The line at the check-in counter moved up. Kenya shook herself to dissipate her morose thoughts and followed. There were only two or three people between her and the counter; that was a relief. In five, maybe ten minutes, she’d be on the other side in the relative comfort of the departure lounge. At least she could have a seat and a cup of coffee, and bury her face in a newspaper until her flight was called.
“Excuse me.” A deep voice rumbled at her elbow, not addressing her, she sensed, but someone nearby. There was a rustle of movement right behind her, and, instinctively, she shifted position to allow whoever it was to pass.
The line at the check-in counter moved up. Kenya shook herself to dissipate her morose thoughts and followed. There were only two or three people between her and the counter; that was a relief. In five, maybe ten minutes, she’d be on the other side in the relative comfort of the departure lounge. At least she could have a seat and a cup of coffee, and bury her face in a newspaper until her flight was called.
“Excuse me.” A deep voice rumbled at her elbow, not addressing her, she sensed, but someone nearby. There was a rustle of movement right behind her, and, instinctively, she shifted position to allow whoever it was to pass.
She tried retreating once again into her thoughts, shutting out the activity around her, but something was stopping her, something weird, almost eerie. Like a fork stuck into an electric outlet, something was interrupting the circuit of her thoughts, leaving them sputtering, crackling, and chaotic. But what?
A shiver ran through her, starting at the top of her scalp and, wig notwithstanding, rippling down the back of her neck, spreading to her front, along her breasts and belly, her arms and into her fingertips. Wave after wave, down her legs and into her toes. Each minute hair on her body picked up a message and telegraphed it to the next; on and on it went until every cell within her resonated with it.
The message was: Danger nearby!
There was something huge right beside her. No, not something, someone. Someone who was too close for comfort. She flinched, pulling her jacket tighter around her in an instinctive attempt at self-protection, and looked up … and up.
A mountain of a man was setting an enormous army-green duffel bag down onto the floor right next to her, expelling a breath as though it hurt to bend over. The hand that held the bag was so large that, by comparison, the straps looked fragile enough to snap in his grip.
The skin on that gloveless hand was rich and dark, and, try as she might, Kenya couldn’t prevent her eyes from following it to the point where the sleeve of his bottle-green flannel shirt met his wrist, and from there, along the arm to the chest, which looked as deep as it was wide.
Stop it, she reprimanded herself. Stop staring. A line jumper was a line jumper, and this man who was trying to insinuate himself next to her had certainly not been in the line a moment ago. She schooled her features into her best condemning scowl without making eye-contact; in New York, eye-contact could be hazardous business. “The line forms at the back,” she said pointedly.
The mountain didn’t move.
This time, she didn’t hesitate to let her annoyance show. “Look,” she began, “we’re all in a hurry. We’ve all got the same flight to catch. But I’m sure if we just do what we need to in an orderly fashion—” She stalled. In her irritation, she’d done exactly what she’d been trying to avoid: locked eyes with this huge, offending stranger.
And what eyes they were! Implacable, unwavering, as unblinking as a cat’s. Dark … blacker than black … and fixed steadfastly on her.
She shivered again as the danger warning that had rippled across every inch of her skin seconds before made another circuit, this time penetrating beneath the skin, blazing through flesh and bone. Sounding an alarm louder and more resonant than before.
She struggled to tear her eyes away from his, but succeeded only to find her gaze riveted to the rest of his face. The features were large and well formed, elegant in spite of their size. The brows: dark, thick and wing-like, nose long, cheekbones high, broad and well defined. The mouth: unsmiling but far from hostile. Full, wide, and exquisitely shaped. There was something about those features that brought an inexplicable craving for chocolate bubbling up from deep within her consciousness. Without realizing it, she ran her tongue across her bottom lip. She could even taste the chocolate!
Maybe just this once, her muddled brain struggled to rationalize, I can let him slip in before me. There’s still time to catch that flight …. She half-smiled, ready to let him past her if he wished. He didn’t step into the space as it opened up before them, but remained at her side.
“Miss Reese,” the stranger began, just loudly enough for her to hear him, but not so much that anyone around them could.
Visions of cups of steaming cocoa were banished in an instant, and with them, any goodwill she’d fleetingly felt toward the man who was still insinuating himself closer. He’d called her by name! The danger-warnings that had rippled through her body became alarm bells clanging in her skull. He knew who she was!
That could only mean one of two things, neither of which, in her frame of mind, she was in any mood to deal with. She chose the least offending option first. “No autographs,” she whispered. “Sorry. Not now, okay?” Normally, when autograph requests came, she always obliged. It was part of an unwritten contract that any performer had with her public: they gave her their attention, and she gave them the respect and time they were entitled to. To be honest, every request for an autograph made her feel warm inside. It told her she was doing something right.
But she couldn’t. Not today. “Please,” she repeated. “Normally I’d be more than happy to, but ….” She trailed off, feeling guilty, touching her hand to her sunglasses, cursing them for being a useless disguise.
“I’m not here for that,” the man beside her said, speaking as softly as he had before. He sounded almost apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood.”
Her body drew tauter. If he wasn’t an autograph seeker, then the second, less pleasant option came into play. He was a reporter. Either he’d gotten wind of her trip and followed her here, or he was an opportunist who’d spotted her in the crowd and was sidling up to her to squeeze out a story.
