by Lucy Score
Waverly ducked her head under the stream of water envisioning a soggy Xavier Saint sloshing his way home. She grinned. She may be trapped for the next four months with a babysitter, but at least she’d won a minor yet satisfying victory over him. He’d think twice before trying to play head games with her again.
She was a student of humanity, and for an actor, observation was essential. She excelled at reading people and their intentions. So she knew when Xavier was purposely pushing her buttons. It hadn’t been flirting as some playground bullies still did. It had been more deliberate. Trying to get a rise out of her to show her he was in control.
Well, he hadn’t looked in control when he was floundering around in his suit under water, Waverly congratulated herself.
She probably shouldn’t have done it. There was something about him, something more than stereotypical bodyguard. The way he kept his back to the wall in the morning room, how his gaze constantly scanned for threats—there was training there that hadn’t come from some private security firm. What she couldn’t tell was if he was underestimating her like so many others had or if he was testing her.
She nailed the high note with Taylor Swift and twisted off the faucets with a flourish. After a quick towel dry, she wrapped herself in a short cotton robe and ran a comb through her wet hair. She needed to call Kate, she decided. Between the two of them, they could devise a plan to get rid of Xavier Saint.
Still humming, she strolled into the kitchen.
“Got an extra towel?”
She shrieked and rapped her elbow sharply off of the refrigerator handle. The knife she grabbed sang when she yanked it out of the wooden block on the counter.
Xavier was sitting on her couch his shirt and pants were inexplicably dry. A handgun was stripped down on the coffee table in front of him. His suit jacket hung on a peg just inside the front door dripping a steady patter of pool water onto the tile floor.
“How the hell did you get in here? Why aren’t you wet? Why is there a gun on my table? Are you a freaking magician?”
He looked up at her over the slide of his gun. His eyes were as deadly as the weapon in his hands. “That’s something you’re going to have to get used to about me, Angel. I’m always prepared.”
“My parents gave you a key.” She closed her eyes. They were serious about this security business.
“This morning, before you threw your hissy fit in the parlor.” Oh, he was pissed.
“Morning room,” she corrected him automatically.
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “And I had a change of clothes and a cleaning kit in the car.” He kept his tone mild, but the way he slammed the magazine back into the gun told her he was good and steamed at her. She’d pushed him pretty far, but not far enough to make him snap. Interesting.
“Were you a Boy Scout?” she wondered out loud.
“Army intelligence,” he replied.
Well, that explained the training…and the haircut. She rubbed her aching elbow and opened the refrigerator. Inside she found the daily pitcher of disgusting green juice that Louie made fresh for her to gag on. She poured herself a small glass and then shot a look into the living room before pulling down a second glass and filling it.
“Sorry about your gun. I didn’t realize you were wearing one,” she said, setting the second glass down in front of him.
He gave a harsh half-laugh. “Thanks for not destroying my phone.”
Sarcasm? Perhaps there was something human in him after all.
“What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the shamrock green liquid.
“Green juice. Or as I like to call it, garbage juice. Louie makes us drink pitchers of it when we’re home. If I have to deal with you on a daily basis, the least you can do is help me with my share.”
“You threw me in the pool.”
“Nothing wrong with your short-term memory,” Waverly quipped.
Xavier racked the slide and double-checked the safety before stowing the gun in a shoulder harness.
“Have a seat, Waverly,” he said. His tone was calm, mild even. But the look in those eyes was hard, dangerous. Warning bells went off in her head.
She sat on the overstuffed armchair, avoiding the cushion next to him. Interlacing her fingers, she crossed her legs. The picture perfect listener.
“This may seem like a game to you,” Xavier began, his tone was that of a professor instructing a deficient student. “But the real world isn’t just parties and pretty dresses.”
For a complete stranger, he had an uncanny knack for putting her back up.
“I am well aware of that—”
“I don’t think you are,” he cut her off, his tone clipped. “You seem to be operating under the misconception that you aren’t an easy target. Those photographers could have gotten you killed, but you were too pissed off that Daddy wouldn’t give you the keys to the Jag or whatever the argument was to take even the basic safety precautions. That all stops now.”
Red began to creep into the edge of Waverly’s vision. He was baiting her. He wanted her to throw a temper tantrum so he could prove that he was right, that she was just a spoiled little rich girl. God, why did everyone have to push her for a reaction? One of these days, she was going to get sick and tired of being pushed around, and she was going to give them all a reaction they’d never forget.
“My life is not a game,” she said icily. “It’s already as close to a prison as I’m willing to get. Having you lurking over my shoulder every time I step outside my door is not an option. I can’t live like that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
And that was it. The problem. She didn’t have a choice.
She leaned forward. “I’m twenty years old. That’s legally an adult by anyone’s standards. I sign contracts. I vote. I pay taxes. I should be making my own decisions.”
“An adult doesn’t throw a hissy fit and stomp her feet when things don’t go her way,” Xavier pointed out. “An adult doesn’t knowingly take unnecessary risks just because she’s having a bad day.”
