Read Online Crossing Lines: A gripping psychological thriller (Behind Closed Doors Book 3) by Erin Cawood - Free Book Online
Authors: Erin Cawood
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a.m. in New York. I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-two hours. Despite the comfort of full reclining leather seats on Krystal’s private jet, I got no closer to sleeping in the air than I did last night. There’s too much going on for my brain to shut down. I ended up packing for two weeks in L.A. before I crawled into bed exhausted for just a few hours of restless sleep.
“Is there something wrong with the air conditioning?” I snap. It’s about twelve degrees. She does not need the window open, when the car can acclimatize its environment to a perfect and more comfortable temperature.
“There's nothing wrong with the AC.” She doesn't look up from the movie script for the film she’s shooting in Switzerland in a couple of months. "If you're too warm, D, then open a window.”
“It's like the freaking arctic in here already!”
“Just because you're sleeping in my bed,” she says, this time lifting her gaze from the papers. Her unimpressed stare locks on mine. “Doesn't mean you get to be snarky with me, Doctor.” She winks at me before her gaze turns to the window. “Besides, we're here.”
“Speaking of sleeping arrangements—” Clearing up the undiscussed part of our agreement slips my mind as I look out the window and up, at a breathtaking Spanish colonial mansion complete with pillars, steps, and enormous picture windows through which to appreciate the ocean vistas and acres of landscaped gardens. It really is a sight to behold, all lit up against a backdrop of secluded darkness.
Despite the lateness of our arrival, the two huge oak doors sweep open, spilling warm light over the turning circle at the bottom of the steps leading up to them. A perfectly polished woman runs from the doorway, the light casting her profile into shadow as she hurries down the steps.
With the air of professionalism, her rigid posture, and the way her fingers twist nervously together as she waits for us, I’ll put money on Krystal introducing her as her assistant Mel.
She’s swiftly followed by a tall guy in board shorts, a vest, and sneakers. He stands beside Mel, arms folded across his chest, muscles straining against the material of his vest. He doesn't look happy. But then again, her bodyguard, Rylan, never looks happy.
Krystal gasps. Tension crackles the atmosphere around us as the car pulls to a stop. She leaps out of the rear door. “What's wrong?”
“Wrong?” Mel glances nervously at me as I climb out of the car. “Nothing's wrong.” I recognize her voice. There are times when I have spoken to Mel more than I’ve spoken to Krystal. She’s a lot younger, and looks totally exhausted under her impeccably made-up face. “It's just that Julia wanted to see you the moment you arrived, but you're later than we had anticipated. Should I wake her?”
“We dropped Macaulay off at Angela's first.” Angela? What happened to calling her “Mom”? “I’ll see her first thing in the morning.” She turns to the bodyguard, her expression much less tense as she laughs. “And what's your excuse, Rylan?”
The bodyguard, who has been constantly at Krystal's side for over a year-and-a-half, scowls. I guess it’s because he wasn't there the previous night, to do what he'd been employed for.
“You've spent five days shopping in New York.” He shrugs and drops his arms, then brushes past us and heads for the car. “I'm surprised the wheels on my car lasted the trip from the airport.” He caresses the trunk before popping the button to open it. He frowns and looks at Krystal. “Are we expecting a container in the next few days?”
“You need a humor transplant,” she mutters, “and for that jibe you get to go to bed without supper.”
“And then I won't be big and strong, and won't be able to protect you from your crazy-assed fans when they mob you.” He picks up my suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk.
“I’ll get those.” I offer, but Rylan’s gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my skin
“Is there something wrong with the air conditioning?” I snap. It’s about twelve degrees. She does not need the window open, when the car can acclimatize its environment to a perfect and more comfortable temperature.
“There's nothing wrong with the AC.” She doesn't look up from the movie script for the film she’s shooting in Switzerland in a couple of months. "If you're too warm, D, then open a window.”
“It's like the freaking arctic in here already!”
“Just because you're sleeping in my bed,” she says, this time lifting her gaze from the papers. Her unimpressed stare locks on mine. “Doesn't mean you get to be snarky with me, Doctor.” She winks at me before her gaze turns to the window. “Besides, we're here.”
“Speaking of sleeping arrangements—” Clearing up the undiscussed part of our agreement slips my mind as I look out the window and up, at a breathtaking Spanish colonial mansion complete with pillars, steps, and enormous picture windows through which to appreciate the ocean vistas and acres of landscaped gardens. It really is a sight to behold, all lit up against a backdrop of secluded darkness.
Despite the lateness of our arrival, the two huge oak doors sweep open, spilling warm light over the turning circle at the bottom of the steps leading up to them. A perfectly polished woman runs from the doorway, the light casting her profile into shadow as she hurries down the steps.
With the air of professionalism, her rigid posture, and the way her fingers twist nervously together as she waits for us, I’ll put money on Krystal introducing her as her assistant Mel.
She’s swiftly followed by a tall guy in board shorts, a vest, and sneakers. He stands beside Mel, arms folded across his chest, muscles straining against the material of his vest. He doesn't look happy. But then again, her bodyguard, Rylan, never looks happy.
Krystal gasps. Tension crackles the atmosphere around us as the car pulls to a stop. She leaps out of the rear door. “What's wrong?”
“Wrong?” Mel glances nervously at me as I climb out of the car. “Nothing's wrong.” I recognize her voice. There are times when I have spoken to Mel more than I’ve spoken to Krystal. She’s a lot younger, and looks totally exhausted under her impeccably made-up face. “It's just that Julia wanted to see you the moment you arrived, but you're later than we had anticipated. Should I wake her?”
“We dropped Macaulay off at Angela's first.” Angela? What happened to calling her “Mom”? “I’ll see her first thing in the morning.” She turns to the bodyguard, her expression much less tense as she laughs. “And what's your excuse, Rylan?”
The bodyguard, who has been constantly at Krystal's side for over a year-and-a-half, scowls. I guess it’s because he wasn't there the previous night, to do what he'd been employed for.
“You've spent five days shopping in New York.” He shrugs and drops his arms, then brushes past us and heads for the car. “I'm surprised the wheels on my car lasted the trip from the airport.” He caresses the trunk before popping the button to open it. He frowns and looks at Krystal. “Are we expecting a container in the next few days?”
“You need a humor transplant,” she mutters, “and for that jibe you get to go to bed without supper.”
“And then I won't be big and strong, and won't be able to protect you from your crazy-assed fans when they mob you.” He picks up my suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk.
“I’ll get those.” I offer, but Rylan’s gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my skin
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