“Do you even have a ladder tall enough? What if you break a leg or something? The studio’s going to have a heart attack. This can’t be a good idea. I mean, have you ever—”
He stopped and turned around. “She’s chatty when she’s worried about me. Noted.” He smiled and walked back inside as she glared at his back.
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want you to break something on my watch.”
He chuckled. “Come on, crazy girl, open the door for me. I’m going to put it on from the inside.”
“You’re going to nail a piece of plywood into your wall. Inside?” She thought about the pretty room, marred by an ugly piece of wood.
“Tomorrow I’ll use my bazillion dollars and have it fixed, get a new curtain, touch up the paint. But for now, this’ll have to do. It’s late and I don’t want to leave it open. I’m sure my bodyguard would agree.”
Of course he couldn’t have a hole in the room where anyone, or anything, could come inside. They’d have to bypass that security code tonight in order to arm the alarm, which meant she needed to be vigilant, even more so than usual.
They trekked back into the house, maneuvering the piece of wood up the stairs and into the bedroom. “Hold this and I’ll hammer it,” he said, gesturing to the plywood. She couldn’t help notice the way the muscles around his neck and biceps bunched up as he worked. Why a man with so much money was doing this himself was beyond her. He really wasn’t anything like she’d expected him to be. He was exactly the opposite, actually. She swept all the glass from around the floor as he worked.
“I don’t get you. Your house is beautiful, but it’s not a multimillion-dollar house, and you’re hammering a piece of plywood into your home, yourself. You don’t have an assistant, you grill your own steaks, yet you were wearing an outfit that cost more than my yearly rent to our initial meeting. What’s your deal?”
Without looking back, still hammering, he answered. “I was running late to our meeting and left with the clothes from the shoot. That’s not something I’d wear normally. I don’t like ostentatious things because I didn’t grow up that way. I have a weird need to save for in-case-of-emergency situations. And I think my house is nice.”
“I wasn’t implying it wasn’t. It’s . . . I love it, actually. It’s just not what I expected.”
“Neither are you, Tiger. Neither are you.”
Once the wood was secured, he took a step back. “Good enough.”
“I’m going to do a sweep of the house and lock up before heading to bed.”
“You can use the other guest room tonight.”
“Okay. And I hope we’re okay, you and I. I just want to do my job and do it well.”
“I understand. And I’ll try to keep it professional.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
“But even professionals have friends, or at least friendly colleagues. You don’t have to go out of your way to avoid me. You can have dinner, your shake, whatever, in the same room as me. The grilled cheese was good, but I can make a mean steak. You don’t have to disappear when I’m here. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
She’d been trying to make sure he was comfortable by getting out of his way, and had accomplished the exact opposite. The truth was, he was an interesting man and very charming, being around him wasn’t going to be a hardship at all. “Okay, sounds fair. I’ll try to loosen up.”
“Good night, Annie.”
“’Night, Monroe.”
* * *
The next morning, Rocco padded down the stairs and into the kitchen around ten, surprised to see it empty. The blender wasn’t even out. There’s no way Annie was still sleeping; the woman woke up at hours that should be illegal. He pressed the button on his coffeemaker to get it started and walked back up the stairs to find her. Her bedroom door was open, bed made perfectly, everything where it should be. He made a mental note to call a handyman, as soon as he had his morning caffeine, to have the window repaired. “Hello? Annie?”
He took a tentative step inside and then another. The bathroom door was slightly open and he could hear murmuring coming from inside. Was she on the phone?
Damn, it hadn’t occurred to him—did she have a boyfriend? With another tentative step forward he turned his ear toward the door but couldn’t quite make out the conversation. This was creeper territory. He shouldn’t be in her space. This was all kinds of wrong. As he straightened to leave, Annie walked out, steam from her shower trailing behind, and slammed right into his chest. Annie—who was wet and soft and smelled like heaven—immediately turned and shifted and in a second, had a knife to his throat.
