Gabe

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Evangeline Ryder is a job.

A job I desperately want to be done with.

I tug at my collar, popping the top button to relieve some of the discomfort. Dress shirts are the devil. I'm a T-shirt and jeans man, partly because that's all I can afford and partly because it's practical.

Unfortunately, working for Gold Standard Security means not just acting the part but looking it too. And the better I look? The easier it is for shallow, wealthy clients to view me as another of their accessories.

I shift my gaze from the road to my most shallow client yet, immediately drawn to her full, red lips. They were the first thing I noticed when I took on this assignment a month ago. That, and the fact that she's dripping in money—a Pasha de Cartier watch, Panthère De Cartier necklace, diamond earrings. She's probably wearing hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of jewelry, just ripe for the taking.

"Is this how you look at all your clients, Mr. Bodyguard?" Her gaze flicks to mine, her sultry voice lilted with disdain, causing my grip on the wheel to tighten.

A rookie mistake–one I'd never make under normal circumstances. But switching from keeping my distance to protecting her up close isn't going as smoothly as I'd planned.

"Only the ones worth admiring, Piccola."

Her eyes narrow, and those cherry lips press into a thin line as she returns to her phone, complaining to her mother about her new asshole bodyguard.

My mouth twitches. I'm not worried. Babysitting a spoiled celebrity was always a risk, but that's what I do best: mitigate those risks and stay in control. With seven years of private security under my belt, if there's one thing I know how to do, it's my job.

Or I used to. I glance down as my wrist vibrates with Denaro's call, cursing under my breath. He knows better than to disturb me while I'm working. My rules were clear: no calls, no messages, no interference. I glance at the princess, who's busy fixing her makeup in the mirror, and end the call, relaxing my grip on the wheel.

Denaro isn't the kind of contact you want in your phone. A childhood acquaintance turned romance scammer, he's made a fortune seducing lonely Z-listers, a fact he leveraged when he offered to pay off my family's debts.

What I hadn't anticipated was Theo Denaro's ties to a million-dollar scam ring that I've been indebted to ever since. This job is my final favor.

From what I can tell, he's been working Principessa's mother for months. She's an easy mark for romance scammers—not famous or wealthy enough to warrant tight security but well-off enough to make pursuing her worthwhile.

When she let it slip during one of their nights together that her ex-husband had been charged with tax evasion, Denaro hit the jackpot. All he needed to pull off his scam was a morally questionable bodyguard.

I lean against the leather headrest, trying to push it from my mind. What's there to feel guilty about? Principessa is wealthy enough that she won't miss a few expensive rings. And if she does, she'll replace them without a second thought. But for me?

It's a way out.

"I'm still waiting to hear why you thought shoving me into your car was the best way to ensure my safety," the princess says, casually pressing her feet on the dashboard. It's not my car—one of the few perks of working for GSS, along with a free gym membership—but seeing her heel on the leather makes me scowl.

There's a dull ache forming behind my temple. I slow for another red light, forcing myself to stay calm. If we don't hit every single light from here to Bel Air, we should arrive at her place in less than fifteen minutes. Then she's Stu's problem for the night. "I had to get you to safety. There was no time to baby you."

Her tongue darts between her teeth like I've insulted her. My gaze snaps to her mouth and stays there. "I don't need to be babied," she says with a calmness that counters the fiery look in her eyes, "and if you didn't have the communication skills of a Neanderthal, you'd have told me you were taking me to safety."

I raise an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smirk. She thinks I don't know her, but I've done my homework. She's social media's golden girl—no scandals, no feuds, no problematic posts. Even her last breakup was spun as an amicable uncoupling. Since graduating from UCLA last year, she's been making a living off brand deals, selling an image to impressionable kids who don't realize it's all just a curated lie. Most importantly? Despite still relying on her father's generous trust fund, she'll do anything to protect her independence.

"Your aversion to security was made clear," I say, turning left. "That makes you a flight risk. I couldn't take that chance."

I'm pulling up to the guarded gate of Bel Air Crest before she can argue. Seeing the security guard, Evangeline removes her legs from the dashboard and flashes her best smile. He smiles back, and just like that, she's disarmed him.

The gates grind open to the infamous Wetherby Lane. I drive slowly, taking in the rows of ten-million-dollar mansions dotting the Santa Monica mountains, a pit of resentment in my stomach. It's not her fault she was born into wealth, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't resent her for it anyway.

"It's the house on the left," she says as if I don't already know. I pull into the expansive driveway of a cream-colored, two-story mansion, and turn off the engine. Suppressing the urge to release a low whistle, I walk around the car and open her door.

