuation planning changed when someone had previous orthopedic trauma.

Stairs.

Running distance.

Vehicle access.

Cold weather.

Extended standing.

He turned another page.

Marcus said, “Still no?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve read fourteen pages.”

“I read files.”

“You looked at the picture twice.”

Jake slowly raised his eyes.

Marcus held up one hand. “Professional observation.”

“Keep practicing. You need it.”

Marcus grinned.

Jake looked back at the photograph.

Successful romance novelist.

Beautiful house.

Publicity machine.

Publisher arranging protection behind her back.

A professional headshot designed to sell books and probably whatever version of herself readers expected.

Princess.

He could already imagine the argument.

I have a signing.

No.

My readers are expecting me.

No.

You can’t tell me what to do.

Watch me.

Jake closed the file.

“I’ve met the type.”

Marcus tilted his head. “No, you haven’t.”

“Successful public client accustomed to people accommodating her.”

“You got that from a photograph?”

“Got it from the publisher hiring us without telling her.”

“That says something about Vale.”

“Also says he expects her to refuse.”

“Maybe she has a reason.”

Jake gave him a look.

Marcus smiled faintly. “You know, sometimes people are complicated.”

“Sounds inefficient.”

“Especially women.”

“Careful.”

“Wasn’t advice. I enjoy watching you learn things painfully.”

Jake reopened the correspondence summary.

The blue-dress line still bothered him.

Then there was the package.

Courier procedures bypassed.

No identifying information.

Hand-delivered.

Someone was testing proximity.

That changed the problem.

Marcus watched him.

“You see it.”

“Someone’s escalating.”

“Yeah.”

“Vale’s office secure?”

“Nominally.”

“That means no.”

“That means badges, cameras, and enough former employees with active credentials to make me angry.”

Jake closed the folder.

“Forty-eight hours.”

Marcus’s eyebrows lifted.

“I assess for forty-eight hours.”

“And then?”

“If this is obsessive fan garbage, Vale gets recommendations and another protection team.”

Marcus nodded. “And if it isn’t?”

Jake looked down at Kristina Collins’s photograph.

Those pale blue eyes looked entirely too unimpressed with him for a woman he hadn’t met.

“Then she gets me whether she likes it or not.”

Marcus smiled.

“There he is.”

Jake stood.

“Call Vale.”

“He’s expecting us.”

Jake looked at him.

Marcus stood too.

“What?”

“You already told him yes.”

“I told him I’d bring you the file.”

“Same thing.”

Marcus picked up his jacket. “You’re predictable.”

“I’m going to start charging you for that word.”

“Put it toward rent.”

Jake gave him a flat look.

Marcus headed for the door.

“Try not to call her Princess in the first ten minutes.”

Jake tucked the file beneath his arm. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“That means you were thinking it.”

Jake followed him out.

***

The package had no return address.

That was the first thing Kristina noticed.

The second was her name.

Printed across the narrow white box in precise black block letters.

KRISTINA COLLINS

No publisher.

No agent.

No department.

Just her.

She stood beside the conference table at Vale House Publishing and stared at it while every sensible instinct she possessed suggested leaving it exactly where it was.

Martin Vale apparently lacked that instinct.

“It was delivered to reception twenty minutes ago.”

Kristina looked at him. “And reception decided mysterious boxes addressed directly to me belonged in conference rooms?”

“They called security first.”

“Comforting.”

“They screened it.”

“For explosives?”

“Yes.”

She blinked.

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know.”

Martin didn’t look amused.

Kristina looked back at the box.

That changed the temperature of the room.

Rain streaked the windows behind him, softening the Blackridge skyline into gray stone and watery light. Twelve floors below, traffic crawled through Old Blackridge toward the Harrow River.

Inside, Vale House was polished walnut, glass partitions, expensive art, and carefully manufactured calm.

The box looked almost sterile against the dark conference table.

Nothing threatening about it.

Which was becoming the problem.

“Did security open it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I told them not to.”

“So instead you summoned me.”

“I asked you to come upstairs.”

“That is the publishing-industry version of summoning.”

“Kristina.”

That voice again.

The one people used when they’d already made a decision and were preparing to explain why resistance would only delay the inevitable.

Her spine stiffened.

“How many?”

Martin hesitated.

