Evangeline

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Last night was the best sleep I've had in weeks.

A disturbing thought, considering Gabe was fast asleep down the hall and my house was almost broken into, but it's true. Knowing I wasn't alone, that someone like Gabe was nearby to protect me, made me feel safe for a change. And that's what scares me the most.

Fortunately, Gabe was gone by the time I woke up, saving me from any awkward encounters as I got ready this morning. He'd sent a brief message to say he'd be back for his shift, but that was the last I heard from him. Now, I'm in the kitchen, poking at my fruit platter, wondering where the hell he is.

I snatch my phone from the kitchen island, ready to complain to Stu when the front door opens. Gabe strolls through the kitchen as if he owns the place, wearing a black shirt that matches his soul and carrying a coffee cup.

"The car's here." He stops within arm's reach; the scent of his crisp aftershave tickles my nose as he hands me the coffee cup. "This is for you."

I take it from him, flinching at his touch, and feel the warmth spreading through my fingers. Maybe I'm just jaded from a lifetime of being duped, but his sudden kindness makes me wary. "What's this?"

A faint smirk crosses his lips. He leans against the counter across from me, his tan, tattooed forearm grazing mine. "It's a coffee cup, Piccola."

"I can see that, Gabriel," I say, keeping my eyes on him. He enjoys it when I look away, thinking he can unsettle me, but I won't give him the satisfaction. After begging for his help last night, I need to hold onto whatever control I can. "What happened to 'I'm not your slave, I'm not your boyfriend, and I'm not here to hand hold you?'"

He shrugs as he snatches a handful of my blueberries and pops them into his mouth. "Call it a peace offering."

I'm not fooled for a moment. This isn't about making peace; it's about pity. He saw how scared I was about the stalker last night, how I needed him, and now he feels sorry for me. Well, I don't want his pity.

"I appreciate the gesture," I say, taking a sip, surprised to find it's a caramel latte, "but it'll take more than a cup of coffee to make me forget what you did. Some begging, at the very least."

"I don't beg for anyone." He winks. "Not even you, Piccola."

Ignoring the sudden heat in my cheeks, I say, "That's what makes it a punishment, Mr. Loretto."

"Believe me." His voice comes low and fast in the silence, making me shiver. "Following you around is punishment enough."

Something dangerous settles in my stomach. I drop my gaze until it's firmly on his mouth, imagining for a moment, what it would be like to kiss him. Fireworks, I'm betting. Hot nights and hotel rooms come to mind, the kind of passion I've tried to avoid so far, having learned from my mother how dangerous those types of men are. And Gabe?

I have a feeling he's the worst of all.

"The feeling is mutual," I say, sliding off my barstool and getting to my feet. "If you're done stealing my breakfast, can we go?"

The corner of Gabe's mouth lifts as he places a hand on my lower back, guiding me outside to the waiting car. I try to push aside the sensation of his touch as I slide into the back seat with my coffee. I exhale when he joins me, telling the driver to head to The Beverly Hills Hotel.

For the first ten minutes, we drive in silence as I double-check today's schedule. The shoot is from 9:30 to 11:30, followed by a business lunch at 12:00. Kat will handle the security fitters at 2:00. My final appointment—a hair touch-up—is at 4:00, leaving me free for the rest of the evening.

I sigh when I remember the taxing morning I have ahead of me. Today's shoot is an important one, featuring one of my longstanding brand partners—an emerging skincare brand that fits all the criteria. They value simplicity over luxury and want ambassadors with flawless reputations. That means, despite not feeling up to it after last night, I need to grab all the opportunities I can in case the PR plan fails and my reputation is ruined.

"We should discuss what happens next," Gabe's low voice says in my ear, and for a brief moment, I think he's referring to us. "The security system will help keep you safe when Stu or I aren't around, but I'll need a list of all the messages from your stalker, along with the address from the flowers they sent. From now on, everything goes through me. You don't answer unknown calls or messages. You don't go out without telling me where you are, even if you're with Stu, and you don't touch a delivery unless I've checked it. I need to be prepared for when they try again."