She steps out onto the driveway as if I'm invisible. Refusing to take the bait, I move back to let her lead, but her fancy heel catches on a rough patch of gravel, causing her to stumble.

My arms lock around her before I can think about it, holding her close. She smells expensive, a subtle blend of rose and vanilla that's not exactly unpleasant. In one quick move, she steadies herself, flattening her palms to my chest as if to push me away, but she doesn't. Instead, she looks up at me, those siren-green eyes trapping me in some kind of hold. I pause, grazing my thumb against the fabric of her dress.

"You have a nasty habit," she says in a voice so husky it reminds me of sex, "of putting your hands where they don't belong." Then she steps back, retrieves her key from her purse, and strides toward the front door.

Dio aiutami.

My eyes track her briefly before I begin moving. I've already memorized the floor plan of the house: the number of bedrooms and bathrooms, the main and secondary entrances, the exits, and potential blind spots. The only variable left is the interior—in less than a minute, I'll know that too.

She pauses with the key halfway to the lock, flashing a disapproving look. "Let me stop you right there. I don't invite strange men into my home."

I wet my lips, fighting the urge to stare at hers. She makes it sound like I'm trying to take her home, and I'll admit, the masochist in me would probably consider it. 

Don't even go there, Loretto. In three weeks, she'll be just another Theo Denaro scam victim.

"I need to secure the house before Stu arrives," I say, keeping my tone disinterested. "The sooner you let me do my job, the sooner I can leave. Your call, Princess."

For a second, it looks like she's contemplating murder. Clearly, she's not used to being told no. "Fine. Do whatever checks you need to if it gets you out of here faster."

With a sharp turn of the key, she pushes the door open, and the chandelier above lights up a bland, marble hallway larger than my entire apartment and driveway combined. But unlike my shit-hole studio in West Adams, everything is expensive.

To the right, an archway opens into an expansive living room, tastefully minimal with no detail spared. On the left, a dining room with double French doors overlooks a manicured grove. Straight ahead, three light oak doors line the walls, while a grand staircase winds up to a balcony overlooking the second floor.

My fingers itch. What I wouldn't give to do a full assessment right now—sightlines, weak points, entry routes. Instead, I draw the Glock from my waistband, ignoring the sharp look from the princess as I start my sweep. I clear the ground floor first, checking corners, doors, and windows before heading upstairs to secure the second floor. 

Once satisfied, I head back down the staircase. She's waiting, leaning casually against the railing, one perfectly arched brow raised as her eyes follow me. 

"Area looks clear," I say.

"Thank you, GI Joe." She tosses her bag aside before settling onto the stairs to slip off her heels. "Are you always this thorough?"

"It's my job to be thorough." I tuck my gun away, watching her stretch a long, tanned leg. "There weren't any cameras outside. What kind of system are you using?"

"No system," she says casually, slipping off a heel. I catch a glimpse her pink-frosted toenails and feel an involuntary twitch in my jaw. "This is a gated neighborhood. We rarely have break-ins."

Vain, spoiled, and reckless. "Rarely isn't the same as never. Are you telling me you don't have cameras or motion detectors?"

"When my father bought the house, there were cameras," she says, slipping off the second heel. "But they'd alert me every time a squirrel ran by, so I disabled them."

I drag a hand down my jaw; this is almost too easy. "I'll set something up," I say, already planning to call in a favor from one of the tech guys at GSS. It would be simpler to leave her without proper security, but I'm not cruel enough to make her an open target for every other monster out there.

She raises an eyebrow as if to say I won't be here that long. I ignore it, moving to a nearby cabinet lined with personal photos. Most are forgettable, but one stops me cold. It's a photo of her at a red carpet-event, draped in a sleek silver gown that hugs every curve and leaves just enough room for my imagination to run wild. I rub a thumb across my chin, staring at it longer than I should.

Her gaze lingers on me, and I force myself to move on, shifting my attention to the other frames. Most are predictable—her with her PA or her mother, posed and polished for the camera. Nothing stands out. Except one. Tucked off to the side, I spot a framed Polaroid. It's of her and her ex at Laguna Beach, grinning at the camera while she wraps her arms around his neck, her lips pressed against his cheek. 

I step closer, tracing the way her body curves into his. "Are you still in contact with Kael Rivers?" Her eyes narrow, suspicion flashing across her face. "I need to know who's coming in and out of this house."

"No," she says curtly, rising to her feet. "The only people with access to the house are Stu, my mother, and Kat. Oh, and Luciana, my housekeeper."

"No private chefs? Other staff?"

She carefully runs a hand through her hair, momentarily drawing my focus. "I like to keep my personal life as private as possible," she says. "Too many people just complicate things."