Kristina stared at him. “How many, Martin?”

“Seven.”

The room went very still.

“You told me four.”

“There have been three more.”

“When?”

“The last two weeks.”

“And you decided not to mention them?”

“We were screening everything.”

“That isn’t an answer. That’s a description of what you did while not telling me.”

“The first several looked like obsessive fan mail.”

“The photograph from the Mercer dinner did not look like fan mail.”

“I know.”

“Apparently not enough to include me in decisions involving my own life.”

Martin rubbed his jaw. “We were trying not to alarm you.”

Kristina laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“You know what alarms people, Martin? Discovering everyone else has been deciding what information they’re emotionally equipped to receive.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“Intent is remarkably easy to defend when you’re not the person who has to live with the result.”

Martin looked toward the box.

“This one was delivered by hand.”

Her anger paused.

“By whom?”

“We don’t know.”

“Cameras?”

“Hat. Dark coat. Face turned away from the main camera. Reception thought he was a courier.”

“He?”

“Probably. They aren’t certain.”

“And he just walked into the building?”

“He entered through the public lobby.”

“That is somehow not improving the story.”

“He knew your name. Said the package required personal delivery.”

“And reception accepted it.”

“They’ve already changed the procedure.”

“Afterward.”

“Yes.”

Kristina looked at the box.

She hated fear.

Not the feeling itself.

What it did.

Fear rearranged the furniture in your mind.

Suddenly the ordinary doorway became an entry point. A stranger across the street became surveillance. A box became possibility.

She reached for the lid.

Martin moved. “Don’t.”

Kristina stopped. “You’ve already had it screened.”

“Yes.”

“And nobody found anything dangerous.”

“Not mechanically.”

“That is a fascinatingly terrible phrase.”

“Wait for the police.”

“They’re coming?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She reached again.

Martin swore under his breath. “Kristina.”

“If whoever sent this wanted me dead with the box, we’d already be discussing the efficacy of your security procedures from the afterlife.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“No. It isn’t.”

She lifted the lid.

Inside lay a copy of her first novel.

Nothing else.

Relief moved through her for less than a second.

Then she saw the folded paper tucked beneath the cover.

Kristina removed it carefully.

One sentence.

Typed.

You write beautifully about women who don’t recognize what they need until someone shows them.

She read it twice.

A chill moved slowly across her skin.

Not because the words were overtly threatening, but because they weren’t.

The note sounded almost admiring.

Almost intimate.

Almost reasonable.

Those were dangerous distances between words.

Martin said, “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer came too quickly.

She heard it.

So did Martin.

But she genuinely didn’t know.

She could interpret.

That was what writers did.

A reader obsessed with one of her heroines.

Someone projecting themselves into a fictional relationship.

Someone making a joke that had landed badly.

Someone wanting her to wonder.

She folded the note again.

“Did they touch anything else downstairs?”

“Not that we know.”

“Then this is evidence.”

“Yes.”

Kristina put it back.

Only then did she notice the man standing beyond the glass wall of the conference room.

Not directly outside the door.

Off to one side where passing employees would naturally overlook him.

Kristina did not.

It was difficult to overlook six and a half feet of human barricade.

Dark button-down shirt.

Black trousers.

Sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Tattoos disappeared beneath the fabric. Old scars broke through some of the ink.

Broad shoulders. Powerful chest. The sort of build that made furniture seem temporary.

His hair was nearly black, short at the sides and a little longer on top, silver already touching both temples. A faint scar marked the line near his jaw.

His face was rugged rather than polished.

Handsome.

Very handsome.

Annoyingly so.

Then his eyes met hers through the glass.

Storm gray.

Controlled.

Assessing.

Kristina looked at Martin.

“No.”

He blinked. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Kristina.”

“No.”

“He’s here because I asked him to be.”

“I gathered that. Unless Vale House has suddenly expanded into professional wrestling.”

Through the glass, the man’s mouth shifted.

Barely.

Had he heard her?

Wonderful.

Martin exhaled. “His name is Jake Reynolds.”

She kept her eyes on Martin. “Congratulations to his parents.”

“He works private security.”

“Again, very happy for him.”

“Threat assessment. Close protection.”

Kristina slowly looked back at the man.

Still watching.

“Absolutely not.”

