Evangeline

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The fire in Gabe's eyes ignites every nerve in my body.

His jaw hardens, the tiny muscle in his neck throbbing erratically before settling into a steady rhythm. He's torn between maintaining professionalism, something he clearly struggles with, and speaking his mind. I almost wish he would just to put me out of my misery.

"The car's here," he says instead, checking his watch. He rests a hand above my ass, fingers grazing the fabric of my dress in a not-so-accidental way as he guides me into the car.

I hate it. Hate how flustered and hot he makes me feel. Hate that all I can think about is that day in the dressing room, the heat spreading between my legs as he stood behind me, the urge to grab him and kiss him. I'd hoped our time apart would knock some sense into me, but if anything, it's made me want to kiss him more.

That's my problem––I always want what I can't have.

The car pulls out of the driveway as I try to relax, speeding down the winding roads of Bel Air. Gabe goes over tonight's plan: the entrances and exits at the exclusive Red Lace Club where I'm meeting Jude, the distress signal—a tug on my earring—and strict instructions to stick close to him at all times.

I'm dreading it. The Red Lace is the kind of place I'd never be caught dead in under normal circumstances—a private, upscale club that looks classy from the outside but is basically a seedy strip joint inside. With a strict no-cameras policy and a five-thousand-dollar entrance fee, it's a playground for the wealthy, and Jude's way of showing off to me.

I cross my legs as the car picks up speed, pulling down my dress as it creeps further up my legs. Gabe follows the movement, sliding down my body to my tanned thighs, watching the hem rise slightly to expose more bare skin.

This is the hardest part of our PR plan so far. Lilith got a tip-off that my father's trial date will break tomorrow, so the night I've been dreading—where Gabe watches me make a fool of myself to impress some rich movie star—has been pushed forward.

I try not to feel guilty. Using someone for their fame feels wrong at its core, I can't deny that, but Jude isn't innocent in this. He knows the game well, and being seen with yet another beautiful woman enhances his image as much as it does mine.

"I want you in my line of sight all evening," Gabe says as we near the club. "Don't make me come looking for you, Piccola."

His warning sends shivers down my spine, reminding me of the lengths he'll go to keep track of me. I have no doubt that the second I step out of line, he'll have me over his shoulder and out of there before anyone can get a paparazzi shot.

"I won't," I say, "but I think we need to set some ground rules for tonight, considering your tendency for unprofessionalism. For instance, I don't want you intimidating Jude or listening to our date all evening."

Jealousy flickers in his eyes. At least, that's what I hope it is. Kat was under strict instructions not to tell him it was a PR date. He already thinks the worst of me. "Don't flatter yourself, Principessa. I'd rather be shot at. Again."

"You've been shot at?" I realize being a bodyguard is a risky job, but it never occurred to me that while they're busy protecting others, they're risking their own lives. "What happened? Did you get hit?"

His mouth curls slightly as he watches my reaction with amusement. "The shoulder. My client's friend discovered my client had assaulted his wife and tried to shoot him."

My mouth goes dry as I look him over, imagining the scar beneath his suit. He looks good tonight. Too good. Navy shirt and dark blue trousers, perfectly tailored. It doesn't matter what he wears; he always looks polished. "Do you blame him?"

"Not for a second," he says in that faint accent, "I'd have done far worse."

My lungs forget to do their job as I think back to the dressing room again, imagining his breath near my ear, hot and warm. A surge of pure heat fills my stomach, not just at the memory but the possibility. Seconds later, and his hot, wet mouth could have crashed onto mine; we'd be sitting here in very different circumstances.

"We need to talk about your stalker," Gabe says, his low voice crashing through every lewd thought, replacing the fire in my stomach with fear.

"What's left to discuss?" I check my watch, feeling impatient. I don't want to delve into stalker talk before a date, but of course, that wouldn't occur to Gabe. I doubt he's afraid of anything. "I've already shared all the information I have."

"Then I need to know more about your life," he says, his demanding tone eliciting a strange pleasure between my legs. "Maybe it's just a crazed fan, but I have to consider all possibilities."

"Easy, I don't trust anyone." It's not entirely true; I trust my mother, Kat, and Stu. But the idea of opening up to someone turns my stomach. Still, I understand his point. If he's assisting with this stalker, I can't keep him at arm's length forever. "Fine, then I get to ask about yours too." His expression begins to close off before I finish. "I need to know something about you if you want me to trust you."

His expression hardens as if he's about to say no, but then he reconsiders. "One question."

"It's going to take more than one."

His mouth quirks a little. "Ask your question, Piccola."

"Fine. Where are you from?"

"West Adams, but I was raised in Italy. My mother was Italian."

Was, as in past tense. I want to ask another question about his family, but something tells me it won't go down well. "Why did you move back?"

He remains silent. His thumb absently brushes over a scar on his knuckle, forcing me to wonder how he got it. "I didn't have a choice."

"That's not an answer."

