I decline the flight attendant’s offer of champagne for the second time. I’m on duty, so that means no alcohol for me. Seated next to me in the ultra-plush first class seats is Emilie, who waves the stewardess off with a half-full glass. First class suits her—this is where she belongs. Not me.

“I am so happy you decided to come with me.”

What can I say to her? I’m not telling her of my increased nightmares ever since the red carpet debacle. Of the night sweats that engulf me in reliving the night I killed Cole’s stalker.

Glancing at the beauty next to me, I offer her a half-smile and am rewarded with a blinding one from her. This needs to be shut down. Adjusting the brim of my baseball cap, I remind her, “I’m only protecting you on this trip. I have feelers out for my replacement.”

Her eyebrows knit together. I ignore the rush of want to soothe them. She’s just a client. My last client.

“Well, I am happy you were able to take time away from your gym.” She pulls a magazine from the side pocket and places it on her lap. “Tell me about it, s’il vous plaît.”

My thoughts freeze. Needing to keep my distance, I decide to give her just the basics. “We have all the typical machines, plus a rock wall, massage and other classes on site.”

“A rock wall! Oh la la. Sounds like a very interesting place. How did you come to buy it?”

How much do I want to share with her? I shrug. “I’ve known about the gym from the beginning. I wasn’t a member, but I did work out there from time to time.”

“Oh. Did you know the owners or something?”

I take in a harsh breath and pat the dog tags around my neck. “It belonged to my sister and her husband.”

Her hand stills over the magazine on her lap. “Older or younger?”

I smile, my thoughts on Three. “Younger.”

“I have a younger brother, Gerard. He is in a band that is trying to make a name for itself. When he was in Paris, Cole gave him some good advice.” She tilts her head. “Is your sister in LA? Is she starting a family—is that why she is selling the gym to you?”

Images of Three as a mom cloud my vision. She would’ve been a great mother.

“Wills?”

I reach for my cup—real glass, thanks to being in first class—and swallow the soda, the ice cubes bouncing against my teeth. “No, not exactly.” Even after all this time, saying the words opens deep wounds. When I was getting to know Emilie last year, I was able to avoid this topic. Time’s up. “My sister died two years ago.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.” Her hand lands on my forearm. “May I ask what happened?”

I suck in a breath and look at the woman sitting next to me. Her hazel eyes are drawn in compassion, somehow making it okay for me to say the next words. “My sister was a Marine. She was killed by an IED in Afghanistan.”

I close my eyes. Get yourself under control, man. Stretching my legs, I study my sneaker-covered feet.

Emilie’s French accent fills the silence. Squeezing my arm, she says in a soft voice, “I am so sorry. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose Gerard.”

Her words touch a part of me that I’d walled off years ago. For some inexplicable reason, the need to talk about Three bubbles to the surface. “My sister was your typical tomboy, always wanting to be with me and my friends.”

Emilie releases my arm but stays facing me. “And you did not want her around, right? Maman made me take Girard with me sometimes. All my girlfriends thought he was cute, but I wanted him out of my way.”

A memory of her begging our parents to join me at Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes surfaces. She was so tough. Fearless. She would go up against the biggest guys in the room and sometimes they didn’t even let her tap them out—she bested them fair and square. A smile tugs at my lips.

“Would you like to share?”

Startled, I glance at Emilie. The ache of my sister’s loss is still with me, but Emilie makes me want to talk about the amazing person she was. “I was just remembering when she took Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes with me and kicked some serious butt.” It’s been so long since I was able to smile at the memory of something my sister did. Why do I feel as if it’s okay to do so now?

Emilie’s answering smile makes me feel good about sharing. “It sounds like your sister was trying to impress you.”

I twist my wrist, causing the ice cubes to clank in the glass. “She was a good kid. And then she grew up and joined the Marines.” Like I should have. The ever-present darkness reaches up and grabs me by the throat. I clench my teeth to keep my feelings at bay.

“She sounds like she was a strong woman. I can see the family resemblance.”

My father expected me to follow in his footsteps into the Marines. I turn my head and look out the window. We’re at cruising altitude, high above the clouds. My stomach churns at the memories. No. No more. I can’t.

Schooling my features, I face my client and redirect our conversation to the professional. “Tell me about this shoot.”

Her eyes widen and she searches my face. As ever, I don’t change my expression. This is the mask I wore when David called to tell me what happened. And when I was at Three’s funeral. And Jared’s and Roberto’s. The mask instilled in me from birth—A real man never shows weakness, my father decreed. And I never have.

When she realizes I’m finished talking about my sister, Emilie’s eyes return to the magazine on her lap. She flips a few pages, stopping on a photo of a beautiful woman. The ad refers to her as the “Nairobi Goddess.”

“Val is going to be on this shoot, so it will be fun. Do you know her?” She taps the page.

I shake my head. Emilie rambles on about her friend, whom I will be meeting tomorrow. I zone out on her and remind myself that she’s way too good for me. Plus, everything I touch withers and dies, so she’s much better off with someone else. Even alone would be better. No matter how right she feels in my arms.

I shift in my seat and refocus on my client’s musings. She’s now talking about the shoot tomorrow, and the photographer, Wade something-or-other. Seems like a good time to review the ground rules.

“When you’re on the shoot, know that I’ll be in the background. My eyes will be on you, even if you don’t see me. I don’t want to get in your way. Or Wade’s way.”

“Wade.” She flips a few pages in her magazine, nearly ripping one of them. “Yeah. Wade.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prick. “What’s up? