by Anna DePalo
Odele sighed. “We need to move quickly. I’m going to tell my assistant to break the story on social media accounts so we can control the initial message. I took an amateur shot with my cell phone of you and Rick seemingly engaged in an intimate conversation on the Novatus Studio lot.”
“Of course you did.”
“It looks great. Really like the two of you having a tête-à-tête,” Odele added, warming to her subject and ignoring the sarcasm.
“Did it also look as if I was going to kick him in the shins?”
“And I’ve already set up a print interview for the two of you with a trusted reporter,” Odele went on as if she hadn’t heard.
“I’m not looking for a protector. And have you even done a background check on Rick Serenghetti? Maybe he’s the one I need safeguarding from!”
Rick was dangerous to her tranquility, but she didn’t care to delve into the reasons why. He had a way of looking at her with a lazy, sultry gleam that she found...annoying—yes, definitely annoying.
She’d done a quick search online for him—only for the purpose of satisfying herself that he didn’t have a criminal record, she told herself—and had come up with nothing. She supposed no news was good news.
“Who said anything about a bodyguard?” Odele said innocently. “This is to help everyone believe you two are an item.”
So Rick had backed off the part about offering personal protection? Somehow she had her doubts. “He doesn’t need to move in to do that. What ever happened to dating? We’re going from zero to sixty.”
“It’s Hollywood. Pregnancies last five months, and babies arrive right after the wedding. Everything is fast here.”
Chiara couldn’t argue. Celebrities were well-known for trying to hide their pregnancies from the press until the second trimester or beyond.
“Do I need to resend you the latest headline about Michael Feran?” Odele asked.
“I’ve already read it. I should have taken a different surname when I started my career.”
“Too late now, sweetie. Besides, the media would have found him anyway, and he’d still be giving you trouble.”
“Yes, but it would have made the connection between us seem less close.”
“Well, time to distance yourself by cozying up to a hot stuntman.”
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Chiara muttered.
“I’ll arrange for him to move in at the end of the week,” Odele responded brightly.
“The guest bedroom, Odele!”
Four
Rick roared up on his motorcycle.
Since he was in temporary digs, and most of his stuff was in storage, he didn’t have much to bring to Chiara’s house in the affluent Brentwood neighborhood. Instead, he’d had a taxi deposit his suitcases and duffel bags at the foot of Chiara’s front steps shortly before his arrival midafternoon.
Looking up, he eyed the house. It was a modest size by Tinseltown standards. Three bedrooms and three baths, according to the write-up on a celebrity gossip site. Reminiscent of an English cottage, it had white stucco walls, an arched doorway and a pitched roof with cross-gables and a prominent chimney. Lush gardening added to the atmosphere of a place that might be featured in Architectural Digest.
He’d taken Odele’s advice and planned to say nothing about being a bodyguard. As far as Chiara was concerned, he was here only as a pretend live-in boyfriend. He had no idea, however, how Odele had convinced Chiara to let him move in.
By the time he’d taken off his helmet, Chiara was standing on the front steps.
“Of course you’d ride a motorcycle,” she commented.
He gave an insouciant smile.
“I thought it was an earthquake.”
“I rock your world, huh?”
“Please.”
He looked at her house. “Nice digs. I should have guessed a typical English-style cottage for you, Snow. But where’s the thatched roof?”
“Wrong century,” she responded. “Where do you call home?”
He gave a lopsided grin. “Technically a small apartment in West Hollywood, but my heart is always where there’s a beautiful woman.”
“I thought so.”
He couldn’t tell what she meant by her response. Still, he couldn’t resist provoking her further. “Shouldn’t we kiss for the benefit of the paparazzi and their long-range lenses?”
“There are no photographers,” she scoffed.
“How do you know? One could be hiding in the bushes.”
She eyed his suitcases. “I’ll put you in the guest bedroom.”
“Relegated to the couch already,” he joked. “Are you going to do a media interview about our first lovers’ spat?”
The temperature between them rose ten degrees, and even the planted geraniums perked up—they apparently liked a good show as much as anybody.
“Hilarious,” Chiara shot back, “but it’s a perfectly fine bed, not a couch.”
“And you won’t be in it.”
She cast him a sweeping look. “Use your imagination. A make-believe relationship means pretend sex. But something tells me you have no problem with letting your dreams run wild.”
“Will you still awaken me with a kiss, Snow White?”
She huffed. “You’re hopeless. I don’t do fairy tales, modern or otherwise.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Don’t act as if you’re disappointed. Your forte is action flicks, not romantic comedies.”
“Then why do I feel as if I’m trapped in a romance?” he murmured.
“Go blow something up and make yourself feel better.”
“It’s not that type of itch that I need to scratch.”
She huffed and then turned toward her front door. “I’ll have you checked for fleas then.”