He put his hands up in surrender. “It’s me. Jesus, Annie, it’s just me.”
She plucked buds from her ears. “Don’t ever sneak up on me. I could’ve killed you.”
Her chest was heaving up and down and so was his. She put down the knife and picked up the towel she had somehow dropped, but not before his eyes raked her long, well-defined body. Trying to be a gentleman, he quickly looked away. “I’m sorry. I knocked.”
“I didn’t hear you,” she said, her voice shaky and slightly breathless. He could hear her opening and closing drawers, but he was determined to give her privacy. Well, as much privacy as he could without leaving the room.
“God, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“You?” He laughed humorlessly. “You almost sliced my throat. Do you shower with a knife?”
“I had it right there, tucked behind the lamp.” She pointed to the night table that was within arm’s reach. “I told you, I’m here to protect you.”
“Ironic. You almost killed me.”
“Okay, you can turn around now.” She had on black running shorts and a loose T-shirt. A towel was wrapped around her hair. “We have to get going within an hour to make your meeting with the studio.” She stopped fidgeting and finally made eye contact with him. “Did you need something? You came in because . . . ?”
“Uh . . .” Why had he come into her room? “I was surprised you weren’t already downstairs having your protein gunk and making calls.”
“Been up since five. Did that already.”
“Oh. Well, okay then.” He turned to leave. “Sorry for scaring you. Coffee? You want coffee? I’m making some coffee.”
Now he was starting to sound like her.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll take some coffee. I’ll be right down. I need to dry my hair first.”
He nodded and turned, walking down before he humiliated himself further.
As he waited for the fresh coffee to brew, he stretched his hands on the kitchen counter and dropped his head forward. Jesus, this woman was something else. Minutes ago, she was holding a fucking knife at his throat, which should have scared the shit out of him, but instead of focusing on the cold steel pressed against his neck, he could only focus on her wet slippery body pressed against him. He’d promised her he’d back off and keep it professional, but the way she looked, smelled, acted . . . it was going to be a long hard day.
* * *
Throughout the entire two-hour meeting with the studio, Annie stood by the entrance to the office, completely silent and focused. His eyes drifted to her too many times to count, and at one point Paul kicked him under the table. But how could he focus? She was wearing that same outfit he’d seen her wear the day they’d met. It had been hell sitting next to her in his small car as she checked the mirrors and surroundings a thousand times. She smelled so fucking good, and it was in no way his shampoo or soap on her body that had her smelling like that.
The only difference this time was that she wasn’t wearing heels. She said she needed to be mobile, “just in case.” He had rolled his eyes. This was crazy overkill, but if it meant she would stick around, he’d take it. With those tight black jeans or leggings or whatever the hell they were, combined with that tight top and high pony tail, she looked like she was ready to kick ass or go into a kink room and dominate the shit out of any willing man. He’d never
seen himself as a submissive, but damn, he’d kneel to her and obey every single command she made. The thought of that made his dick stir and the soft groan that came out of his mouth caused Paul to kick him.
“Sorry. Sorry.” He looked back to the old man who was talking. “What did you just say?”
“I was saying that we secured the visas and permits to shoot in Colombia. We’ll only be there one week and need to get the two final shots done there. Spelling is thrilled. It’s going to bring that authenticity that the movie needs. The crew is already out there prepping everything and shooting the background and some extras. We’ve hired local security, but we’ll still need to be extra careful. Also, we’re keeping the location quiet.”
“We understand. This is all good news, Stanley,” Paul said, jotting down notes in his notebook.
“Now, let’s talk about the security breach yesterday. It’s getting worse. We’ve gotten word that our posters are being vandalized or stolen.”
“All publicity is good publicity, right?” Rocco chuckled.
“Not in this case. Not when the people doing it are impeding our ability to make the damn movie,” the old man’s voice boomed. “Now, Spelling wanted you on the film, Mr. Monroe, let’s be clear. It was all his doing. You being in this movie is causing me to take too many antacid pills. It’s making me cranky, my wife is pissed off at me, and I’m hemorrhaging money left and right.”