"Ask another question."

I heed the warning in his voice. "Siblings?"

"Brother. His name is Mack."

I lean closer, not realizing I'm eating every word up. Who knows when I'll get another chance to crack through his hardened exterior? "Are you close?"

Tensing, he says, "I try to check in on him when I can, but this job means having to keep my distance."

"That sounds like a lonely way to live," I say, my stomach sinking when I realize that applies to me too. "So, why did you become a bodyguard?"

He shrugs. "I like protecting people, giving them a sense of safety and stability, even if it's just temporary. I know what it's like to feel as if you're living under constant threat." He turns now, eyebrow raised, signaling the end of my interrogation. "Was this your first break-in?"

"At this house, yes, but I had plenty at my parents' place—usually from deranged fans who worshipped my father. I can't count how many times I woke up as a kid to cops arresting some naked woman who'd broken in. That's why I'm pretty sure this is just another fan. I can't think of anyone else who would do this."

Maybe it's my imagination, but I could swear his eyes darken. Something protective crosses his face. "There's no one who might want to get back at you for something? A jealous friend or ex?"

I shake my head. While I get that he wants to consider all possibilities, and some celebrities might have enemies everywhere, that's never been me. I've maintained a flawless image both in public and in private, always eager to please others. With my small social circle, I can't imagine this stalker being anyone I know.

"My mother taught me not to trust anyone in Hollywood. People in this industry will do anything to get ahead, so I'm cautious about who I let into my life." Anticipating his thoughts, I add, "Clearly, I made a mistake trusting Kael."

My chest contracts as I say his name, the betrayal as raw as when I first found out he'd used me. When I gather the courage to look into Gabe's eyes again, I see a newfound concern etched in them. There's sympathy too, and beneath them, something dangerously protective.

Something I like.

"Anyway," I say, suddenly feeling vulnerable, "to answer your question, no, I don't have enemies."

I wait for another question, but instead, he glances away to check our location on his phone. I'm grateful for the pause in his questioning, as the knot in my stomach screams I've revealed too much to a man I'm supposed to distrust.

Sighing, I lean back against the leather headrest and adjust my tiny dress for the second time tonight. It was Kat's idea—something tight and revealing to catch Jude's eye and make him fall for me. But it's not exactly comfortable.

Gabe doesn't glance over, but I sense his tension, his body growing rigid as if he's attuned to my every move. "You shouldn't have worn that dress," he says, slipping his phone away. His tone is casual, but his eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, betraying the ease in his voice.

"Why?" I glance down at myself, running a hand down my sides for good measure. "You don't like it?"

His eyes lock with mine as he tilts his head, clearly seeing through me. I hadn't realized it when I put it on, but this dress isn't for Jude Henry. It's for him. "I wouldn't say that's the problem."

It's the reaction I hoped for, yet even so, watching his muscles tense, seeing him subtly fight for control, surprises me nonetheless. "What about Jude?" I ask, eyeing him carefully. "Do you think he'll like it?" I'm playing with fire, and the rigidity of his hard-set jaw suggests I'm dangerously close to getting burned.

Maybe it's my way of punishing him for taking two days off and leaving me to overthink what almost happened in the dressing room. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by the stalker and my father's trial, and I need something else to focus on. Or maybe I'm just a sadist who enjoys punishing the man I hate. Either way, I'm used to men practically falling at my feet, and Gabe's control is starting to bother me.

He loosens his top button and glances over again. His expression has shifted from mild annoyance to a clear warning. "If you're trying to make me jealous, you're wasting your time."

"I'm not," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. Heat prickles across my skin as he stares intently at me. "I know spoiled princesses aren't your type. Let's hope they're Jude's."

I look away first, sensing we're nearing the club when his fingers coil around my hand and pull me so close that I gasp.

Our faces nearly collide; I exhale softly, feeling flustered as my warm breath grazes his cheek. Despite my disdain for him—and believe me, I do despise him—I can't deny this attraction is unlike anything I've felt before.

"When," he says, his voice scarily controlled, "are you going to learn to behave, Evangeline?"

He says my name like it's velvet and poison, sweet and sour, innocence and sin. I raise my gaze, heart pounding, knowing he's desperate to be in control, and deep down, I want him to be. For too long, I've fought to keep up the perfect image, trying to please everyone else. The twisted part of me wonders how it would feel to submit completely to him.

For now, I try my best to appear calm, ignoring the heat that burns through his fingertips and scorches my veins. "When you make me."

His silence presses on my throat as if his fingers are wrapped around it. The carefully maintained facade of control begins to crack, piece by piece, but he clings to it determinedly. Neither of us is willing to give in. The car slows to a stop, breaking our standoff. Gabe's eyes flick to the window, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he releases my wrist.

I adjust my dress one last time, inhaling the last of his earthy cologne before glancing out at the swarm of paparazzi. Lilith leaked our location for tonight, which means by tomorrow morning, the news of our date will have spread online, perfectly timed with the date of my father's trial releasing.