“Let’s get this straight,” she said quietly, picking up her glass of juice and sipping. “Your opinion of me—low as it is—means nothing. I don’t need or want your approval on how I choose to live.”
It was his turn to lean forward. Anger and something else smoldered in his gaze. “While we’re getting things straight, I’m not some ass-kissing lackey who’s going to bring you lattes. I’m here to do a job, and that’s to protect you. So you can play the spoiled little rich girl card all you want, but there are two truths that you need to accept.”
He held up a finger. “One, there are people who, for whatever reason, wouldn’t mind seeing you hurt. Two—” he held up a second finger. “You have people in your life who, for whatever reason, want to keep you around. I am here to make sure that’s what happens. And if you have a problem with that, I don’t give a shit.”
“And yet you’d take a bullet for me. Now, who’s the one taking unnecessary risks?” she shot back.
Xavier picked up his glass. “You can throw your temper tantrums and play your little princess games all you want. But I’m sticking, and I will win.” He knocked back the juice and downed it.
Waverly had to give him points for not flinching. Louie’s recipe ran heavy on the celery and kale.
She could handle his assumptions about her. No one saw the person under the Hollywood polish. And who was she to disappoint him? If he wanted a spoiled rich bitch to shadow, she’d give him one.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Are you listening to me, Kate?” Marisol admonished Waverly’s assistant and friend.
“Nope,” the blonde in the ball cap said, leaning over the sink to get a better view through the windows. Two inches shy of Waverly’s five-foot-eight, Kate moved like a roller derby diva. Everything about her was energetic, edging toward frenetic. She chewed gum as if her life depended on it and preferred speed in all things. She wore
her hair, a shade or two darker than Waverly’s silvery blonde, in a perpetual ponytail.
Waverly beaned her friend in the head with a muffin. “Come on, Kate. He’s not that hot.”
Despite their age and cultural differences, Kate and Marisol managed to shoot Waverly twin looks of disbelief.
Waverly joined Kate at the wide window over the sink. Xavier was perched on the edge of the roof that covered the main house’s expansive patio. Below him, a man on a ladder was installing a new security camera. Xavier’s jacket was off, and his sleeves were rolled up. Waverly could understand how Kate and Marisol found him attractive. Physically, he was the perfect male specimen.
His face alone was worthy of being captured in marble. That perfect Roman nose, cheekbones so sculpted they would have guaranteed a modeling career. And those eyes. The color of melted caramel, they missed nothing.
They watched him prowl the edge of the roof. Probably scouting more ways to invade her privacy, Waverly thought. He stood, hands on hips, with his tie fluttering in the breeze.
“I mean, come on,” Kate said. “That’s just hot. I don’t know how you can concentrate with that piece of gorgeous breathing down your neck.”
“Easy. Just look past his god-like exterior and get to know him. He’s got the personality of a Turkish prison guard.”
“I’d go to prison for that,” Kate mused.
Waverly crossed her arms. “He’s condescending, rude, and entirely too opinionated. Now, can we please get back to our meeting?”
“He called her the Bride of Satan,” Marisol piped up. “And that was before she threw him in the pool.” She tried to look disapproving, but Waverly wasn’t fooled.
They returned to the table where, with one last look of longing, Kate launched into Waverly’s calendar. Details and schedules were her fetish. She rattled off a series of appearance requests and invites for the week while Waverly drummed her pen on the table.
“So, no to all, correct?” Kate asked.
But still Waverly drummed. If Xavier wanted to guard a Tinsel Town princess, then maybe she should give him a show. One that would have him packing his bags.
“Say yes,” Waverly decided, dropping her pen.
“To which one?” Kate frowned.
“All of them.”
“Wave, there’s a dozen events here. Some that overlap,” Kate argued.
“And?”
“And you don’t do that. You don’t go to these things unless your mother holds a gun to your head.”
“Saint is putting in overtime to get to know me and my routine. Why not give him a routine that makes him regret taking the job?”
Marisol made a disapproving tut-tut. “Your parents hired him to keep you safe.”
“My parents hired him to keep me in line,” Waverly corrected. She got up to pace. “Kate, how do you think my mother will react when she hears about my new schedule?”
“She’ll shit a brick of ecstasy,” Kate predicted. “She lives to parade you around like a show pony. You’re lucky that kid beauty contest TV show didn’t exist when you were growing up.”
“So if she sees me playing ball…”
“Then what does she need Mr. Hot Bod Sexy Face for?” Kate finished.
“Exactly! Ladies, we could be Saint-free in a week.” Waverly twirled around the kitchen.
“I don’t like when you two scheme,” Marisol shook her head sternly. “Why can’t you just let this Saint do his job?”
Waverly stopped twirling. “Mari, you know me. I can’t live like this. I’m so close to finally doing what’s right for me. I can’t spend the next four months under lock and key so my mother can turn me into a puppet. She’ll have me committed to projects two years out.”
“But why can you not say that to Mr. Saint? Explain to him that you’re leaving the business.”
“Because Mr. Saint believes that I’m a spoiled little rich girl with an attitude problem. And I’d hate to disappoint him.”
