Evangeline

__________

The second my Birkin buzzes, I know it's my stalker.

I pull out the phone, lying it flat on the bar's tabletop, and slide it toward my best friend. "You read it," I tell Kat, twirling a manicured finger around my martini glass. "I'm scared." 

Funny, because with a movie star for a dad and a model for a mom, you'd think I'd be used to the harassment by now, but this time is different. It's not just some troll commenting under one of my pictures or an overzealous fan on the street; this is my phone number.

Kat, who doubles as my longtime personal assistant, grabs my phone and leans back, smoothing her green dress. She always looks stunning, but tonight, with her long blonde hair pulled away from her face, framing her angular jaw, she looks like a model. She would be if it hadn't been for her producer parents keeping her out of the spotlight growing up. Unfortunately, my parents cared less about keeping me from it and more about thrusting me into it.

"I'm praying to the stalker gods that this one is a little more creative," Kat says, clicking the message. "I don't think I can handle reading about what a spoiled, no-job-having bitch you are for the tenth time."

I laugh, but deep down, I'm nervous. These messages have haunted me for weeks, and not even changing my number has stopped them. I used to brush them off, knowing it was the price of admission for life in the public eye, even if it was never my choice. But after the third number change, I'm beginning to feel anxious.

As Kat gets to work, I run a hand through my dark hair, trying to soothe my nerves. I should tell the police or my bodyguard, Stu. That would be the smart thing to do. But they'd only up my security—a change my mother, for some reason, has been advocating for months—and that scares me more than any stalker. In fact, it fucking terrifies me.

My therapist thinks it's unresolved childhood trauma. That my desire for freedom stems from growing up caged, not by bars, but by ever-present bodyguards and paparazzi. And maybe she's right, because when I think back to how life was during my father's heartthrob years, I can't breathe.

Luckily for me, by the time I returned to LA after college, my estranged father's fame had dwindled considerably. Now, I keep just one bodyguard, I'm able to step in and out of the spotlight when I please, and I have what, in this world, constitutes a semi-normal life. Until this stalker proves to be a serious threat, there's no way I'm giving that up.

With Kat still engrossed in my phone, I lean on the bar and try to catch the bartender's attention. As expected on a Friday night, the SkyBar at the Mondrian Hotel on Sunset is packed, full of Z-list celebrities and sleazy, rich men with too much money to spend. But it's the place to be for someone like me who still needs exposure now and then. By tomorrow morning, my picture will be plastered all over social media, with the Daily Mail gushing about my bronzed pins and praising me for being "brave" enough to step out after my breakup.

Sighing, I rest my arms on the marble counter, ignoring the leering guy two seats over to watch the stranger across the bar. He's a model, obviously, which isn't exactly unusual in LA. Tall, too—around six-five—with dark hair and a sleeve of tattoos snaking up both forearms, threading between tendons before vanishing beneath a crisp white shirt. The kind of Hollywood Bad Boy Kat would instantly fall for, consequences be damned, and the kind I've spent my twenty-three years determined to avoid.

Except, apparently, tonight.

He glances up, and a wave of heat curls through me when our eyes meet, settling in my lower stomach. His thumb glides over his shot glass, dark eyes moving from my hair to my lips, then lower. Not, I soon realize, to my cleavage, but my Panthère De Cartier Necklace.

"Well, that's valuable time I'm never going to get back," Kat says.

I jump like I've been caught doing something questionable and peer over her shoulder, nudging aside her blonde hair for a clearer view. "Anything I need to know?"

She shakes her head. "Not really. They're mostly ranting about your dad's latest movie flop and how embarrassing it is that he's dating someone your age, as if that's your fault."

What else is new? For as long as I can remember, I've had to work twice as hard to maintain a squeaky-clean reputation so I wouldn't be tainted by his. If there's one thing my mother instilled in me—besides a fear of love and a good skincare routine—it's that men in Hollywood can usually bounce back from a scandal. Women don't.

This, along with his absentee parenting, is why I've pretty much become estranged from my father since their divorce five years ago. I'm rarely seen with him outside of his premieres, and even then, it's just to keep the media vultures at bay.

My father is a father in name only.

"I'll email these screenshots over," Kat says, tapping my phone, "and I can change your number again tomorrow, but"—she looks up, eyes softening with concern—"I really think you should consider adding extra security until this is under control."

"I'll think about it," I lie, looking back toward the guy at the bar, but he's already gone. "For now, salut." I finish my martini and order another, ready to forget this whole stalker situation, when my phone vibrates. Turning slowly, I throw an exasperated glance at Kat before opening the message.

