Gabe

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It's been two days, but the image of Principessa in that nude bodysuit is stuck in my head.

I wanted to think I was immune to her charm, that her superficial personality was enough to deter me from thinking about her, but deep down, I know if not for that PA walking in, I'd have kissed her or worse.

My grandmother, a devout Catholic, would have called it divine intervention, and maybe she's right. I'm capable of many things, all terrible, but the moment I let myself go there, I'm not just a thief—I'm irredeemable. Stealing from a spoiled princess is one thing; I can convince myself it's for a necessary cause. But fucking her first?

That's a line even I won't cross.

Leaning back in my desk chair, I scan the several office cubicles that make up GSS's headquarters, not surprised by the hustle around me. Spring seems to be a busy season for the wealthy, so we've got everyone on deck, filling up every meeting room and office.

I check my watch again and wince. I've got a meeting with Daniel Redwood, head of GSS, in thirty minutes, and it's got me on edge. That's the problem with bending the rules—you're always paranoid about getting caught. And when it comes to Evangeline? I've broken more rules than I can count. If Redwood or anyone else here were to find out about how unprofessional I've acted, let alone what Denaro and I have planned, even my good standing won't save me. I'll be done. Kicked out of GSS and handed over to the cops, where I'll likely spend the rest of my life rotting in some jail cell.

It's what I deserve.

Before this deal with Denaro, I was well on my way to rising through the ranks as one of GSS's top bodyguards. Redwood loves to dangle pay raises in front of his best employees, and my only real competition was his son, Reed—the heir to GSS. 

Not that I had anything to worry about. As far as I see it, Reed's a playboy riding on his father's success, not a real bodyguard, which means if it wasn't for my father, I'd have moved up the ranks slowly the way I was supposed to and I wouldn't have had to pay off any debts.

Attempting to distract myself, I face my laptop and continue working on Evangeline's stalker. Stu aside, it's the biggest threat to our plan at the moment, and ignoring it could not only mess up the heist but put Evangeline in danger. It makes sense to focus on it now so later, I don't have to.

The problem is, I don't have much to work with. Ever since that night in her dressing room, the princess has been avoiding me. That, paired with the fact I've had the last two days off, means I haven't had a chance to interview her.

My other avenues led to dead ends too. The flower shop Kat forwarded the details of refused to give me an address, and the messages she sent me are all so different that I can't piece together any similarities. Until I see Evangeline tonight for my shift, I'm just grasping at straws.

Still, I'm nothing if not persistent. I open a new document, thinking about the people closest to her who might have potential motives. They say most stalker situations involve someone known to the victim, and while in Evangeline's case, it's more likely to be an obsessed fan, I'm leaving no stone unturned.

Her mother is an obvious suspect. Wanting to control her daughter and enforce more security, what better way than to fabricate a stalker? Or maybe it's Kat, jealous of her best friend's fame and seeking revenge. Far-fetched, maybe, but I've known for a long time you can't trust anyone—not even family.

Especially not family.

Just as I'm about to write down her father's name, Denaro messages demanding more intel as if the several photos I'd taken of the house using the security system I had installed weren't enough. He should have the entire layout of the land by now, but apparently, I'm not moving fast enough.

The truth is, I don't have anything else to share. Until Evangeline trusts me enough with access to the safe room, I can't get a clear picture of the type of safe we're dealing with inside. We can't afford to go in blind on the night either, especially when we need to get in and out quickly. Every detail, no matter how small, needs to be planned and accounted for.

Unfortunately for Denaro, that takes time.

Ignoring him, I stare at the clock on the far wall, counting down the hours until my shift starts. Not because I'm looking forward to it, but because I want to get it over with. Every minute of my day seems to revolve around her, even on my days off. It's no wonder she's stuck in my head.

The feel of her thigh beneath my hand flashes in my mind—a memory I've been working overtime to suppress. How soft her skin felt as I slid my palm between her thighs, parting them for me. She opened them instantly, eager to follow my command, and it took everything I had not to lift her onto the vanity and fuck her right there. As controlled as she pretends to be, something tells me she's just as willing to please.