I don't attempt to look at him. It's been hanging over me all morning, the one subject I've been avoiding like the plague. Last night's intrusion shook me to my core. Knowing there are people watching me is one thing, but the thought of someone breaking onto my patio terrifies me. "You think they'll try again?"

"They always do."

I close my eyes, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

"Hey." Gabe's low voice forces me to open my eyes and focus on his. "You don't have to worry about this anymore. I'll handle it."

I'll handle it. Three simple words, but I don't think I've ever heard them before. I'm usually the one taking care of everyone. It's hard to imagine what not worrying would feel like.

I continue to stare at him, catching myself wondering what he's like when he's not in bodyguard mode. Is he sweet? Caring? Considerate? My mind races with countless scenarios, most of them wicked.

"Two minutes," Gabe says as the car pulls up to The Beverly Hills Hotel. Paparazzi line the street, cameras ready to snap me in action, so I can't afford to worry. I paint on my best smile as Gabe shifts into protective mode, tucking me under his arm as he opens the door. It takes everything I have not to lean in closer and breathe in his cologne.

"Let them get a clear shot," I murmur as he helps me out. "My mother will kill me otherwise."

The paparazzi are on their best behavior, standing slightly back as I smile at each of them on the way to the lobby. Gabe stays close, closer than Stu, his hand never leaving my waist.

I turn to give them a better angle and, for a second, Gabe's hand slips, grazing the top of my ass. It's so quick that it must be an accident, but I feel it deep in my core. 

And I want more. 

He places his hand on my waist again as he guides me inside. Several hotel staff lead us to the conference room, where today's shoot is set up. I'm directed straight to the dressing room, and a familiar hair stylist air kisses my cheeks before ushering me into her stylist chair.

It's one of the more luxurious dressing rooms I've been in. Everything is cream crushed velvet, from the walls to the floors to the plush corner sofa. Several built-in closets line the wall, already filled with dozens of sample clothes for the shoot.

Gabe looks around too, one eyebrow raised, the expression on his face unreadable. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he impressed? Disgusted? He's mastered the art of the poker face, making it hard to tell. His eyes meet mine, and that tiny muscle in his jaw contracts.

You're a spoiled princess, I bet he's thinking.

You're an asshole, I think back.

I turn to the mirror, and for the next thirty minutes, it's a whirlwind of people pulling and prodding at my face and hair until I'm ready to scream. I twiddle the bracelet on my wrist, trying to keep my nerves at bay.

I haven't felt this nervous before a shoot since I was about fourteen, but the constant flow of people is putting me on edge. It's ridiculous; the stalker is probably just another one of my father's crazed fans and not someone I know. But the paranoia is already setting in, eating away at me bit by bit, taking with it the last of my composure and freedom.

Gabe must be bored out of his mind. He'll hate this part of my day, even more so than Stu, but I haven't once heard him complain about it. I don't know how he has the patience for it. It's bad enough that I have to be here, but at least I'm kept busy. Standing there for hours, constantly watching, assessing, must take complete control and discipline.

The funny thing? 

The twisted part of me wants to see him snap. 

My hair stylist has barely removed the curlers from my hair when the wardrobe team bursts in, insisting that Gabe wait outside as they fit me into the tiniest nude one-piece. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I see my cleavage practically spilling out and try to readjust myself.

Gabe chooses this exact moment to walk in, freezing in the doorway. His eyes find mine in the mirror's reflection, like if he looks right at me directly, he'll turn to stone. His judgmental gaze takes in the tiny bodysuit clinging to my body, hugging me in all the right places. I force myself to hold his gaze despite the flush of heat in my cheeks, daring him to say something.

He doesn't say a word. He's too professional for that. But for once, his poker face drops, and I catch a glimpse of something in his dark eyes that makes my heart beat twice as fast.

