Chapter Four

Chapter Four

She was getting under his skin.

No doubt about that, and the simple truth annoyed the hell out of him. Francesca Muratti was gorgeous and snarky and irritating and fascinating, and he really didn’t want to like her because he knew only too well whatever bits he actually did like were as fake as the chimera she projected onto screens all over the country.

So no, he didn’t like her. But maybe he respected her. A little, anyway.

“Grab your purse if you need it,” he said, pausing before opening the front door. “We’ll go check in with the team, then head to my place.”

“I’m not allowed to stand by myself in my own kitchen, but we’re going to traipse around the yard instead of heading straight for your car?”

“Yeah, well, I’m over this assignment. Figured that was a good way to wrap up this gig fast.”

She cocked her head and gave him a death stare, but he saw amusement in her eyes and, dammit, his respect for her ratcheted up a notch.

She grabbed a bag from a small table by the door and slung it over her arm. “Fine.”

He waited for her to argue, and when she didn’t, he opened the front door, then waited some more. Still no argument. Instead, she lifted her chin then stepped past him onto her massive front porch. He followed, more impressed by her courage than he wanted to admit. He was confident all was fine, but he could understand how she might still be nervous. And yet she was trusting him.

Or, if not trust, she was trying to prove something to him. Well, he’d take it.

“This way,” he said, leading her down the steps, then along the path that led to the side yard. The fence had a code, and he entered it, then held the gate open as she stepped through. The fence was solid, surrounding three sides of her five-acre yard, with the fourth being a cliff drop-off to the beach below, which used to be accessible by an iron staircase. The team had removed it early that morning, and after the threat was neutralized, they’d re-install it. But in the interim, no one was sneaking up the cliff to Francesca’s land.

As for the fence itself, it had provided a modicum of protection, but with the upgrades the team had finalized today, it was now state of the art.

They moved past the pool, her heels clicking on the tile decking. When he stepped off the tile and into the grass, he heard her sigh. “If you’d told me we were coming back here, we could have gone out the back door. Plus, I would have slipped on some loafers.”

He turned to face her and watched as she kicked off the pale pink shoes, then left them on the deck as she moved quickly toward him, bare feet in the cut grass.

“You’re not picking them up?”

She quirked a single, perfectly plucked brow. “You think they’re going to get lonely?”

“Aren’t they Jimmy Choos or something? Those things probably cost more than my car.”

“They’re Gucci, yes, but they’re still shoes. I’m sure they’ll survive the trauma of temporary abandonment. Well?” she said a moment later as he stood staring at her, stopped short by his surprise at her words. “What are we waiting for?”

A good question, and since his only answer was that he’d been waiting for the shock of liking her to fade, he ignored her and started to cross the yard, trusting her to keep up with him. Right now, she was a client. A potential victim. Of course he had empathy and professional concern. It would be later, when she put on the Hollywood hat, that his skin would prickle. It would happen. It was inevitable. And then it would be on him to stay professional. Because he wouldn’t like that Francesca. He knew how selfish Hollywood types were. How willing they were to walk over anyone in order to get what they wanted. To lie. To cheat. To abandon the people they professed to love for nothing more than the promise of those lights and cameras.

Yeah, he knew the type well. So he’d protect Francesca because that was the job. But he damn sure wouldn’t like her.

He glanced down, not wanting her to see his expression, then noticed that without the shoes, the hem of those perfectly tailored silk slacks was dragging in the grass, and she didn’t even seem to care. He felt his whole body tighten, not certain if he was disgusted by her casual treatment of something so expensive, or impressed that she clearly wasn’t one of those women whose entire day might be ruined by a grass stain.

He remembered when Kristen got the job at the agency, then came home insisting that she had to revamp her entire wardrobe because she had to look like someone who should be in front of the camera, not behind a desk. He’d been amused at first, assuming she was joking, but after that—

“Simon?”

“What?” he snapped, feeling a tinge of guilt that he was taking his personal shit out on her. But she was a Hollywood ice queen. She could take it. Thick skins, massive egos, and a hell of a survival instinct. The defining characteristics of those who thrived in LaLa Land. He’d seen it firsthand, after all.

She hesitated, looking around the yard. He saw Mario and the rest of the team by the cliff’s drop-off and assumed she’d head that direction. Instead, she hugged herself, then said, “You’re really sure this is okay?”

Her voice was low, as if she was afraid the question would offend him. “I mean, I know Damien and Ryan trust you, and—Oh, hell. Are you really sure? That the outside is safe? For now at least?” Her voice rose in pitch so that there was no mistaking her genuine fear. “I mean, hey, I know you don’t want this job, but your plan to trot me out for the slaughter seems a little much.”

She managed a smile to show it was a joke, but there was no disguising the genuine worry in her voice. Honestly, she might as well have just punched him in the gut.

Without thinking, he took her hand, a bit surprised when she didn’t pull away. Even more surprised when her fingers curled around his. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like a complete prick. “I’m an ass, okay? As tempting as it might be to take the easy way off this case and toss you over that cliff, I promise you, it’s safe. I should have told you so before we even stepped outside the house.”

“But earlier you said the system was down, and—”

“Mario texted me. The system’s back up and better than ever.”

“Should have told me,” she repeated. “Then why didn’t you? You dislike me so much that you want me scared?”

“Honestly, it slipped my mind. But that’s not even the point. You need to understand it’s not a question of like or dislike. It’s a question of you trusting me so that I can keep you safe. You don’t get to second-guess my decisions or ask for my reasoning. If I say jump, you should feel safe to jump. If I say we’re going outside, you say, Yes, sir. You don’t have to worry about asking why or if it’s safe.” He drew a breath, fighting down the unwelcome image of Francesca naked on her knees, her lips curled around those words. Yes, sir.