Gabe and I exchange a glance, his way of asking if I'm prepared. It's strange how these little cues have developed in just a few weeks, how we've synchronized our actions. I nod to indicate I'm ready, and he takes my arm, leading me out of the car.

I'm getting far too comfortable with having him by my side. How did this happen? It's getting hard to remember that he's protecting me because it's his job and not because he wants to.

I want him to.

The white flashes scorch my eyelids as always, but I lean into Gabe instinctively, letting him shield me. He handles me with care, ensuring the paparazzi get their shots while maintaining a protective barrier. They've been relatively tame so far, but as soon as they get a date for the trial, the inevitable countdown starts, and I'll be thrown into a whirlwind of unflattering camera angles and headlines.

As we near the club, Jude appears at the entrance, flashing his award-winning smile for the paparazzi. His arrival sparks a media frenzy as they clamor to snap his picture. Gabe's hold around my waist tightens, his fingers tracing a fiery path through the sheer fabric of my dress. A sudden heat rushes through me, wishing his fingers would sear through to my skin.

"Try to behave yourself," Gabe says in my ear as we approach the entrance. "I know that might be difficult for you."

"Sir, yes, sir."

His face briefly angles towards mine, a hint of darkness in his expression sending a thrill through me. Suppressing it, I turn toward the club, stepping away from Gabe's protective shield and into Jude's arms. The pulsing rhythm of camera flashes surrounds us as I lean back slightly, offering a sultry smile to the paparazzi lining the sidewalk.

When we've gotten enough good shots, Jude leads me into the club without saying a word, resting his hand on my ass. If this weren't a publicity stunt, I'd kindly remove it, but for now, I play along. Gabe follows closely behind us, his expression as cold as ice.

Jude abruptly stops us before we disappear from view of the paparazzi. He turns around, angles his face directly to the cameras and kisses me squarely on the mouth, tongue and all. I'm so taken aback by the gesture that I freeze as cameras flash around us, accompanied by leering wolf whistles from a few of the sleazy middle-aged paps.

I'm livid. A kiss after our date would have been one thing, but to do it beforehand, without even speaking to me first? Then, realizing I need to play along for the media, I reach up and kiss him back.

He tastes of stale cigarettes and whiskey. I refrain from wrinkling my nose in disgust and pretend to enjoy it. But I don't, and somewhere behind me, Gabe is watching me kiss a man I have no interest in, silently judging me.

It only lasts seconds before we pull apart and head down the dim-lit hall to the Red Lace Club. I risk a look back and then wish that I hadn't. Irritation lines Gabe's handsome face. Or is it disgust? Whatever it is, it's gone in an instant, indifference radiating off him like a forcefield. I swallow hard as guilt, shame, and regret wash over me in waves. But what choice did I have? Reject Jude's kiss in front of the cameras? Show my disgust? That would have only made things worse.

We keep walking, the thumping house music pounding in my ears, making it nearly impossible to hear Jude which, after the stunt he just pulled, might be for the best. He guides us into one of the private alcoves near the bar, his gaze fixed firmly on my chest. Gabe walks past us without glancing my way, positioning himself close by the bar.

"They loved you out there," Jude says, his mouth practically devouring my ear, "and I'm not surprised. You look beautiful tonight."

I tilt my chin to look at him through the strobe lights, into those green eyes. Men like Jude are too perfect for their own good: flowing hair, bright teeth, not a single pore or scar to be seen. He's beautiful in the classic sense, but the pretty boy look has never really done it for me.

"Thank you," I force myself to say. "You don't look so bad yourself."

He grins like he knows it and hails down a pretty blonde waitress who can't stop smiling at Jude. He returns the favor with a charming grin and orders a bottle of their most expensive champagne.

"Certainly, Mr. Henry," she says, squeezing his arm. "It's nice to see you again."

I wait for Jude to turn back to me before raising an eyebrow. "Seems like you're a regular here," I tease, trying not to flinch from his hand on my thigh. "The service must be top-notch."

"It is," he says, a lopsided smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "But the company is better."

"Two compliments in five minutes. You must be trying to get on my good side, Mr. Henry."

"How am I doing?" he asks.

I shrug coyly and glance at Gabe. He's watching me—maybe he has been the whole time. His eyes are dark, intense, practically undressing me; the worst part? I'm undressing him too. Turning to Jude, I say, "Better than expected."

He smirks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer. "You know what?" he murmurs in my ear, "I think we're going to have a good time tonight, Evangeline. You seem like a girl who knows how to have fun."

"Maybe," I say, sipping my champagne, already foreseeing trouble. But what other option do I have? Distracting the press and the public is all part of Lilith's grand crisis management plan, and nothing is more distracting than an unexpected romance. "In the right company."

"In that case, I think I have something that might tip the favor." He reaches into his pocket as I look down, watching him pull out two ecstasy pills with a grin.

Oh.