Feeling hot under his gaze, I clench my legs together and turn to my ringing phone, seeing my mother's name on the screen. Great. "Hello?"

"Darling, it's me," she says in an overly sweet baby voice, which means bad news is coming. "Do you have a second?"

"I'm in the middle of hair and makeup," I say, feeling several pairs of eyes on me, "I have that shoot, remember?"

"I remember, but I wanted you to hear this from me." She exhales slowly, then continues, "A date for your trial's father has been set. The media doesn't know yet, but it's only a matter of time before the news breaks. We need to stay ahead of this and be prepared. Lilith is arranging a date for you and Jude Henry as soon as the news leaks."

The phone slips slightly from my hand before I catch it, mindful of my surroundings. I suppose I should be grateful for the heads-up, but right before a shoot? "Thanks for keeping me updated." I glance at my eavesdropping stylist. "I'll talk to you later. Love you."

"I love you, baby."

I end the call and release a slow, shaky breath. Crying in a room full of people, one of which is the man I both hate and am attracted to, is about the worst thing I could do. Instead, I set my phone down and continue the casual conversation with my stylists as they tweak my outfit.

As soon as Gabe and I are alone, I meet his gaze in the mirror, finding it easier than facing him. If I don't look at him directly, maybe he won't do that thing where he constantly sees through my bullshit. "A date for my father's trial has been set. The news will break soon enough, and when it does, the paparazzi will become relentless. We need to be prepared."

To his credit, he doesn't give me the pitying look Stu would. He just nods, his face remaining the same unreadable mask of indifference I expect and prefer.

It's easier that way.

To my relief, the PA returns shortly to escort us to the shoot. I straighten my shoulders and engage in forced small talk as we make our way through the crowd to the set. There, Dean Harbon, the sleazy British photographer I've worked with before, leaps from his chair and pulls me into a hug.

"There's my favorite girl," he says. "You look stunning as always."

"Always the charmer, Dean," I say, air kissing his cheeks. "How's Charla?"

"Eh, we broke up," he says, patting my hip. "No great loss." He slides that same hand along my back, and I glance at Gabe. He's rigid, leaning against the wall with folded arms and a stern gaze fixed on Dean's hand. Is he... jealous? I shift my attention back to Dean, who's already briefing me for the shoot.

"The concept is au naturel," he's saying, gesturing to the beige backdrop behind the camera. "You'll be front and center, chest out, bodysuit clinging to your tits like the bronzed goddess you are." He winks and pats my ass again. "Got it?"

"Got it." With that, the PA positions me in front of the screen. I turn to face the camera, a sense of vulnerability creeping over me. Strangers surround me on all sides, their eyes fixed on me.

Including Gabe's.

Our eyes meet, and for a second it's as if he's the only other person in the room. Something about this shoot feels intimate all of a sudden, in a way it didn't before. I don't usually feel self-conscious around Stu or anyone else for that matter, at least not outwardly, but in front of Gabe? 

I might as well be naked.

Gabe's eyes darken with a flash of jealousy. He crosses his arms, thick muscles flexing as he scans the room for the hundredth time. Then slowly, jaw twitching, his eyes flick to mine.

"Alright, gorgeous," Dean says, "give me your best shot."

For the next twenty minutes, I follow Dean's commands, tuning out the rest of the staff as I strike various poses. His instructions echo across the studio: press my breasts together, open my mouth, tilt my head. He's acting as if I'm posing for Playboy and not a skin brand, but I know better than to speak up. In this industry, it's guys like him who call the shots; I simply fall in line.

My eyes fall on Gabe again, like I'm performing just for him. We're in another power struggle, seeing who will look away first. I tilt my head back, part my lips, and give him a seductive look as the cameras flash, but he doesn't back down. He just stares back, his gaze igniting a fire in my lower stomach that I can't put out.

I put one foot forward, about to step it up a notch when a hooded figure catches my eye in the back.