He cleared his throat, banishing the unwelcome and very unlikely image. “We both have a job here,” he said. “Mine is to assess and act and keep you safe. Yours is to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Her mouth twisted into an ironic smile. “You don’t even like me.”

“Don’t I?”

She lifted a brow and crossed her arms over her chest as if she was waiting for him to kiss the boo-boo and make it all better. Which meant she still didn’t get it. “Like has nothing to do with it,” he said. “Like doesn’t factor in at all. I don’t have to like you or the industry you work in to do my job. For that matter, you don’t have to like me. But you do have to trust me, and you do have to obey.”

“I’m not good at blindly following orders.”

“Then you’re a fool. You hired me for my skill and experience. I say jump, the only question you should ask is how high.”

Her teeth grazed her lower lip.

“I mean it, Francesca. I’m good at what I do. You didn’t hire me for my looks.”

“Definitely not your looks,” she said, her eyes raking over him in a way that seemed all too familiar and just a tad too appealing. “I mean, if we’re talking first impressions, it’s a miracle Ryan and Damien hired you at all.”

“Excuse me?”

“That body? That face? Not to mention your hair and your oh-so perfect beard stubble.” She threw off a shrug. “Bottom line, you’re too damn pretty. You’re made for a tumble in bed, not the cold, hard streets fighting bad guys.”

The thought of a tumble in bed messed with his head way more than it should, and it took him a full five seconds before he could think clearly enough to shake his head slowly. “I’m entirely unsure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

She shrugged. “Either works for me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Although maybe you really are trying to get me killed. I get blown away, you move on to the next thing.”

He took a step toward her. “Are you still worried? Because right now, I’m not. But I don’t want to make you uncom—”

“No.” She shook her head. “No. I’m just messing with you. Is it what you said before? About it being too soon? I mean, if you brought me out here, I know I’m safe. But what I want to know is why.”

He felt an odd surge of pride. Coming from her, the question was a compliment. “A few things. First of all, like you said. It’s too soon. But I don’t want to rest entirely on that assessment, as sure as I might be.”

“So there’s more?”

“There’s more.” He pointed toward Mario and Jasper and the others, all of whom wore black T-shirts with Stark Security stenciled on the back in large white letters and the company logo on the front. “For one, the system is back on line like I told you, and those guys know what they’re doing. Plus, there are notices surrounding the property in ten-foot increments that tell anyone who might be thinking about attacking that both your home and your property are protected.”

He pointed to a few of the cameras mounted on trees, poles, and under the eaves of the house. “There are also outfacing cameras all along the perimeter, as well as a perimeter breach warning system. I’ll grant you there’s still the possibility of a breach by a long-range sniper, but I already told you why I think that’s a minimal risk at the moment.”

She grimaced. “This whole thing is probably some tabloid reporter’s new scheme for getting all the dirt.”

“It fits,” he said. “Hollywood—destroying journalism one crappy headline at a time.”

She rolled her eyes, then caught up as he started walking toward the cliff and the rest of the Stark Security team. “You think you’re insulting me,” she said, “but I agree with you. Entertainment reporting is a far cry from journalism. As for actors and current events, we tend to be a well-informed group.”

“Glad to hear it. But we’re not debating current events.”

“Thank God for that.”

He glanced over and saw her quick smile. At almost three, the sun was above them at an angle, and its rays brought out the auburn highlights in her velvet black hair. It hung loose around her face, softening her sculpted features. She was, in a word, beautiful. And it irritated the hell out of him that he not only noticed that, but was taking the time to think about it.

“—than a newspaper.”

He shook himself out of his trance. “Sorry. What?”

She shot him an exasperated glance. “How you’re going to protect me if you can’t even pay attention to me is entirely beyond my ability to comprehend.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

She wrinkled the perfect nose that probably cost a fortune. “I was saying that even though I stay up on the news, on the whole, I’d rather read a book than a newspaper.”

“Yeah? I would have thought you’d say a screenplay.”

She gave a little shudder. “Hardly. That’s for work. Books are leisure.”

“Bet you read lots of adaptations.” He kept a straight face, knowing he was baiting her.

“No.”

He came to a stop, taking her hand and pulling her to a halt beside him. For a moment, he thought she was going to stay like that, her hand in his, soft and warm. Then she glanced down, raised her brows, and tugged her hand free.

Across the lawn, Mario looked toward them, his hand raised in a silent question. Simon ignored him; what else could he do? He was busy baiting the movie star, and, honestly, having a hell of a lot more fun with her than he’d expected. “All right, princess,” he said. “Tell me what you’re reading right now.”

“The Stand. Stephen King.”

“Of course you are. The most adapted man on the planet.” He had no idea if that was true, but it seemed like a reasonable guess.

“The books came first. I got addicted to him when I was a kid. Read Carrie, got hooked, and I’ve been reading and re-reading him ever since.”

“So you’re into horror. What else?”

“Psychological thrillers. Gone Girl was great.”

“Another adaptation.”

She wrinkled her nose but otherwise ignored him.

“And I read romance. I’m reading a fabulous Regency series by Darcy Burke. The Untouchables.”

“So it’s another adaptation. Brian DePalma, Costner, De Niro, Connery. Come on, Francesca, just admit it. With you, it’s all about the flicks.”

“Wrong story. I told you. It’s a Regency romance series, and it’s awesome.”

“But not adapted?”

“No,” she said, “but it should be.”

“There you go. A typical Hollywood gal. All about the adaption.”

“No, dammit, you’re not hearing me. I’m—”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

Her eyes widened. “I will get you back.”

“You can try,” he said, then hurried across the lawn toward Mario while she tried to keep up with his long strides.

And the weirdest thing of all? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun teasing a woman.