Rick stifled a grin. This was going to be one interesting stay.
After he got settled in the guest bedroom, he found Chiara in the large country-style kitchen. Warm beige cabinets and butcher-block countertops added to the warm atmosphere. Sniffing the air, he said, “Something smells delicious.”
She glanced up from a saucepan on the range, edible enough herself to be a food advertiser’s dream. “Surprised?”
“That you cook? Gratified.”
“Dinner is beef Stroganoff.”
“Now I’m surprised. You’re an actress who eats.”
“Portion control is everything.”
“Can cook. I’ll check that little detail off my list.”
She cast him a sidelong look, her cloud of dark hair falling in tantalizing waves over one shoulder. “What list?”
“The one that Odele gave me. A little quiz for the both of us...so we can get acquainted. Be believable as a couple.”
Chiara frowned, and then muttered, “Odele leaves nothing to chance. Next thing, she’ll have us convincing the immigration service that we’re not in a sham marriage for a residency card.”
“Because you need one...being from the Land of Fairy Tales?” He almost got a smile out of her with that.
“What do you—I mean, Odele—want to know?”
Rick consulted his cell phone. “What first attracted you to me?”
Chiara spluttered and then set down her stirring spoon with a clack. “This is never going to work.”
“Come on, there must be something that you can tell the reporters.”
She looked flustered. “Does she ask you the same question about me?”
He lowered his eyelids. “What do you think?”
As the question hung there, Rick’s mind skipped back to their stunts...the rehearsals...every single moment, in fact, that he’d become aware of her close by. The air had vibrated with sexual energy.
Chiar
a wet her lips. “I’ll take that as a ‘Yes, she did ask.’”
Rick gave her a seductive smile. “When you showed up for the rehearsal of our first stunt, I knew I was in trouble. You were beautiful and smart and had guts.” He shrugged. “My fantasy woman. The perfect match.”
Chiara blinked.
After a pause, he asked, “Sound good enough for an interview answer?”
She seemed to give herself a mental shake, and then pursed her lips. “Perfect.”
He focused on her mouth. Kissable, definitely. “Great.”
She slapped the lid on the saucepan and made for the kitchen door. “Things are simmering. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”
“It’ll give you time to think of your own answer to Odele’s question,” he called after her, and could swear she muttered something under her breath.
But when she was gone, Rick acknowledged that much as he enjoyed teasing Chiara, the joke was on him. Because she was his dream woman. If only she wasn’t also a publicity-hungry actress...
Through dinner, he and Chiara trod lightly around each other. The beef Stroganoff was delicious, and he helped clean up—a little surprised she didn’t keep a full-time housekeeper even if she traveled a lot. Afterward, she excused herself and retreated to her room, announcing that she had to memorize her lines.
Left to his own devices, he took a quick tour of the house and grounds, familiarizing himself with its security...and possible vulnerability to intruders. Then, with nothing more to do, he headed to bed.
Passing Chiara’s door, he could see a light beneath, and shook off thoughts of what she wore to bed and how her hair would look around her bare shoulders above a counterpane... Still, in the guest bedroom, he found himself punching his pillow multiple times before he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
“Rick?”
He opened his eyes and saw Chiara’s shadowy silhouette in his bedroom doorway. His lips curved. Apparently she’d had a hard time sleeping, too.
She walked toward him, and he made no attempt to disguise his arousal—he’d been thinking about her. Her short slip with spaghetti straps hid little, her nipples jutting against the fabric. She had a fantastic figure. High breasts and an indented waist...softly curved hips. His fingers itched to touch her.
Instead, he propped himself on the pillows behind him.
She sat down on the side of the bed, and her hand brushed his erection.
He saw no prickliness—just need...for him.
“What can I do for you?” His voice came out as a rasp.
Chiara’s eyes glowed in the dim light afforded by the moon. “I think you know.”
She leaned closer. Her lips brushed his and her pretty breasts tantalized his bare chest.
He cupped the back of her head and brought her closer so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue swept inside her mouth, tangling and dueling with hers.
She moaned and sank against him, breaking the kiss just long enough to say, “Love me.”
He needed no further invitation. He pulled her down onto the mattress next to him and covered her body with his.
She responded with the lack of inhibition that he’d hoped for, arching toward him and opening in invitation, her arms encircling his neck as she met the ardor of his kiss.
His only thought was to get even closer...to sink into her welcoming warmth and find oblivion.
It would be sweet release from the restless need that had been consuming him...
Rick awoke with a start. He couldn’t tell what had jerked him from his fantasy, but the room was empty, and he was alone in his bed.
He was also frustrated and aroused.
He groaned. Yup. It was going to be torture acting as if he were Chiara’s boyfriend and hiding the fact that he was her protector.
