by Arell Rivers
My eyes flick to a different TV screen, where Emilie’s ad has just started to play. Now I’m seeing her as well as talking with her. And Zak is breathing down my neck. Air. I need air.
“That is why I am calling.”
Warning bells ricochet through my mind. I had better tread lightly. Gulping some much-needed oxygen, I reply, “Oh?”
“Oui.” Her enthusiasm jumps through the phone with just this one simple word, uttered in French, causing my stomach to cramp. “As I am now an official Los Angelina, I need to learn how to drive. I have already earned my driver’s permit. Do you think you could help me practice driving for the road test? It would be great to see you again.”
Obviously eavesdropping, Zak elbows me in the ribs. I twist and give him my back, which also ends my torture of seeing her bikini-clad body again. Closing my eyes, a strangled “Uhm” passes my lips. Her excuse for calling is lame. However, the fact that she needs my help tugs at my protective streak. A streak that no longer has a place in my life. No. I can give her the name of a driving school and she can hire them.
“Wills? Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Bon. I thought you had dropped me.”
“Yes. No. Yes. I mean, the call wasn’t dropped, I’m still on the line.” From behind me, Zak snickers and I swivel my head to give him a sharp look.
“Do you think you can help me? I know this is short notice, but I am free tomorrow.” Turning away from Zak’s big ears, I open my mouth to respond in the negative, but she rushes on. “You are the only one I trust here in Los Angeles.”
She trusts me. No good has ever come of that. Yet I’ve seen first-hand how badly some people react to being around celebrities. Picturing Emilie in a vulnerable position, at the hands of a less-than-scrupulous driving instructor, hardens my lips into a straight line.
Words won’t form. I’m shoved from behind, which pitches me forward and causes my mouth to open. “What time?”
Her soft sigh floats through the phone like a delicate kiss. “Merci, Wills. How about eleven? Maybe we can grab lunch afterward.”
In response, warning bells go off in my head. I close my eyes as the real reason she wanted to have a driving lesson surfaces—to nudge the door open and invite herself in. This is a very bad idea.
The woman’s voice on the GPS states, “You have arrived at your destination.”
I place my Jeep Wrangler in park on the street, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers cramp. Banging my head backward against the headrest, I blow a breath through my mouth and unfurl my hands. I haven’t seen Emilie since… No, I don’t want to revisit the funerals of my two partners again. I was right. This is a terrible idea.
I can recommend a driving school.
Picturing Emilie with a shady instructor drooling all over her in a locked vehicle keeps my ass rooted to the seat.
While my internal debate rages, the front door opens and Emilie strides out of her house. My body seizes. She’s wearing what she must consider “driving attire”—tight jeans and a pink t-shirt molded over her chest—complete with brown leather driving gloves. Light bounces off her blonde hair, making her appear as if she has a halo. I don’t belong in the company of an angel.
An urgent desire to flee overtakes me. My eyes scan her empty street in Beverly Hills that ends in a cul-de-sac in about 500 yards, but it’s too late to make an escape. She’s seen me. And I agreed to do this. Crap. Placing sunglasses over my eyes, I foist myself out of the Jeep. One driving lesson and out. I’ll do a thorough screening of all the instructors at the local driving schools and leave her in good hands. Not mine.
Meeting her midway up the bluestone walkway to a Spanish-style house that suits this European vision perfectly, I close my eyes behind the dark lenses for a moment. Clearing my throat, I offer a truthful lie, “Good to see you, Emilie.”
She smiles, her brownish-green eyes sparkling. Holding out her arms, she utters, “Wills,” with her sexy French accent. All of my muscles lose their tension as she pulls me to her and kisses both of my cheeks. I refuse to acknowledge the sizzle where her lips meet my skin, instead focusing on the fact she asked me to help her achieve a goal. She needs me to teach her how to drive. I can do that. One lesson. Nothing more.