“Julia’s in the movie too. It can’t all be about me.”
“It’s mostly about you,” he deadpanned. “Last year, you were in a movie about a BDSM club where you were the dom who fell in love with his submissive. Your ass was out for thirty percent of the movie and there were ten very explicit sex scenes.”
“That movie made a helluva lot of money,” Rocco said, trying to keep his temper at bay.
“Agreed. But that’s not the point. The point is, people don’t want a guy who’s known for sensationalizing sex to play their hero. No, not hero. These people think of Mendoza as their savior. Come on, Rocco, you were the guy who became famous for a leaked sex tape before sex tapes were even a thing.”
“That never happened.” Now he was pissed. “You of all people are going to listen to the supermarket rags, now?”
“I agreed to sign you on for this role, but you have to play by my rules, Monroe. Julia’s got two Oscar nominations under her belt. She is a serious dramatic actress. People aren’t taking you seriously, on camera or off. I mean, for chrissakes, I asked you to hire security and you pull this stunt.” He pointed to Annie, who’d been looking out the door, minding her own business. In fact, she didn’t even seem to notice that the focus of the conversation had shifted to her.
“What stunt is that?” he hissed.
“You hired a woman.”
Rocco lowered his voice. He didn’t want Annie to hear this conversation, he didn’t want her feelings hurt. “I hired a decorated member of the US Army, Stanley. I hired the best, most qualified person for this job. I hired someone who bad guys, whomever they may be, won’t suspect is coming when she comes at them. I hired someone from ICS, where you sent me.”
“The point of a bodyguard is to make your protection known. To let them know not to approach. Not someone to blend in.”
“They threw a brick at his window, Stan, they don’t care whether he has a woman or ten men guarding him.” Paul interjected.
“Stanley.” The attorney for the studio, who was sitting across from Rocco, leaned over to the old man and whispered something about “discrimination” and “lawsuit.” Whatever it was, it was effective in getting the man to shut his mouth.
“I don’t have time for this.” The producer pushed back his chair. “The bottom line is: Don’t get killed. If you don’t keep a bodyguard you won’t get insured, and I’m not keeping you on if you’re not insured. Plus, there’s a lot of money invested in this film, and we need to move forward.”
“Fine by me.”
“Good. Great meeting. Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said as he walked out, his beady little entitled eyes scanning Annie’s body as he walked out.
Annie didn’t react. Or so he thought. As soon as the man passed her, she gave him the finger to his back.
Paul and Rocco couldn’t help but snort at the small rebellious gesture. “I know what I’m doing,” she said to the two of them as they got off the elevator and walked to the street. “Don’t let a sexist asshole make you second-guess your decision to hire me.”
“You had a knife to my throat a few hours ago, Annie. I’m not second-guessing shit.”
“You two are strange,” Paul said as he gave Rocco a manly slap on the back and then waved good-bye to Annie.
“Where to next?” Annie asked.
“Come on, let’s go shopping.” She groaned and he laughed. “You’re the only woman who has that kind of reaction to shopping.”
“How do you know I don’t have anything to wear tonight?”
“You came to my house with a duffel bag. You carry a gown in there?”
She walked out, giving him the finger without looking back.
God, he really liked this girl.
* * *
Since the meeting was at the beach, he suggested they walk down to some of the boutiques. He led the way, his hand on her lower back from time to time guiding her to their destination.
“Rocco! Over here! Rocco.” A holler from across the street made them both turn. It was a man with a camera rushing over to cross the street but as soon as he said the name the people on the street turned to look at them and the realization set in. “Rocco Monroe!”
They’d gone from a stroll to the store to full-on mobbed in thirty seconds. Annie was about to reach for her weapon when Rocco laced his hands with hers and turned his face close to her ear. “Relax. Just fans. It’s fine. I got it.”