Fuck. I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to focus on work. I've always hated staring at screens. I'm good at using my hands, solving problems, and protecting people, not typing.

At least I'm not Stu right now. According to the PR schedule Kat sends me a copy of every day, Evangeline's booked back-to-back appointments today, from hair to nails and everything in between. I'd much rather be here in the office, tracking down her stalker than dealing with that. Luckily for me, her evening tonight consists of an early dinner with Kat before a quiet night in, so at least I'm in for an easy shift.

I lean forward now and type Evangeline's name into the search bar, hoping to find something useful. Maybe there's a clue in her history or an article that could give me a lead. Most importantly, it distracts me from thinking about that photoshoot.

As expected, the only front-page articles are about her father's scandal or his new comeback movie that's out next year. I scroll past them, ignoring the news about her selfie with that Henry kid, and find a link to her Instagram. Then I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen.

Her latest selfie shows her in that nude bodysuit, sitting in hair and makeup. She's got that Bambi stare down to a fine art, red lips, looking exactly like she had when she stood in front of me. And for a moment, all I can think about is what she'd look like with her head back and her heels behind my neck as I buried into her.

"You're one lucky son of a bitch, Loretto. If my client looked like that, I'd be jacking off in the office too."

I scramble to scroll past her picture before glaring at Jack Rover's grinning face. Anyone else, and I'd tell them to mind their own fucking business, but Jack's one of the few decent guys in here, and I'll need someone on my side if shit goes south.

"It's for research," I say, scrolling through the list of comments underneath it. While a few of them are normal enough, most of them are from thirsty assholes old enough to be her dad, pissing me off. "I found out she's got a stalker."

"Ah." He slips into the chair next to me, leaning forward to read the comments with me. Our biggest problem as bodyguards is our clients not being completely honest with us. If I'd known about this stalker from the start, I'd have done everything differently, knowing there was something specific to protect her from. In fact, knowing what I know now about her stalker makes me realize she was probably terrified the night we met.

"Any leads?" he asks.

I shrug and show him my notes, ignoring the way his eyebrows knit together like I'm crazy. "You're looking into her mom?" He runs a hand through his red hair, his every thought written across his face.

If I had a bodyguard as round-faced and unthreatening as Jack, I'd hands-down be asking for somebody else. Part of what our clients pay for is the feeling of safety that comes from having someone big and scary shadowing you, even if we don't end up doing much. But somehow, Jack's got this way of charming his way into the more lucrative cases.

"Is there a problem with that?"

"It's your client," he says, shrugging. "I just think you're wasting your time. You really think a mom would set up her own kid like that?"

I stare at him for a long moment. Having worked with him for a few years now, I know Rover grew up in a world where moms and dads were loving and the only things that went bump in the night were robbers and bad guys, not your own alcoholic father trying to find the door in a drunken haze. It's why I can't blame him for being so naïve.

"Maybe I'm wrong," I say, screenshotting a few of the more descriptive comments on her picture and trying not to feel irritated by them, "but I've seen the lengths they'll go to control the narrative. I can't afford to be cautious."

"You've got her best friend on there too?" he asks, still reading over my shoulder. I shoot him a look that makes him back up a bit, but doubt still lingers on his face. "I don't know whether to be horrified or impressed."

"It's a precaution." I don't tell him what I really want to, which is that when you're up to no good yourself, you always assume the worst in others, thinking—or hoping—they're as bad as you. "Given that Evangeline hasn't been very forthcoming about the situation, I have nothing else to go on right now."

Something in my tone makes him smirk. "Do I sense trouble in paradise? Is babysitting a celebrity a little too much for the great Gabe Loretto to handle?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Not in the slightest."

"Oh, come on," he says. "You're used to dealing with big-shot businessmen who stay out of trouble. Admit it: this chick is giving you a run for your money, and I bet you're secretly loving it."

