Chapter Five

Chapter Five

“I couldn’t understand half of what Mario was saying,” I tell Simon as he maneuvers the flat streets of North Hollywood in a ridiculously boring Honda hybrid. Honestly, if I’d had to guess, I would have picked Simon for having the typical jerky male penis-mobile. So I’m not entirely sure if I’m impressed that he’s not all about the flash or disappointed that I read him wrong.

We’ve been out of the Malibu hills for a while, and I’m still reeling a bit with how light and easy our conversation has been for the past hour. We’ve talked about everything from my mysterious tormentor to local restaurants to my utterly failed attempt at surfing. Weirdly, he’s easy to talk to, something I didn’t expect after our initial prickly encounters.

Then again, he’s probably doing the same thing I am—sucking it up for the sake of the job. After all, we’re stuck together. Might as well make the best of it.

“I’m pretty sure English is his second language,” Simon says, pulling me back to my comment about Mario. “He was born speaking geek. And he speaks it damn well.”

“It sounded impressive, that’s for sure.” I think about the dark-haired man with the easy smile and intelligent eyes. “He’s so young, though. He heads up the entire Stark Security tech team?”

“He looks young, but I think he’s in his early thirties, and yeah. On the tech side, he’s the guy in charge. Pretty sure he started out as one of Stark’s protégés at Stark Applied Technology, then moved over here. The guy knows his stuff.”

“Hmm.” I glance at Simon, trying to judge his age.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “You’re wondering about my resume.”

“I am not,” I lie. “Except, okay, yeah. I am. I mean, I trust Damien and Ryan, but…well, I have no idea why you’re qualified to do this,” I say, gesturing at myself.

That dimple of his appears. “This being you?” We’re at a red light, and he turns his head to look at me, his eyes skimming lightly over me, all the way from my head to my toes. “Believe me, Frannie, I’m very well-qualified to do you.”

I glare at him, but that’s only to hide the fact that my entire body is tingling. A reaction to not only his use of my nickname, but also from his slow inspection. A fact which has well and truly fired my very famous temper. Because this man is annoying, and I definitely don’t want to be attracted to him. Really.

But apparently, I’m walking proof that you don’t always get what you want because, yeah. I’m attracted. Very attracted.

Which means my new goal is to keep that little factoid to myself.

Fortunately, I’m saved from having to come up with a cutting-yet-flirty comeback by the sharp chime of my phone. I frown, irritated that I forgot to put it on silent, then suck in a sharp breath when I see the text message. “Fucker,” I mutter, then silence the thing and shove it down into my purse.

“What was that about?”

“It’s nothing.”

He hits the brakes at a red light, then turns to face me. “Fight with a friend or a shitty contract negotiation?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then tell me,” he demands.

“Excuse me? It’s really none of your—”

“Isn’t it?”

I start to snap that being harassed by irritating reporters isn’t something I’m keen to share, then wince as the truth smashes into me with the force of a wrecking ball. “I’m an idiot,” I say.

“Is that so? Want to tell me why?”

I don’t, but considering I hired him for this very thing, I suppose I need to. “There’s a reporter who’s been trying to get me to talk to him,” I admit. “About some stuff that happened a long time ago.”

“And you said no.” His voice is flat. Even.

“It’s not about me. He wanted to talk about my best friend from when I was a kid.” I feel my throat thicken as the memories come back. “She—she died. It was horrible. All over the news. They interviewed me back then, and it’s not something I want to dredge up for some bullshitBright Eyes reboot article.”

“Why aren’t you signing on for that?” he asks, pulling into the driveway of an adorable little duplex. “I thought you and Aaron went way back.”

“You know about that?” Aaron had been a green production assistant on the Bright Eyes set when I first met him, and by the time I left the show, he’d worked his way up to being an exec at the studio, overseeing not only Bright Eyes, but a dozen other shows in various stages of development.

Now that he’s joined the Hollywood elite with Freeway Flix, he’s working to develop a reboot of the show that had launched both our careers. And, yeah, he wants me to be part of it.

I’d rather eat glass.

“Why?” Simon asks when I tell him that I turned down Aaron’s very generous offer to have me onboard for at least the first season.

I shrug, then look out my window. “I’ve moved on. Not keen on going backwards.”

“And?”

I snap my back straight as I whip around to face him, hating him for being so damn perceptive. “And nothing. My career, my choices.”

He doesn’t react, but I can feel him studying my face. I stay completely still, forcing myself not to explode. Not to lay into him and demand to know who the hell he thinks he is.

“So that’s why the reporter’s been bugging you? He wants to know why you’re not working on the reboot? Why not just talk to him? Tell him you’re in a different place in your career and be done with it.”

I push open my car door. “You were hired to protect me. Not to do media intervention.” I slide out, then peer back inside, meeting those eyes that are looking back at me, flat and expressionless. Like he knows everything inside me but is determined not to let it show. “Stick with what you know,” I snap, then slam the car door.