* * *
The next morning, Chiara was up early for the drive to Novatus Studio. She donned jeans and a knit top. No use prettying up since she’d be sitting in a makeup chair at work soon enough. In fact, it was so early, she figured she might be able to get in a few minutes to study today’s lines of dialogue before the drive to the lot.
Concentrate, that’s what she had to do. But she hadn’t slept well. In bed last night, she’d stared up at the ceiling, very aware of Rick’s presence in her house.
What attracted her to him?
He was the epitome of rough manliness—cool, tough and exuding sex appeal. His green eyes were fascinatingly multihued, and even the hard, sculpted plains of his face invited detailed study by touch and, yes, taste.
A woman could feel safe and sheltered in his arms.
And there was the problem. She’d learned a long time ago not to rely on any man. Starting with her father, who’d disappeared from her life at a young age, and had become a gambling addict and reprobate.
She didn’t hear a sound from Rick’s room, so she tiptoed downstairs with script in hand.
When she reached the kitchen, she was taken aback to spot him sitting outside on the veranda, gazing at the sunrise, dressed in black denim jeans and a maroon tee. He looked peaceful and relaxed, so far from the constant motion and barely leashed energy that she was used to from him.
As if sensing her presence, he turned and met her gaze. Rising, he gave a jaunty salute with the mug in his hand and said, “Good morning.”
“I didn’t hear you,” she blurted as he entered through the French doors.
“We stuntmen can be stealthy.”
She lowered her lashes and swept him with a surreptitious look. His jeans hugged lean hips and outlined muscular legs. The tee covered a flat chest and biceps that were defined but not brawny. He had the physique and face for a movie screen, except there was nothing manicured about him. Rick had a rough male aura instead of polish.
She looked at the cup in his hands. “I didn’t even smell the brew.”
“It’s not coffee. It’s a vitamin power drink.”
Ugh. “For your superhero strength.”
“Of course.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Helps with the stamina. Sleep well?”
“For sure. And you?” She refused to give an inch, treating him with cool civility, even if that smile made her body tighten.
“Naturally.”
The truth was she’d lain awake and tossed around for close to two hours. She wondered how she was going to maintain this charade...especially since Rick was adept at provoking her. And she refused...refused...to dwell on his kiss.
“Nice story about your father in the news. I had time to catch up on the headlines while I waited for you to come down, Sleeping Beauty.”
Damn it. She should have gotten up even earlier. “My father?”
“Yeah, you know, the guy who shares a last name with you.”
“That’s all we have in common,” she muttered.
“Nice story about the card counting recently.”
“Maybe he’ll stay out of trouble now that he’s been barred from his favorite haunts.” Casinos were Michael Feran’s drug of choice.
“Is that what you’re hoping?”
“Why are we discussing this?”
He shrugged. “I figured we should talk about the reason we’re together.” A smile teased his lips. “It seems logical.”
So he wanted an extension of yesterday’s get-to-know-you? No, thanks. Not that last night’s question had haunted her sleep or anything. “We’re not together.”
“It’s what the tabloids think that matters.”
Argh.
“So Michael Feran is a sensitive topic.”
Chiara walked to the kitchen cabinets. “Only in as much as he’s a liar, gambler and cheat.”
“Hmm...must be hard to share the same surname.”
She got a glass and poure
d herself some water from the fridge’s water filter.
“Eight glasses a day?”
She glanced at him. “What do you think? It’s good for the complexion.”
“You’re very disciplined.”
She took a sip. “I have to be.”
“Because your father isn’t?”
“I don’t define myself relative to him.”
Rick’s lips twitched. “Okay, so you’re not your father.”
“Of course.”
“How old were you when he walked out?”
She put down the glass. “Nearly five. But even when he was there, he wasn’t really. He disappeared for stretches. Some of it was spent touring as a sax player with a band. Then he moved out for good a few days before my fifth birthday.”
“Must have been rough.”
“Not really. The party went on without him.” She remembered the pink heart piñata. Her first major role was putting on a smile for the photos when it was just her and her mother.
“Did he ever try coming back?”
“There were a few flyovers until I became a teenager.”
“Brief?”
“Very.” Either her parents would argue, or Michael Feran would quickly move on to his next big thing.
“Right.” Rick looked as if he’d drawn his own conclusions.
“Why are we talking about this?” she asked again, her voice sharp.
“I need to get the story straight so I’m not contradicting you when I speak.”
“Well, there’s nothing to tell.”
“That’s not what the press thinks.”
Yup, he had her there. Which was the crux of her problem. Straightening her shoulders, she grabbed her car keys from the kitchen counter. On second thought, she could have breakfast at the studio—there was always food around. “Well, I’m off. See you on set.”
“I’m coming with you,” Rick responded casually. “Or rather, you’re coming with me.”
She stopped and faced him. “Excuse me?”