Trying to get a grip on my out-of-control emotions, I inhale. The scent of lavender—of her—invades my senses, keeping me immobile. Wanting things I don’t deserve.
She steps back, breaking my torture. Her eyes stray to my vehicle and her teeth worry her bottom lip. The need to calm her fears takes precedence over my desire to get out of Dodge. “Ready for your first lesson?”
She nods up-and-down, takes two steps and stops, giving me the once-over. “You look good, Wills. Better than, well, the last time I saw you.” She reaches out and touches my arm. “How are you?”
Her soft voice combined with the pressure of her gloved hand threaten to break my control. I want what she seems to be offering. No. Just a driving lesson. Backing up a step, I put my hands in my back pockets, requiring her hand to drop from my arm. I ignore the slight downturn of her lips. “I’m good. You’re looking beautiful, as usual.”
As we resume walking to the sidewalk, she switches her purse from one shoulder to the other at least three times. As her driving instructor, I need to calm her down and prepare her for what’s to come. “Are you looking forward to getting behind the wheel?”
She licks her lips. “I am. I have my official permit right here.” She stops again, opens her purse and pulls out a piece of paper, waving it in front of me. Her smile is like a punch to my gut. Replacing the permit in her bag, she holds up her thumb and index finger, about an inch apart. “But I also am a teensy-tiny bit nervous.”
Damn. Why does she have to be so cute? “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to this street and not leave here until you say so, okay? I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my brain goes into overdrive picturing her in a very different position, and I’m the one doing the driving. Down, Wills. Not gonna happen. Never.
We stop outside the driver’s side and I offer her my keys. “Merci.” Before taking them, she pulls her hair into a ponytail. “I want to make sure nothing interferes with my vision. I do not want to do anything to hurt your car.”
Forcing my lips to remain neutral instead of breaking into a smile at how charming she is, I simply say, “You’ll do fine.” I lift my chin at the door, which she unlocks and scrambles in. She looks all kinds of right behind the wheel of my Jeep. I run my hand through my hair. One lesson and done.
Once we make sure the seat is at the right distance and her seat belt fastened, I instruct her to check the mirrors and adjust them. Every move she makes is slow and deliberate. So fucking adorable. “Textbook.”
Her smile at my encouragement lights me up from the inside, but I tamp down the undeserved feeling. Closing her door, I walk around to the passenger seat and buckle up. And look at my driver. “All yours.”
She starts the engine and goes over all the dials as if we were on an airplane, then looks at me. Waiting for me to give her instructions. Looking at me like I hold all the answers. A guy could get used to this look. Mentally shaking myself, I address my student. “For starters, why don’t you pull ahead to the end of the cul-de-sac.”
She nods and puts her hand on the smaller transfer case lever instead of the main gearshift. Before she can grind the transmission, I place my hand on top of hers. “That’s for putting the Jeep into four-wheel drive.” I move her gloved hand to the gearshift and put it on top of the knob that spells out the car’s brand. Thank God for the gloves. No skin-on-skin contact.
She nods at me several times, and I release her hand. After giving her some more basic instructions about how to handle the Jeep, I point ahead. “Now, let’s drive.”
Emilie inhales deeply, then returns her hand to the gearshift. We jerk out of park, causing me to grasp the roll bar. Keeping
my voice even, I say, “Keep it slow, but you don’t have to keep your foot on the brake. You just want to get a feel for the vehicle.”
Never flicking her eyes off the road, she nods and we roll forward. When we approach the cul-de-sac, she brakes. Hard. Good thing for seat belts. I swallow my grunt. “That was a great first attempt. Now, let’s drive around the curve and stop right across from your house. Got that?”
Her head bobs, ponytail bouncing. She bites her lower lip. Damn. “I understand. Ready?”
“When you are.”
I hold my breath as she pulls forward again. This time, her attempt is much smoother, and she carefully maneuvers around the curve. When she comes to a less jerky stop across from her house, I nod and she smiles as if she just won a big award.