I freeze mid-pose, trying to make out their features through the flashing lights. Who is that, and how long have they been there? My instincts urge me to pay attention, growing louder with every passing moment.

"I want less deer-in-the-headlights and more seductive siren," Dean shouts from behind the camera.

I force myself to focus on the camera, but I can still feel his gaze, his shadowed face unsettling me. I glance at Gabe, who's staring right at me, oblivious to the hooded figure nearby.

The man steps closer, waiting.

Why isn't Gabe reacting? I try to call his name, but my voice fails me. Pressure fills my lungs, making it hard to breathe as he moves forward. It's him, it's him, it's him.

In one quick move, he suddenly yanks down his hood, and his security lanyard, previously hidden, is now fully visible. I release the breath I've been holding and close my eyes, waiting for the shaky feeling to pass.

When I open them again, Gabe is standing in front of me. "Evangeline," his voice is low, filling my ears as I stare into the distance. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I say, but my voice shakes, betraying me. I glance past Gabe to an impatient-looking Dean. "Give me a moment." Then I'm off, running in this stupid one-piece to my dressing room. Inside, I close the door and lean against the wall, taking deep breaths.

Gabe joins me a moment later, crossing the room until he's standing before me, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Tell me what happened, Piccola."

I shrug, waiting several moments for the embarrassment to pass before I speak. "I thought I saw what looked like a stalker, but it turns out I'm just a paranoid mess."

He frowns, his eyes softening in a way that surprises me. "Someone tried to break into your house last night," he reminds me. "I'd be concerned if you weren't paranoid."

"But that's the problem," I say, pacing back and forth, "I'm not just paranoid but powerless, which is the one thing I've always tried not to be." I run a shaky hand through my hair, wishing I were talking to anyone but him. "I can have all the security cameras and bodyguards in the world, but if someone gets through, the only person I have to protect me is me. Considering I nearly broke my wrist when I hit you, that doesn't bring me much comfort."

His eyes darken, deliberating something. Maybe he's remembering that night when I mistook him for a kidnapper, and my failed attempt to escape. Maybe he thinks I'm pathetic. "Come here."

Before I can question why or where, he draws me closer, spinning me until my back is against his chest. My heart races, a flurry of thoughts flooding my mind. The most urgent? Why does this feel so good? "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm teaching you how to throw a punch," he says, his large hand sliding from my waist to my hip, his fingertips burning a path along my bodysuit. "If it hurt when you hit me, your technique is off."

I feel my skin prickle under the weight of his hand. Now isn't the time, place, or outfit to learn how to throw a punch, but something won't let me move away. "Learning how to throw a punch won't save me from a stalker."

"No, but it'll make you feel safer," he says, positioning his mouth near my ear. "Protecting you from stalkers is my job."

Heat forms beneath his hand and shoots down my stomach, resting between my thighs. He's right, saving me from stalkers is his job, that thing my mother is paying him to do, so why did it sound like he wants to?

"Widen your stance." His hand continues down the curve of my hip and dips between my inner thighs, spreading them apart. "Push against the ground with your feet," he instructs, his breath warming my ear. "As you throw your punch, you want to turn your body and throw hard."

I can barely concentrate with him standing so close, but I manage to extend my arm, throwing it forward while turning against his body. "Was that hard enough?"

"Yes, Piccola." His voice sounds different. Strained. "Just like that."

Slowly, I turn until I'm facing him. His eyes meet mine, locked on me like I'm a target he can't miss. And for a moment, despite the risks, the absurdity, I feel the urge to reach up and kiss him.

I think I just might when the door suddenly flies open. The set's PA walks in and freezes, then slowly backs up. "I'm sorry to disturb you," she says, avoiding my gaze. "I came to see if you're ready to continue the shoot."

My throat tightens as I step away from Gabe, embarrassed. With my father's trial around the corner, a rumor about an affair with my bodyguard would be disastrous—a scandal I can't afford.

"I'm ready," I say, refusing to look back at Gabe as I follow her out.