I glance back at the photos on the cabinet, giving them one last pass. What twenty-three-year-old influencer doesn't have friends or staff?

Not that I can talk. My only friends are my brother, Mack, and a childhood friend from when I lived with my grandmother in Italy, neither of whom I speak to often. Working for Denaro means keeping anyone I care about— and there are very few on that list—at a distance.

The princess strides toward me, now about four inches shorter without her heels. My eyes flick down, unbidden, tracing her curves as she grabs the photo frame off the shelf. With a single motion, she tosses it into a nearby basket, where it shatters.

Leaning back against the wall, I meet her challenging gaze. This version of her—sharp, guarded, and far from the bubbly persona she displays on social media—intrigues me more than it should. "Did he cheat on you or something?"

"Worse," replies. "Kael spent a year using me to get closer to my father's director friends. Then he cheated on me, then he dumped me. His first movie comes out next month." She arches an eyebrow and adds, "Does this count as part of your security check?"

I shove down the small pang of guilt that surfaces. So that's the reason for a small social circle—trust issues. "Is it alright if I check the rest of the house?"

"Knock yourself out."

I start downstairs, skipping the open-plan spaces for now. The first door opens to a bathroom—clean, nothing noteworthy. The second door reveals another living room, this one smaller, more lived-in. The third leads to an expansive kitchen, sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an infinity pool. With a glance toward the princess, now curled on the couch in the living room, I make my way upstairs. 

There are six bedrooms, three bathrooms, and four rooms I put into the random rooms only the wealthy can afford: a sauna room, a home gym, a stylist room, and a cinema. The last door is locked, secured with a keypad. But if I had to guess? 

The safe.

I'm about to study the keypad when a scream stops me dead. My attention snaps to the source, and I abandon the locked door to follow the sound back downstairs. Evangeline is in the living room, her phone clutched tightly in one hand, her eyes squeezed shut as she slowly counts to three under her breath. When she reaches the last number, she unmutes the call, her expression transforming as she composes herself. 

"I don't want to argue," she says softly to whoever is on the other end, "I just don't understand why you wouldn't tell me about this." Her mother. "Do you know how humiliating it was finding out about Dad's charges from the paparazzi?"

"I'm sorry, baby," Mrs. Ryder slurs over the loudspeaker, "I know you must hate me. I'm a terrible mother." She's either drunk or on drugs—possibly both, given what I've read about her. While the princess has managed to fool the masses, her mother has scandals as far back as '97. "All I wanted was to protect you from all of this."

"I know you did," Evangeline says softly, pacing back and forth. She bites her lip, clearly holding back what she really wants to say. "Have you at least spoken to Dad? What does he have to say about this?"

"He won't take my calls," Mrs. Ryder says curtly. "We have to assume that, as always, your father is looking out for himself."

Interesting. You'd think a hands-on father like James Ryder would want to check on his daughter. Maybe he's not as hands-on as he pretends.

"Look, I know you're upset, darling," Mrs. Ryder murmurs. "I'm upset too, but I promise everything will be okay. I've got the PR team working on our next steps as we speak, and I'll run it past you tomorrow. Are you home safe?"

"I'm home," Evangeline says in a tone more in line with the version of her I've been subjected to. "Whether you can call it safely is debatable. I really, really do not want or need another bodyguard. Especially not him."

"The team think you need more protection than a part-time, nearly retired bodyguard can offer," Mrs. Ryder says, "and Mr. Loretto came highly recommended as one of the best. He—"

"One of the best? He practically kidnapped me and forced me into a vehicle."

"Eva, please. Your father has angered a lot of people, and until this scandal blows over, the team thinks the extra security should be non-negotiable."

The last of her composure shatters as she mutters a goodbye to her mother before throwing her phone on the sofa. When she turns around and finds me leaning on the doorframe, her eyes narrow, her cat-eyed expression almost too easy to read. She hates me, and that's exactly what I want. It's easier that way.

"Manhandler, kidnapper, and now eavesdropper," she says, watching me from across the room. "Is there any level you won't stoop to, Mr. Bodyguard?"

I step away from the doorframe and approach her until we're face to face. Meeting her gaze, I barely register the sound of a car pulling into the driveway outside as I run a hand across my jaw. "I heard your mother thinks I'm one of the best," I say, dipping my head until my mouth is by her ear. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Piccola."

If looks could kill. Before she can speak, Stu walks through the front door, completely bypassing me, and hugs her. I step back, watching them act like family rather than an employee and an employer.

It's a clear breach of professionalism. Getting too close to a client only leads to trouble, and the closer you get, the greater the risk for everyone involved.

Most importantly?

It means Stu Morelli is going to be a problem.