Nice dress, E. Red suits you.

The phone almost slips from my grip. I swivel on my barstool, heart pounding as I scan the dense crowd, searching for anyone remotely suspicious, but the place is so busy that my stalker could be anywhere.

Anyone.

"What's wrong?" Kat says, leaning closer. "What does it say?" Her eyes widen as she scans the message, her hand falling away. "Oh god. Does that mean he's here?"

I swallow hard, reminding myself to breathe. "It's fine," I say, but it's hard to tell who I'm trying to convince—her or me. "I'm going to signal Stu to call for a car. Just sit still."  

Across the bar, my bodyguard, Stu, is already muttering something into his earpiece. I frown, having seen that look only twice in the five years he's worked for my mother, and both times meant trouble.

Turning to face me, he gives a subtle nod toward the door. I grab my bag and hurry Kat toward the staircase, each click of my stilettos matching my racing heart. A few more steps, and we'll reach the safety of a car. I just need to get us out.

Stu suddenly joins us, his burly hand resting on my shoulder as he guides us down the steps. At six-foot-six, with a shiny bald head and tattoos covering every inch of his pale skin, he's the epitome of intimidation—exactly what I'm counting on to keep us safe right now.

We finally reach the ground floor, bypassing the lobby to escape through a back alley, and as soon as the spring LA breeze caresses my legs, my shoulders ease. Freedom.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and turn to Stu, struggling to match his pace. "Do we know who it is yet?" 

He doesn't answer, just steps ahead to the exit, preparing to guide us into a waiting car. But instead of a vehicle, safety, all I'm met with is blinding white lights.

"Evangeline," a voice from the crowd calls, "were you aware of your father's tax evasion charges before tonight?"

"Has a date been set for the trial?"

"Will you be accompanying your father to court?" 

I shield my face like I'm suddenly a kid again, trapped in another of my father's scandals, engulfed by the media storm. Powerless.

"Eva, get behind me," Stu barks, pushing paparazzi aside to make way, but they surge forward, swarming us like vultures drawn to fresh meat.

I stagger back into the alley, blinded by cameras and bodies pressing in on me. Another flash, scarily close, sears my vision, and in its lingering white echo, I see my freedom fading fast.

"Eva!" Kat yells, reaching for me.

"I'm here." My fingers stretch out, trying to protect her in the chaos, but the crowd pulls her away from me. I stumble again, my Jimmy Choos catching in a pavement crack, and suddenly I'm falling.

A hand grabs my waist just before I hit the ground.

Panic flickers through me, unable to tell if it's someone copping a feel or helping to steady me. I spin to find a thick, inked arm providing a barrier from the chaos. Stepping forward, he decisively carves a path through the crowd, guiding me briskly back into the hotel.

"Wait," I gasp, still shielding my face, "my friend—"  

"She'll be fine," cuts his low, accented voice. "Come on." 

His firm grip guides me forward, and I focus on matching his rapid pace, placing one foot in front of the other without falling. But either he doesn't understand how hard it is to run in heels, or he doesn't care because he doesn't allow me to slow even slightly.

We move through corridors, the stranger leading me down a service staircase as if he knows the place by heart. Each time I lag, he tugs my hand, compelling me to match his swift pace.

"Just wait," I pant, bending over as we reach the last step. "I can't feel my feet anymore." Raising my head, I get a clearer look at him—dark, piercing eyes, a strong jawline, and tattoos stretching across both forearms, the same ones I shamelessly admired earlier. "It's you," I say, but I've barely got the words out when he strides toward me, face a subtle mask of indifference. In one swift move, he wraps his arms around my thighs and throws me over his shoulder. "Hey!" I shout as he carries me down the rest of the steps. "Get your hands off me!"

Ignoring my protests, he lifts me higher, forcing my dress to bunch and his fingers to brush my thighs. A strangled breath escapes my lips, and I pummel his back as it hits me this isn't some white knight, but my stalker.

Hoisting me higher, he quickens his pace while I struggle against him, trying to see where we're going, but my view is obstructed by his broad back. I start to hyperventilate as my attempts to punch him fail; his body might as well be made of concrete.

"Please," I beg as we approach another door. "Whatever you want, I can—" But he swings the door open without a word, guiding us into an underground parking lot.

Something primal takes over as I strike his back and legs repeatedly. Nothing else matters now—not my father's arrest or the impending media storm. Only the stark realization that if I let myself be bundled into a van, I'm never coming back.

"People will look for me," I hiss, still hitting his back, "you're wasting your time."