“I don’t like this,” she said, looking around. They were out in the open, too vulnerable.
“Trust me. I got it.”
In the second it took him to turn around, his entire demeanor changed. This was the Rocco she’d seen thousands of times on television, and she quickly realized something was missing . . . the dimple. This smile, although sincere looking, wasn’t. He smiled, took selfies, signed things, all while she stood nearby, trying to act normal. She was, after all, not supposed to look like a bodyguard.
“Who’s this?” the guy who had yelled from across the street asked. This wasn’t a random fan, it was obvious he was a paparazzi. “Girlfriend?” He spoke over the rest of the mob who were squealing and yelling.
“What’s your name, honey?” He took a photo, which angered her.
Without looking up from signing something, Rocco chuckled, “She hates to be called honey.”
“So what’s her name? Tell us! What’s your relationship? Come on, the world wants to know? Are you cheating on Julia already?”
Rocco chuckled. “Okay guys, I have to go. Really.”
“Where are you shooting? What does Julia think of your new woman? Honey, tell us your name . . .” The questions came out fast and furious as he clicked the camera’s shutter over and over right in front of their faces. How could Rocco take this, day in and day out?
“Call her Tiger,” he said to the paparazzi who continued to speculate on her name. He then laced his finger through hers and pulled her away. “Bye guys. Come on, Versace has a back entrance.”
Versace?
She was completely overwhelmed by what had just happened. If there had been a threat, no way could she have protected him. She needed to be more prepared next time—she had definitely underestimated his fans and the paparazzi.
Rocco buzzed on the nondescript door. “I called ahead. They’re expecting us.”
She nodded, still looking around, one hand pressed against her pants trying to feel the comfort of the steel from her weapon.
“Hey, it’s cool,” he said, looking over his shoulder waving to a small group still gathered taking photographs of them. “They’re just
fans, you’ll get used to it.”
The door buzzed and Rocco pulled the door open. Once inside, he pressed the button for the elevator. “Take a breath. Breathe. Are you okay?”
“How would I know the difference between a crazed fan and a regular fan? I need to reevaluate my security plan,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Stop worrying. Seriously, nothing is going on but the usual. This is my life. That was actually not bad. One of the reasons it was an easy decision for me to stay in Miami was because the paps aren’t as crazed here. In LA, they’re everywhere. Here, it’s easier to blend in.”
“If you say so,” she said as the elevator doors opened to a big room, all sleek marble and racks of clothes. A man in a tailored suit approached. “Welcome, Mr. Monroe, Ms. Clad. May I offer you some champagne?”
“I’d like some water, please,” Annie said.
“Me too, thank you, Jonas.”
Jonas signaled behind him while escorting them to a lovely velvety mustard-colored couch. Another man handed them glasses of water, and Jonas sat across from them.
Annie quickly gulped half the glass trying to regulate her nerves. She felt a panic attack right on the precipice. The sudden mob reminded her of the ambush in Kandahar. She had to focus on where she was and what she was doing. “ . . . already in the dressing rooms.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Jonas.”
Jonas extended his hand to Annie. “You zoned out, didn’t you?” Rocco asked. “They pulled some outfits for you. Follow Jonas to the dressing room. I’ll be right here.”
“Okay, yeah. Sure.”
Two sweet women were waiting for her in a big room full of mirrors and they handed her a yellow shift dress. It looked way too small for her.
“How fancy is the thing tonight?” she hollered.
“Cocktail attire.”
She smoothed the yellow dress down her body, surprised by how well it fit. She rarely wore dresses but this one was admittedly nice. Feeling a little ridiculous in the expensive and very sexy dress, she inhaled before opening the curtain. “What do you think?” she asked.
He looked up, surprised, his phone tumbling out of his hand and crashing to the floor. “That’s a good sign.” Jonas said, chuckling. And she exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
Last First Kiss Page 8
