He wanted to argue, but the fire in her eyes told him there’d be no point.
“Listen, I have one more favor to ask you,” she told him as they neared the hotel.
“Sure. You hungry? Thirsty? How’s your head?”
Another faint smile. “I could use a rest, not going to lie. But right now, all I need is for you to go back to the hotel. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “Are you nuts? The hell with that. You can forget it. Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you. Period. End of story. Nonnegotiable,” he added when she still didn’t look convinced.
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “Why do you have to be such a stubborn bastard?”
“Born that way, babe. That’s why you hired me.” Someone jostled him on their way down the sidewalk, and he moved closer to Kate, shielding her. “Come on. It’s not safe to stand out here in the open. Let’s go.”
Her gaze clung to his, probing his determination. Apparently finding that it was rock solid, she released a sigh. “Okay. Let’s go. But before we do, you have to understand that this is private. It’s not for anyone else to know about. Not Emma. Not Maya. Not anyone in Lost Harbor. Promise?”
He raised his palm, as if putting himself under oath the way she just had. “You have my word as a stubborn bastard.”
Chapter Seventeen
Their fourth Lyft driver dropped them off at her father’s Brentwood address. His location was protected; she only knew it because she was his lawyer. Ironically, it was probably the least risky place in LA, as long as no one followed them. To that end, they switched Lyfts three times on their way and made sure to get lost in the always dependably congested traffic.
Even receiving her father’s message—Need to see you—had triggered a migraine, and she hadn’t given any thought to it since last night. The depo came first. But now that it was over, it was time to face the music.
“Katiebird!” Her father swung the door open, his face beaming with welcome. She couldn’t help a quick check of his ankle. There it was, the electronic bracelet that kept him confined to within fifty yards of this property. Nice imprisonment if you can get it.
She’d sacrificed her entire career so he could get it.
“Hi Dad. You look good.”
Frank Robinson always looked good. He had to, because his existence depended on it. At all times, his hair was perfectly moussed, his eyes clear and sparkling blue, his skin smooth as a baby’s. He could have been a motivational speaker or a wrinkle cream spokesperson. He probably had been both of those things in his checkered career; Kate couldn’t keep track of all his occupations.
Around the age of thirteen, she’d finally understood her father’s lax attitude toward things like laws and morals. At the age of seventeen, she’d legally emancipated herself. But she still loved him. Not only was he her father, but he was extremely lovable; it was part of his tool kit.
“And you look absolutely marvelous, Katiebird. A bit dirty under the fingernails, but I blame that on your grandmother.”
Kate tucked her fingers into her palms, so her nails were out of sight. Trust her father to notice that detail. His observational skills were another ability that contributed to his shady career.
“You sound vaguely British,” she told him as she and Darius stepped inside the foyer. High ceilings, terra-cotta tiles; nothing but the best for Frank Robinson, even in home confinement.
“Yes, I’m trying to use my time productively.”
“By learning a British accent?”
“Not just British, dahling,” he said airily. “I’ve mastered ten different accents so far. New Zealand, Australian, Irish—”
She cut him off. “Why don’t you learn some actual languages? That would be more productive than accents.”
“I throw a few words into the mix, Katiebird. But you know me. Why do something difficult when you can take things easy? Who’s this tall drink of water?” He eyed Darius with trepidation. “He looks as if he could toss me over his shoulder and lock me in a trunk. Can you tell him I’m already serving time, there’s no need to pile on?”
“His name is Darius, and he can speak for himself. Darius Boone, Frank Robinson. My father.”
Darius stuck out his hand. Her father grabbed it and pumped it enthusiastically. “Any friend of my daughter’s…are you friends? What are you to each other? I sense simmering sexual tension, or perhaps it’s simply tension. Ooh, those are the best relationships, when there’s friction and drama and conflict, so delicious, reminds me of your mother—”
“Dad!” Kate cut him off before he could completely mortify her. “Darius is my security for this trip. Those goons of Kramer’s might still be after me.”
“Yes, I understand. Very grateful, very. You’re a good daughter. I don’t deserve it, I know. At least I’ve done one thing right in my wayward life.” He plucked a silver bell from a knickknack table and rang it. “Lemonade for my guests, please!”
An answering shout came from deeper inside the house.
“You have servants here with you?” Kate asked incredulously.
“One servant. How else am I supposed to live?”
Kate exchanged an outraged glance with Darius, only to find that he looked more amused than anything else. Well, it wasn’t his father, so he didn’t have to be embarrassed, or angry, or any of the other emotions pouring through her right now.
“We can’t stay for lemonade,” she said firmly. “It’s been a long day and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”
His perceptive blue eyes scanned her face. “Migraine, honey?”
She gave the tiniest of nods. Sometimes her father could be incredibly compassionate, like a Teddy bear come to life. And sometimes he could be crueler than a playground bully. She never knew which Frank would appear, despite a childhood of trying to guess.
“It’s hardly a surprise, after the stress I’ve caused you.” Ah, so it was the Teddy bear. “My poor sweet baby, those awful headaches. They began when she was just a tween,” he explained to Darius. “Puberty, no doubt. I used to drape blankets over the windows to block out every speck of light. I’d bring her cool washcloths and speak in the softest whisper, like the ghost of Florence Nightingale.”
“That’s perfect, Frank. Just perfect. You’re using my migraines to talk about yourself and your parenting.”
He blinked at her as a tough-looking man in a bellhop uniform, with actual epaulets and gold braids, appeared with a tray of glasses. “Lemonade? Hydration sometimes helped.”
“No. Thank you,” she added to the servant, who left immediately. “Why do you make him wear that uniform?”
“It was all they had left at the costume shop,” he said in a reasonable tone—as if that explanation made any sense.
“Why is he wearing any uniform? You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Why did you want to see me?”
“Sweetcakes, as if I need a reason beyond saying thank you? Yet again?” He turned to Darius. He always had a knack for including everyone in a conversation. “I’d be in prison now if not for my brilliant daughter.”