“Ay!” Marisol burst into a litany of blistering Spanish.
“I’m not stubborn as a two-headed mule,” Waverly said primly, topping off Marisol’s coffee. The woman grabbed her coffee cup and rose stiffly.
“I want no part in this!” She muttered her way to the door complaining about mule-headed girls and blind men. Waverly watched her go. As much as Marisol pretended to bluster, she knew the adoration went both ways. Waverly was certain if she ever called Marisol from the scene of a murder she’d committed, her Mari would show up with a nice Persian rug and a roll of duct tape.
Marisol, still muttering, wrenched open the front door with a Latin flourish of temper. Xavier was on the doorstep poised to knock.
“Señora Cote.” He stepped back as the woman bustled past.
Marisol made a show of crossing herself. “God be with you,” she said, shaking her head fiercely.
If Xavier was bemused by the woman’s exit, he didn’t show it. The consummate professional, his face remained impassive as he took the chair next to Waverly at the table. Yesterday obviously hadn’t dampened his determination to ruin her life. He stared her down, and Waverly met his gaze with disdain.
“I’m Kate,” Kate announced, breaking their silent battle of wills.
“Xavier,” he said, offering his hand across the table.
Kate grinned, shaking with enthusiasm, and Waverly kicked her under the table.
“I’m Waverly’s personal assistant and whipping post,” Kate said, sticking her tongue out at Waverly.
“Waverly’s personal security and personal floatation device,” Xavier answered with a ghost of a smile.
Waverly rolled her eyes. Kate had been Waverly’s right hand for three years after they met on a movie set where Kate was working as a haggard, underpaid production lackey. She’d called an associate producer with a God complex and wandering hands a “weasel-faced asshole” and been unceremoniously fired.
Waverly hired her on the spot.
“We were just going over Wave’s schedule for this week,” Kate said, ignoring Waverly’s disapproval. “I can cc you when I email her the finalized calendar.”
“That would be great, thanks. What can you tell me about your email server?” Xavier asked, eyeing the carafe of coffee.
Waverly slid it and an empty mug to him. He poured and sipped while Kate gave him the details about the IT company she worked with for the website and email.
“We’re going to want to keep any communications about Angel’s schedule or plans or whereabouts on a secure server,” he said, rolling down his sleeves.
“Angel?” Kate snorted.
“Don’t start,” Waverly grumbled.
She felt the weight of Xavier’s attention on her. “I’d like to have our cyber team take a look. I don’t have to tell you that email servers get hacked every day.” He looked at her pointedly.
“Are you waiting for me to confess to having a treasure trove of naked pictures?” Waverly cocked her head. She poured a glass of the ever-present green juice and slapped it down on the table in front of him.
“This is serious business,” he reminded her.
“And this is the price of doing business, X.”
Those tawny eyes flickered. He raised the glass in a mock salute and drained it. “It’s not as horrific as you make it out to be,” he told her.
Waverly downed the last half of her juice and resisted the urge to shudder.
“God, how do you drink that crap?” Kate gagged. “It’s like someone stomped on soggy lawn clippings.”
“That’s the wheatgrass,” Waverly told her, washing down the juice with a belt of coffee. “X here helps with my daily quota and then I don’t have to lie to Louie and dump it down the sink. So, meeting adjourned?” she asked hopefully.
“Actually, I think we should hear an update from X Factor here,” Kate suggested.
At Waverly’s stare of death, Kate shrugged. “What? He’s here doing stuff.
I think we should know what that stuff is.”
“It’s smart to be interested in security,” Xavier said, giving her a nod of approval. Waverly thought she heard Kate purr.
“Ugh, fine,” Waverly said. “Let’s hear all about the prison you’re building for me.”
Undeterred, Xavier briefed them on the new security system that he was installing. Lights, sensors, cameras, off-site back-ups. The whole she-bang. He pulled out his phone and opened an app. When he tilted the screen, Waverly could see a rendering of the house and grounds.
“We added cameras here, here, and here,” he said, pointing. “The perimeter sensors will go in at the weak points around the wall. I’m also changing the locks here and in the main house. You’ll be able to lock and unlock doors with an app I’ll put on your phone. Any alarms will be monitored by my internal team, and alerts will be sent directly to your phone.”
“This all sounds like we’re preparing for an attack,” Waverly frowned. “What’s next? Bulletproof gowns and secret bunkers?”
“Next is you and I spending some time reviewing your usual haunts, where you feel safe, what situations could be dangerous, and what steps we can take to keep you safe without locking you in a closet.”
“She has a really nice closet,” Kate interjected.
“A nice prison is still a prison,” Waverly reminded her.
Xavier shook his head. “These are just standard safety measures. Being prepared for the unknown makes it easier to react effectively when there’s a known threat.”
“Speaking of known threats—” Kate began.
“We don’t need to get into that again,” Waverly sighed, grabbing for the folder that Kate was trying to shove at Xavier.
Xavier wrestled the folder from Waverly and slapped her hand away. “What’s this?”