"I wonder," he says, his Italian accent thicker than before, "what it would take to make you quiet."

My lungs expand as we round the corner and hear a car unlock. The stranger moves quickly, slowing in front of a black SUV. I give one last struggle, even while knowing it's no use. "If you think you're getting me into that car, you are out of your mind."

With a heavy sigh, my stalker removes me from his shoulder and dumps me on my feet. I spin to flee, but his strong arms encircle me, pinning me against him. "Just let me go."

"Not until you relax," he says, spinning me into him. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me upright and close. As I inhale, his cologne—dark, earthy, with a hint of spice—sends a warm surge through my stomach.

I glare at him, conscious only of our chests rising, his dark eyes locking on mine. His eyebrow lifts, grip on my stomach intensifying—a punitive touch that burns through my dress.

"Calmed down yet, Piccola?"

Ignoring the shiver his voice evokes, I relax in his arms. He hesitates, then shifts his hands to my hips, easing his hold. The moment I'm free, I cry out, kneeing him in the stomach twice. His chest stiffens upon impact, but he hardly flinches—either because this man takes stalker to another level or he's trained for such hits. He seizes me again, each breath drawing us nearer, sparking a whip of heat through me.

I stop struggling for a moment, only able to focus on my thundering heart. My stalker leans in with his chest against my back, lips grazing my ear, maintaining his punishing grip. "Next time," he says in a low, scolding breath, "wait until I've let go to attack."

I shut my eyes, ignoring the gentle brush of his breath against my skin, accepting my fate. "Fine. You want to kill me? Do it. You'd be doing me a favor after tonight anyway."

"What I want," he says darkly, steering me toward the car, "is to do my job, which you're making incredibly difficult."

"Stalking and manhandling strangers is your job?" 

"Ensuring your safety is my job," he says, a wicked glint in his eye as he opens the passenger door, "the manhandling is just a perk."

The urge to hit him intensifies. I'm about to land another blow to his chest, if only for my own satisfaction, when everything clicks. The media frenzy, my mother's insistence on hiring more security, his job—this isn't my stalker manhandling me.

He's my bodyguard.

In the seconds that follow, it feels like the wind has been knocked from me. I slump against the car door, nausea sweeping over me as it dawns on me what this means. My mother knew. To be charged with tax evasion means the investigation has been going on for months. She knew this was coming. That's why she arranged for extra security.

"Evangeline," he says, his voice a mix of velvet and sin, "get in the car."

I slide into the passenger seat, lacking the strength to resist, while he settles into the driver's seat. Turning to face him, my eyes fix on his crisply tailored white shirt, stretched over impressively broad shoulders. He catches my gaze, slowly unfastening his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves to reveal more of his tanned, muscular forearms.

My eyes find his tattoos, following the intricate patterns that wind down his arms and over his scarred knuckles. I'm used to seeing clean-cut, pretty-boy actors with their soft, delicate features, but this man is all ruggedness and hard muscle.

Taking his time, he checks the mirrors and starts the engine. With one hand on the steering wheel, he uses the other to press the earpiece in his ear, giving me a disapproving glance. "Morelli? The princess is secure. We'll meet you back at the house."

My eyes narrow at princess. I hate him. "In case no one's ever told you this," I say, shifting away from him as far as I can, "you are the least professional bodyguard I have ever met."

His lips form a slight tilt, and he maintains an unwavering gaze as if something I've said amuses him. "I got the job done, didn't I?"

"You call this getting the job done? You made me think you were kidnapping me." I clench my jaw, turning to the window like I can't stand to look at him. I can't. "If you cared about your job, you'd be on your knees begging for my forgiveness right now."

"I got you here safely; you should be thanking me," he says, his dark gaze flitting to my lips. "Whether or not you're on your knees is up to you, Piccola."

The words strike with the same iron-hot force as a lashing, searing the space between my thighs. I put it down to the fact that it's been three months since I've had any romantic interaction to speak of and not because getting on my knees for this man is the slightest bit appealing. "You are so fired, asshole."

"Gabe."

I blink once, twice, three times for good measure. "Excuse me?"

"My name is Gabe," he says, the corner of his lip lifting. "Gabe Loretto."

"Yeah, well, I hope you've dusted off your resume, Gabe Loretto. You're going to need it."

His eyebrow quirks, as if a retort is poised on his lips, but the insistent buzz of my phone interrupts him. I pull it from my bag, scrolling past a sea of messages and stark headlines to zero in on Kat's text. Before I can click it, another message appears at the top, stopping me in my tracks.

Catch you next time, E.