“Kristina.”

“You hired a bodyguard.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“Without asking me.”

Martin hesitated.

That was enough.

She smiled.

It wasn’t pleasant.

“Of course you did.”

“The threats escalated.”

“So you call me.”

“I knew what you’d say.”

“That should have saved you time.”

“I wasn’t willing to wait until something happened.”

“You weren’t willing to let me decide.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It tends to feel remarkably similar from this side of the sentence.”

Martin’s expression changed.

He knew enough about her to understand he’d stepped somewhere dangerous even if he didn’t know why.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

Her voice softened slightly.

“And I appreciate that you care. But caring about me doesn’t magically turn your decisions into mine after you’ve already made them.”

The conference-room door opened.

Kristina turned.

The large man stepped inside.

No hurry.

No apology.

No wasted movement.

He closed the door behind him and looked first at Martin, then at the package, then at Kristina.

Up close, he was even larger.

That seemed unnecessary.

Kristina folded her arms.

“Do you normally enter private conversations without being invited, Mr. Reynolds?”

His gaze settled on her.

“Only when they’re about my client.”

His voice was low, rough at the edges.

“You don’t have a client.”

“Vale says otherwise.”

“Mr. Vale is having judgment problems.”

Behind him, Martin muttered, “I’m still in the room.”

Kristina ignored him.

“So you’re the bodyguard.”

“Yes.”

“That explains the dimensions.”

One eyebrow moved.

“You’re Collins.”

“Ms. Collins.”

A beat.

“Ms. Collins.”

Better.

Barely.

Jake moved toward the table.

Kristina shifted between him and the open box before she thought better of it.

His gaze dropped to the movement, then returned to her face.

“Don’t touch it again.”

She stared at him.

“You’ve known me for approximately seven seconds and already managed to issue an order.”

“It needs to be processed.”

“I know.”

“Then leave it alone.”

“I’m very glad we clarified that, Mr. Reynolds. I was worried the concept of evidence might remain beyond me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

He had already decided something about her.

She could feel it.

That irritated her more than the instruction.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. That was definitely something.”

Jake looked at Martin. “Police?”

“On the way.”

“Building footage?”

“Security is pulling it.”

“Access logs?”

“Same.”

Jake nodded once.

Efficient.

Abrupt.

Then his attention returned to her.

“Your schedule.”

She blinked. “My what?”

“Today.”

“You already have the most important part. I was summoned here against my will.”

“Before that.”

Kristina smiled slowly.

“No.”

His face didn’t change.

“Ms. Collins.”

“Mr. Reynolds.”

“I need your movements for the last seventy-two hours.”

“You’ve upgraded from my afternoon to three days remarkably quickly.”

“Threat referenced private information.”

“You haven’t read the note.”

“Vale briefed me before I came in.”

Her gaze snapped toward Martin.

“You briefed him.”

Martin straightened. “That’s why he’s here.”

Jake said, “Where were you three nights ago?”

Kristina turned back. “Are you always this charming?”

“No.”

“At least we’ve found honesty.”

Jake waited.

And waited.

Apparently he was prepared to stand there until tectonic movement rearranged the eastern seaboard.

Infuriating man.

“Dinner.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant.”

His stare flattened.

She couldn’t help it.

“Oh, come on. You left yourself open for that.”

“Name.”

“You know, sentences generally benefit from verbs.”

“Restaurant.”

“Still not one.”

His expression did not change.

“Princess.”

Silence.

Kristina stared at him.

Martin looked away so quickly he might have injured himself.

Jake remained maddeningly calm.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, perfectly.”

Her gaze traveled deliberately over the dark shirt, tattoos, rigid posture, and military bearing.

“All right, Soldier Boy.”

Something sharpened behind his eyes.

Good.

There.

She smiled.

“If we’re abandoning professional forms of address, I refuse to be the only one insulted.”

“Soldier Boy?”

“You have the posture.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Give me time.”

Jake’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

Kristina pointed at him.

“And for the record, Princess is lazy.”

“Seems accurate so far.”

Her smile vanished.

“Based on what?”

“Publisher hires security. Client thinks security is optional.”

“You’ve known me for less than a minute.”

“Long minute.”

Martin coughed into his hand.

Kristina stepped closer.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough to make her point.