He’s out of his side in an instant, then cocks his head sharply, indicating that I should follow him to the door. I do, then step inside when he opens it and ushers me in. The place is small, I’d guess twelve hundred square feet, with a tiny entrance hall that opens onto a living area that flows into a combination kitchen and dining area. Moving boxes are stacked behind a sofa that faces a media center with a television, sound system, and shelves for vinyl, CDs, DVDs, and books.

A sliding glass door leads to a small backyard, and I can see a tiled patio that leads to a grassy area with a hammock. The whole thing is enclosed by a stone fence.

“It’s cute,” I say, then nod at the boxes. “Did you just move in?”

“A few months ago. My place in Chicago is on the market.”

I take a seat at the small, round dining table. “So you’re new to LA?”

“Newly returned,” he says. “Born in New York. My mother dragged me here when I was twelve. I bought this place when I turned twenty. I planned to stay, but—well, I didn’t live here long. Started traveling, got into security. Ended up in Chicago working for Devlin Saint—he’s a friend of Damien and Ryan’s. So I turned this place into a rental. Now I figure it can be home base.”

I’m an expert at watching faces and listening to voices more than actual words. What I see and hear is pain, and I want to ask him. But that’s personal. And personal isn’t where I should be going with this guy.

So instead, I say, “It’s a great place.”

He scoffs.

“What?”

“We’re staying here tonight, princess.”

I bristle at the harsh tone. And the fact that I don’t understand where it came from. “I thought we were going back to my place.”

“Changed my mind. Sorry if the house is below your standards. Coffee?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply, just heads to the coffee maker and starts to fill the carafe with water. “I don’t have a fancy espresso machine. You’ll have to deal with Mr. Coffee.”

Now I don’t just bristle. I’m ramrod straight and one hundred percent pissed off. “What the fuck is your problem?”

He shoots me a hard look over his shoulder, then goes back to what he’s doing.

“Are you irritated because I said I like this place? One compliment and you morph into an ass? Oh, wait. You were already an ass.”

“Compliment? Try condescending pat on the head.”

“No. That’s not—”

“I mean, I know it’s not like your castle, and I’m sorry to make you go slumming, but I think it’s the best thing for the night, just in case we were followed. Better to stick for a bit, and I promise you, the security at this place is at least as good as what Mario just installed. It may not look like much, but I assure you it’s as safe as your fortress.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “And fine. I’ll sleep on the couch. For your information, you sanctimonious ass, I do like this place. It reminds me of the first house I bought when I finally—finally—moved out of Beverly Hills and that ridiculous cake-topper of a house my dad had me trapped in.”

“Trapped?” He puts down the carafe and looks at me. “In your fancy child star life?”

“Fuck. You.” I stand up, wishing I could just walk away from this guy. From his comments and questions and bullshit assumptions about some shiny perfect childhood, when the reality is I always felt like a prisoner in my own damn life.

But that’s not something I talk about, and now this bastard is painting some damned rosy picture, and because I was too stupid to insist that Ryan assign Leah, I’m stuck like glue to Mr. Holier Than Thou because someone is trying to kill me, and I really don’t know how—

Fuck.

My heart is racing and the world has gone blurry, and I realize I’m looking at him through tears. I push back the chair, then move the short distance to the couch. I kick off my shoes, then settle into the corner, my feet curled under me. There’s an olive green throw pillow, and I pull it close, then hug it tight to my chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I do not show vulnerability, and I do not cry in public. Not ever.

And yet here I am, about to lose it to a waterfall of tears and sobs in front of this utter and complete a-hole, and I don’t know if it’s because he brought up my dad or because he’s a jerk or because I’m just plain scared.

“Frannie…” He’s standing at the end of the sofa looking down at me, his face full of contrition.

“It’s Francesca,” I snap. “Just leave me alone.”

He frowns, then sits on the opposite end of the sofa.

I start to get up—if nothing else, I can find the bathroom, lock the door, and hide alone in there. But he puts his hand lightly on my knee.

“Hey,” he says.

I want to slap it away. Hell, I want to run away.

Instead, the tears start to fall, and right then all I really want to do is sink into these cushions and disappear.

“Francesca,” he says, “I’m sorry.” It’s that gentle voice that does me in. I can feel the band inside me that’s been holding everything. It’s tight, stretched to the limit, and now it just snaps, and all the words inside me come flying out, my voice hard and harsh and full of tears.

“I have done nothing—nothing—to give you reason to be such a goddamn prick to me, and every time I think that maybe you’re going to be just a tiny bit human, you prove me wrong. But I’ve let you under my skin. I’ve hired you. Hell, I’ve trusted you. And then you go and slash me with a knife. So you tell me, Simon. Why are you here? Why are you the one protecting me when as far as I can tell, you couldn’t care less if I live or die. Why, why, why?”