The road is wide and empty. “Good job. Think you can drive around the block?” Hers is a sleepy, very affluent neighborhood with only occasional local traffic. It’s safe for her to practice on these roads at this time of day.
She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Oui. I can do this.” Her brows furrow in concentration, and she slowly approaches the intersection.
“Turn on your blinker to let everyone else know that you’re turning right.”
Her long-fingered hand, encased in its leather glove, swipes at the column and the windshield wipers flick on.
Containing my mirth, I direct, “The other lever.”
Her face turns a charming shade of red. “I knew that!” She replaces the wipers with the right-turn signal. Three more turns—and three more appearances of the wipers—brings us back in front of her house. Clapping, I praise her skill. “Excellent.” She beams. “Let’s do it again.”
This time, my breathing relaxes. I switch my attention from the road to her driving posture. She’s hunched over the steering wheel with her nose right over it. Smothering a chuckle, I say, “You’re doing really well. How about you sit back in the seat.”
She turns her head toward me.
“Eyes on the road.”
Her head whips forward again, ponytail swinging, her bottom lip between her teeth. Her body retreats from the steering wheel and we move forward again. When she signals a turn with her blinker on the first try, I offer her some encouragement. “You’re doing great. That was perfect.”
She grins but keeps her concentration squarely forward. As we progress, her body inches closer to the steering wheel. By the time we stop in front of her house again, she’s sitting like a grandma behind the wheel. I bite my inner cheek to stifle a smile. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. Plus, she needs to relax.
“You know, driving is actually quite fun.”
“I am having a lot of fun.” Her bottom lip is back between her teeth. Damn.
I turn on the radio, even though it could be a distraction for the new driver. Classic rock fills the cab. “Let’s loosen you up.”
Emilie looks at me, wide-eyed, and bursts into laughter. Her giggle is contagious, and it takes everything I have not to join in with her. I can’t encourage her. She can’t want to be with me—she needs to be with someone who deserves her. Someone who doesn’t kill everything he touches. I choke out, “I meant that I want you to be more relaxed behind the wheel.”
Her eyes roam over me as if touching every part of my body.
Music from the radio crackles between us.
“Why don’t you try to park in your driveway?” I croak, pointing to the right.
She pulls forward—smoothly—and stops in front of her driveway.
“Put on your blinker.”
The windshield washers start up. She giggles and activates the proper turn-signal switch.
“You’re doing good. Now pull in and put the car in park.”
While she’s following my instructions, I make a mental note to take her to a proper parking lot next time. Whoa. What am I thinking? Her next time will be with a real instructor, one that I’ve vetted. For both our sakes. But she needs encouragement from me right now. “Way to go, Emilie. Great first try!”
“Thanks!”
“Now, back out and let’s do it again.”
She slouches against the seat. “Again?”
I nod at her and point. “You asked me to teach you and I’m not going to go easy.”
She gets a determined look on her face and puts the car into reverse.
Music provides the backdrop as we drive around the block a few more times. “You’re doing great, Emilie. Do you feel comfortable in moving on, or do you want to keep driving in your neighborhood?”
“I would like to pull into my driveway again.”
“Be my guest.”
When the Jeep’s in park, she tilts her head against the driver’s side headrest and exhales loudly. Her body language reminds me of when I finish a grueling workout—exhausted but exhilarated.
I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder, which is as tight as a boulder. Without thought, I knead it awkwardly for a moment. “You did really well for your first try.”
She turns her head and looks at me. “I have a great teacher.”
For a moment, we lock eyes and something in the air changes.
Energizes.
Stills.
The song on the radio stops and is replaced with a one-minute global news update. Emilie’s ponytail swings when the reporter mentions an uptick of gang-related kidnappings for sex trafficking in Rio.
“I am going to Rio. On Sunday.”
I swallow hard. “For a shoot?”
“Oui. For Swimsuit Annual.”