Ignoring him, I say, "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Unfortunately, yes," he says, finally standing up. "My shift with Mr. Peterson starts in an hour. The old bastard spends the whole day at home but still insists on having a bodyguard." He sighs, shaking his head at my screen. "Man, I wish my clients looked like that."

I don't say anything, and he finally gets the hint. As soon as he's gone, I close my laptop and check Evangeline's schedule again on my phone, knowing how prone it is to change. My eyes laser in on the new event that's been added, stopping me in my tracks. If there is a God, he's punishing me, because now she's got a date tonight with that Henry asshole she met at the club, and I'm the one accompanying her.

Before I can think about the night of torture ahead, my alarm goes off. I switch it off and head over to Redwood's office, knocking on the door. A gruff voice calls for me to enter, and I cross the room, sinking into the armchair opposite Redwood himself. He sits behind his big mahogany desk, top button undone, tie already loosened, and it's not even four yet. I take in his messy hair, which he's clearly run a hand through several times.

Shit.

"Loretto," he says, clasping his hands and leaning forward across the table. Like most bodyguards, he's got an expert poker face, so it's hard to tell how this meeting will go. "I only have a minute before my next meeting, but I wanted to check in with you briefly. How's it going with that Ryder girl? She running you ragged? Her mother says she's a handful."

I ignore his leery grin and say, "Nothing I can't handle."

He smiles. "I thought as much. You know, when her mother specifically requested you, I'll admit, I was surprised. You must have made quite an impression on your last client for him to recommend you to someone so well-known, but this is a great opportunity for you. And"—he leans closer, raising an eyebrow—"if you handle this case well, there's a promotion in store for you."

The fleeting hope that courses through my veins swiftly disintegrates. Since I joined GSS at eighteen, all I've wanted is to climb the ranks and be the kind of bodyguard people admired and respected—the kind they felt secure with. And while part of me wants to believe that a promotion would be enough to pay off my debts to Denaro, it wouldn't come close. My only way out is to see this scam through and get the hell out of town.

"Thanks," I say anyway, getting to my feet and shaking his hand, "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," Redwood says, walking me out, "just keep up the good work, son."

Back at my desk, I reach for the stress ball in my drawer and squeeze it a few times. I've been with GSS for seven years now. It's been hell on the worst days, downright impossible on others, but it's all I've ever known.

I protect people; that's my job. I take on clients, providing them with a sense of safety and security during their worst moments, and I get to go to sleep at night knowing I made a difference in someone's life. Knowing I'll never get to feel that way again makes me sick.

More than sick.

I want to fucking kill Denaro.

Fuck, I think, closing my eyes. Calm down, Loretto. I take a few deep breaths, then slide toward my desk and wrap up Evangeline's stalker case. By the time I finish my research, it's almost six, and I'm running late. Grabbing my bag, I wolf down half an apple and head to Evangeline's place.

I spend the drive telling myself this is going to be easy. I've had a few days off to clear my head, and now I'm more determined than ever to get this job done with as little drama as possible. Tonight, my job is to escort her to the restaurant and keep an eye on her, nothing more.

Easy.

It's not long before I pull into the driveway. Exhaling slowly, I grab my gun, slipping it into my belt before heading to the door. As I knock, my eyes immediately shoot up to the new camera in the corner, watching my every move. The cameras cover almost every space except the bedrooms, bathrooms, and living rooms, all controlled by a click of a button on my phone, making my job easier than ever. But other than sending Denaro a few screenshots, I've barely looked at them and don't intend to until I need them for the night of the gala. After the incident with the tracker, I'm not risking any more privacy mishaps.

She takes so long to answer the door that I start to think something's wrong. I knock harder, then start to draw my gun, but before I can grab it, the door flies open and there she stands in a make-me-sin black dress.

"You're late," she says, stepping aside, but I make no effort to move. I'm still taking her in, hungrily watching the thin, black material cling to her curves like a second layer of skin. That easy night I was talking about?

It just got fucking harder.