Chapter Three

Chapter Three

“Try not to kill each other,” Ryan says as we linger in the entryway by my front door. Matthew and Aaron left over an hour ago, and Damien left after kissing me lightly on the cheek and telling me not to worry. I said I’d try, but I’m making no promises.

“Just make sure you remember what an excellent client I am. And how much I’m willing to put up with,” I add, glancing over my shoulder toward Simon, who’s on the other side of the room leaning against the archway that separates the entry from the casual living area. “Think about that when you send my next bill.”

He chuckles. “I’ll keep it in mind. Seriously, though, I’ve already told Simon I expect daily reports, and I want to hear from you, as well, and not just to bitch.”

I raise a brow. “But I have so much to complain about.”

“He’s good, Frannie.”

“I believe you. I was joking.”

“I get that you two may rub each other the wrong way personally, but he’s on this assignment because both Damien and I trust that he can keep you safe. And he’s right. He’s the best choice for the job. Promise.”

I smile. The one that flashes with real emotion. Not the one I’ve practiced for photo ops. “I know. I agreed, right? And seriously, thanks. Tell Jamie congrats for me. She’s really taking off.”

Pride shines in his eyes as his own smile lights his face. “She really is. She was starting to believe she’d never land a starring role in a major movie, and now it’s about to start shooting.”

“But you never doubted.”

“No,” he agrees. “I never did. I have good instincts that way.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Simon has good instincts, too. I want your word you’ll trust him.”

“I’m paying for those instincts, aren’t I? Of course, I’ll trust them.”

“Frannie…”

“Yes,” I say, without the crassness of cash mucking up my words. “I will let the man do his job and keep me alive. But if he fails, I’m coming back to haunt all of you.”

His cheek dimples with his smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. And Frannie, for God’s sake, if you think of something that might help, just tell him. Don’t overthink it. If he changes his mind and tells you that you need to leave the con tomorrow, you do it. Remember, we’ll have a team there, backing him up. You’re covered, okay?”

“You’re just chattering to run up my hourly bill,” I tease, giving him a quick hug. “Now go.”

This time, he really does, and when I turn around after closing the door behind him, Simon is nowhere to be seen.Great. The moment I’m alone, my bodyguard disappears.

I frown, fully intending to give Simon grief for disappearing after fighting so hard to be the point guy. But then he steps through the arch and walks toward me, looking for all the world like he owns the damn room.

“Where were you five seconds ago?”

“You were talking with Ryan. I made myself scarce. I thought you might need a final moment to complain about me,” he adds, the corner of his lip twitching.

“You thought right,” I say, fighting my own laughter. I hesitate, then clear my throat. “Listen, I get that we rub each other the wrong way. I’m not sure if it’s our personalities or the situation, but it’s the truth. Even so, there is one thing we agree on—we don’t want me dead. Me for obvious reasons, and you because I’m sure you’d get ribbed at work if I end up a corpse.”

“Yes, the hazing would be unbearable. That’s definitely my primary motivation.”

I ignore him. “So let’s just latch on to our mutual desire to keep me breathing and go from there.”

He’s standing beside the round table that dominates the middle of the entryway, and he takes four long steps toward me, which puts him close enough that I can practically hear his heartbeat, and the proximity is disconcerting.

I don’t, however, move. That would be giving in, and that’s something I never do. At least not unless there’s an advantage to me.

“Mutual desire,” he says, his voice pitched low. Sensual.

“Excuse me?” My head is spinning, and I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.

“You said we shared a mutual desire.” He moves even closer. “A desire to keep you alive. And we do. So you listen to me, Francesca. You do what I say. You obey my instructions. You answer my questions so we can find whoever is sending you those letters. You do that for me, and we’ll both get what we want.”

And then, while I’m standing in my entryway blinking like a fool, my mouth completely dry, he turns and walks into the great room, his words flowing back to me.“We’re leaving in ten. If you want to change, now’s the time to do it.”

“Leaving?” For a moment, I simply gape, then I hurry after him, my heels clicking on the tile. “There’s an entire team outside upgrading my home into a fortress, and we’re just going to leave?”

“One, the job is to keep you safe, not hold you prisoner.” He tilts his head as if studying me. “I believe you made that point yourself not half an hour ago with the con. You pretty much threatened a mutiny if anyone tries to hold you back.”

I grimace because he’s right.

Even so, I aim my most domineering glare at him now. “I have a specific reason for going to the con. As far as I know, your outing is nothing more than a jaunt for you to go grab a donut.”

“I need to run by my place.”

“Excuse me?”

He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans casually against my wall. “I need my things.”

I blink as I realize the bigger ramifications of his words. “Wait. You’re staying here?”

One brow rises, giving him a decidedly rakish appearance. “You expected me to stick close and protect you from the nearest Motel 6?”

The truth is, I hadn’t thought about it at all except in some vague way. Like taking my morning walk on the beach with him behind me in a leather coat and dark glasses, fresh out of Central Casting.

Or better, maybe I’ll be out to dinner, and he’ll be standing casually behind me in a suit. I can get on board with that. Because no matter what else he might be, Simon Barré is the kind of man every designer imagines. A guy who projects a rugged elegance. The kind of man who could make any outfit look good.

I clear my throat, realizing that my thoughts have gone dangerously and uncomfortably astray. “So go. I can stay here. The property is crawling with agents right now. They’re still doing all that outside stuff, right?”

“No,” he says.

“They’re not?”

“You’re not staying.” His eyes are on mine, and I expect him to elaborate. He doesn’t; instead, he simply holds my gaze. Not a challenge so much as an exploration.

I match him, but it’s not easy, which surprises me. I’m the woman who stares down anyone who dares to gawk at me. I genuinely love my fans, but I don’t love feeling like a bug under glass. Still, I know it’s an inherent part of celebrity—that sense of being on display, that other people feel entitled to look you up and down as if they’re judging the size of your ass and the knobbiness of your knees. Sometimes, it’s just a fan, basking in being that close to someone they’ve let into their homes so often the actor truly feels like an old friend.

But most of the time, the glances feel assessing—as if they’re determined to find a flaw. As if the fact that I might have a blemish makes them a better person. Or it feels pervy, like all I’ve been doing my whole career is providing a mental picture for some dude to jack off to.

That’s not how it feels with Simon.

His gaze feels appraising, yes, but also warm. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. Not the me on screen but the real me I hide behind my eyes. And for a moment—one sweet, wonderful moment—I want to open to him. To share all my secrets and fears.

But that’s me living one of the fantasies I play out on the screen. The kind where the hard and broken girl finally opens herself to the guy and finds true love.

That’s not real life, though. That’s just the movies.

I know that better than anyone.

This isn’t the third act. He’s not the hero. And the only reason he’s looking at me with such intensity is because I’m a client and he’s taking my measure.

I break first. “Just go. I’ll be here when you get back, trapped in my house.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Why?”

He moves closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away and regain some of my personal space. “Because you’re my responsibility,” he says. His voice is gentle, but his eyes are hard. They’ve captured me, and I feel myself tumbling into their deep, green depths. And that, I think, is a dangerous kind of fall.

“Can we just fucking go?” I snap as I lurch backward, needing space between us. “Or is staring at me part of your master plan to keep me safe?”

“Sure. We can go,” he says, stepping past me toward the door as if my words have no sting at all. “As for staring, I was just sussing you up.”

“And?” The word’s out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

“Eh,” he says, then heads through the door, leaving me to follow as I nurse the unexpected sting left by that single, throwaway word.