“No interviews,” she told him sharply. This time, there was no trace of guilt. “No quotes.” She looked anxiously around, searching for an escape route and finding none. The firmness in her voice was betrayed by a note of pleading. “I’ve said all I have to say. Over and over. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
The man was silent, his dark eyes holding hers for so long she had to tear her gaze away, focus it elsewhere, anywhere but within his uncomfortable thrall.
Eventually, he spoke. “I’m not a reporter.” The statement was decisive, without a hint of irony or deceit.
She ventured to look at him again, wanting to believe him, if only for her own peace of mind. For what it was worth, he had an honest face. But, unfortunately, honesty could be feigned. What else would he want from her, if not another tawdry story? She searched her mind for any alternate explanation, but failed to find one. She made a small, disbelieving sound and begged urgently, “Whoever you are, whatever you want, leave me alone.”
His brow furrowed and his look became more piercing, more wary, as though he were afraid that she might lash out, or, worse, burst into tears. “Miss Reese,” he finally said, “I’m your escort.”
She couldn’t be hearing right. “My what?”
“Your security escort.” Then, he added slowly, as though the word pained him even to speak it, “Your bodyguard.”
An incredulous gasp escaped her. “My bodyguard? Are you joking?” What reason did she have to believe him? In the past few weeks, she’d had one reporter pose as a chambermaid in her hotel and another as a handyman on the set. She wasn’t prepared to be lied to like that again. She glared at him, summoning as much chagrin as she could and allowing it to show in her face, hoping to intimidate him into backing off. The effect, unfortunately, was diminished by the fact that she stood barely five feet to his six feet … plenty. She felt like a cornered cat hissing at a tiger.
He was nowhere near intimidated, but a puzzled look crossed his features. “You mean you’re not expecting me?”
“How could I expect you if I don’t even know who you are? And for your information, this is just about the lowest, dirtiest stunt any one of you has pulled. Bodyguard! Huh!” She all but spat out the word. “Did you actually think I’d fall for that one?”
He looked so perplexed it would have been comical, had she not been so upset. “Really, I am—” he floundered.
“Ahem!” A short, bespectacled man in an ill-fitting business suit coughed into his fist and nodded at the check-in counter, where the clerk was waiting. She’d been so sidetracked by this boldfaced reporter and his bullshit story that she’d failed to see the front of the line clear away.
Having said all she needed to say to the con-artist—and half suspecting he was wired for sound, she clamped her jaw shut, hitched her carry-on higher onto her shoulder, and stepped up.
The creep stepped forward with her. Kenya’s mouth fell open. “Look,” she began, abandoning any attempt at being discreet, “I’m on to you, so drop it. Don’t expect me to take your stupid, sophomoric bodyguard nonsense for anything other than what it is: an idiotic, lame-brained lie, and it won’t get you a story. So if you don’t mind—”
“I’m not a reporter,” he said again. His voice was as level as it had been the moment he’d first addressed her. “My name is Damon Saint Rose, and—”
“Saint Rose? I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Ryan sent me.”
The name made her stand stock-still. She watched him with cautious suspicion.
He tried again. “Ryan Carey. Your manager.”
“I know who Ryan Carey is,” she snapped. “And I don’t believe you.”
His logic was implacable. “How else would I know his name?”
“You could have Googled it,” she countered. “You could have asked someone.”
“I didn’t.”
“You could have …” She floundered, waving her arms for emphasis, “… bribed someone.”
“Like who?”
“Anyone.” She had no idea who he could have gotten to, but information was out there, if someone knew where to look. “You people know how to get information when you want to.”
“My people?” He gave her a quizzical look. “And who would ‘my people’ be?”
“Reporters!” She spat out the word as though a stinkbug had flitted into her mouth.
“I’m going to say this only one more time: I am not a reporter. Look, let me show you my ID.” Before he could reach for anything, there was a sound behind them. They both turned.
“A-hem!” Once again, the man gestured at the check-in counter, which was still empty. The clerk was waiting for her, her smile of welcome having faded somewhat. “Miss,” the man said. “Could you please …!” He jerked his thumb at the long line that had come to a halt behind them. People were standing on tiptoe and peering up front, trying to see what the hold-up was.
Irritated beyond endurance by the tall, pushy intruder, Kenya strode to the counter and slapped her travel documents down. The check-in clerk gave her a once-over, pausing briefly when she read the name, and then squinted at her face, trying to put the name to the be-wigged and be-hatted woman before her.
To Kenya’s despair, the mountain tagged along, slapping his documents onto the counter beside hers with equal emphasis. “We’re traveling together,” he informed the clerk.
Kenya’s jaw went slack. The nerve of some people! She protested vigorously to the clerk, who had accepted Saint Rose’s papers, but who was still looking quizzically at her for confirmation of his claim. “I most certainly am not traveling with this man! I don’t even know him!”
“I’m escorting the lady,” he reiterated firmly to the clerk, who was now bemusedly glancing from Kenya’s indignant face to his adamant one. To her further horror, the man leaned forward and, in a highly audible whisper, confided, “I’m her …” he paused for effect, “protection. You understand. Studio business.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a wallet and flipped it open, showing her something Kenya couldn’t see, but had no doubt it was some kind of fake identification. And then the creature actually winked!
The woman looked thrilled at having had real-life show business intrigue dropped into her lap on what had promised to be a mundane shift. She grinned broadly, and even broader still when he put a finger to his lips and continued, “It’s confidential. Could you oblige?”
The clerk’s scarlet-tipped fingers flew as, to Kenya’s dismay, she proceeded to accept his seating requests without a further glance at her.
Kenya sputtered. “I need protection? Says who?”
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