She had to tilt her head back.

And farther.

Ridiculous.

“Let me save us both some frustration, Mr. Reynolds. I don’t care what assumptions you made after reading whatever carefully condensed version of my life Martin handed you.”

“You know I read the file.”

“Yes. How lovely. Nothing makes a woman feel more comfortable than discovering a complete stranger studied her before walking into the room.”

“It was relevant.”

“To you.”

“To the job.”

“Same problem.”

Jake looked down at her. “This isn’t personal.”

“It became personal when my name went on the folder.”

He paused.

One beat.

She’d landed that one.

Good.

Then he said, “Restaurant.”

Kristina stared at him.

“You are unbelievably irritating.”

“Been told.”

“Hawthorne House.”

“Who knew you were going?”

“Several people.”

“Names.”

“No.”

Jake’s jaw tightened.

“There are limits to how much of my life you’re getting in the first five minutes.”

“I’ll decide what information I need.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Martin stepped forward. “Perhaps we could...”

“Stay out of this,” they said together.

Martin stopped.

Kristina looked at Jake.

Jake looked at her.

Something flickered between them.

Not humor exactly.

Recognition.

Then Kristina ruined it deliberately.

“You’re not in command here, Soldier Boy.”

His eyes cooled.

“I am when it comes to immediate security.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s going to become a problem.”

“For you.”

She laughed once. “God, you actually believe that.”

“I don’t need you to like me.”

“That is excellent news.”

“I need you to listen.”

“Those are different things.”

“Not when someone’s close enough to know what you wore to a private dinner.”

That stopped her.

Jake saw it.

Of course he did.

His voice lost some of its edge.

“I don’t know who’s doing this. I don’t know what they want. But they’re close enough to see things they shouldn’t, and this morning somebody walked into this building and put something addressed to you into another person’s hands.”

Kristina’s irritation thinned beneath something colder.

“You don’t get to use fear as leverage.”

His expression changed slightly. “I’m not.”

“You are if the next sentence is that I have to obey you because I’m scared.”

Jake was quiet.

Then:

“Obedience keeps people alive.”

There it was.

Not arrogance.

Belief.

That was somehow worse.

Kristina looked up at him.

“And people aren’t soldiers under your command.”

“No.”

“Then learn the difference.”

His jaw shifted.

Not today, apparently.

Jake turned toward the package.

“From now on, nothing reaches you unopened.”

“There is no from now on.”

“There is.”

“You were hired by Martin.”

“Yes.”

“Not me.”

“Yes.”

“So Martin can keep you.”

“No.”

She blinked.

“No?”

“No.”

“That is not how employment works.”

“It is today.”

Kristina’s hands curled at her sides.

She very badly wanted to push him out of her way.

Which was exactly why she didn’t.

Instead, she took one deliberate step back and looked him straight in the eye.

“Then here’s your first lesson, Mr. Reynolds. You don’t get compliance simply because you’re larger, louder, or accustomed to being obeyed.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Small.

Interested, almost.

“I wasn’t expecting easy.”

“Good.”

A knock sounded against the glass.

Two uniformed Blackridge officers stood outside with a woman in plain clothes, dark hair pulled back, her gaze assessing the conference room almost as quickly as Jake’s had.

Martin opened the door.

“Detective Elena Ortiz.”

The woman entered.

Her attention went first to the package.

Then Martin.

Then Jake.

Then Kristina.

Something in her expression suggested she’d understood the current battle in approximately two seconds.

“Ms. Collins?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

Kristina nodded. “Of course.”

Ortiz moved toward the table.

Jake stepped back toward the door.

Watching.

Always watching.

Kristina caught his gaze.

He looked entirely too composed for a man she already wanted to eject through a glass wall.

She narrowed her eyes.

His mouth twitched.

That did it.

Kristina turned toward Detective Ortiz.

Behind her, Jake Reynolds remained exactly where Martin had put him.

In her life.

Without permission.

Kristina had every intention of fixing that.

Unfortunately, the hand-delivered package sitting between them was evidence that someone else had already started crossing boundaries of their own.

And as much as she hated admitting it, the enormous, arrogant Soldier Boy near the door looked like a man who knew exactly what to do when boundaries became dangerous.

That did not mean she intended to make his job easy.

Not even a little.