Thinking about the news report, I say, “I’m sure they’ll have security arranged for you.” My breathing relaxes. She’ll be okay.
Intense eyes catch and hold my gaze. “Did the Agency contact you?”
What is she talking about? “No. Why would they?”
Her shoulders droop and her eyes skim the Jeep’s controls. “I had given them your number. You see, they are hiring a bodyguard for me, and I asked them to call you first.”
My hand latches onto Three’s dog tags. Emilie knows I gave up that life.
She continues in a low tone. “But they never listen to me.”
In a strangled voice, I ask, “They’re hiring a bodyguard for you when you go to Rio?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not just for Rio. For the foreseeable future.”
Adrenaline spikes through my body, causing me to lurch forward. Unbuckling the restraint, I face the angel next to me, trying to unpack her loaded statements. “Is someone threatening you? Are the police on notice?” My eyes scan the empty road for any signs of danger.
Emilie reaches out and touches my arm with her gloved hand, which does nothing to calm my erratic heartbeat. “No. I am safe.”
“If you need a bodyguard, there has to be a reason.”
She sits back and removes her gloves. How can she look so calm? She knows everything that happened with Cole’s crazy stalker, Starr. Hell, she had a front-row seat when Starr shot me on the road. “I do not have any danger.” Her eyes look side-to-side, as if in deep thought. “I mean, I am not in any danger.”
Despite my high alert, a smile plays at the corner of my lips as she corrects the English phrase. I nod in acknowledgment and my heartrate slows to merely a fast gallop. “That’s good. But then why do you need a bodyguard?”
She puts her naked hand on the top of my own, causing my heartrate to spike for altogether different reasons. “The Agency thinks it will raise my status if I have one.”
Exhaling, I slump back in my seat, removing my hand from her soft skin. Crossing my arms across my chest, I mumble, “Oh. Well, I’m happy you’re safe, at least.” God knows she wouldn’t be with me at her side.
I process what she just told me. The fact that her Agency is using my former profession as leverage doesn’t sit too well with me. “Why don’t they just hire an actor to play the role?” My voice sounds gruff.
Emile sighs. “How about we talk about this over lunch?”
With
those eight short words, this day went from a bad idea to a very bad idea. And I just can’t say no.
4
Emilie
Sitting in the passenger side of the Jeep, I study Wills as he maneuvers through LA traffic. Before we left my house, he took the top off so the wind ruffles his hair, which has grown out a little. With his square jaw and slightly longer hair, he looks even more masculine. I clasp my hands to keep from running my fingers through it.
He is so confident and relaxed behind the wheel. His dark blue eyes dart from the rearview mirror every ten seconds or so—I have to remember to do the same. If only those sexy eyes would look my way. But they do not—even when we discuss my trip to Rio this Sunday, and he admonishes me to stay in public and always be around a lot of people. While he’s advising me to stay close to crowds, I can tell he is trying to keep himself at a safe distance away from me. Isn’t that what they call in English “ironic?”
Wills signals a right turn. Of course, his windshield wipers did not go on.
We turn into the driveway to a brick building with a sign out front that says, “George’s, A New American Restaurant.” Since I am still learning the neighborhood, Wills selected our lunch venue. I am just happy to spend more time with him.
When we arrive at the front, Wills puts the gearshift into park and the valets run out to open our doors. This, I can do. I parked in my own driveway, and this seems very similar. My lips curl upward as I replay my successful first parking attempts.
Without looking at me directly, the attendant offers his hand to help me step out and onto the pavement.
“Merci.”
The valet’s head whirls to my face and his mouth drops open. Years of training help me keep my expression neutral. I employ my therapist’s tactics for unexpected contacts with the public and hope it was my accent rather than recognition of me that provoked his reaction. I want to spend my time with Wills reconnecting, not warding off cameras.
He swallows. “Emilie Dubois. Wow. I mean, enjoy your lunch at George’s!”
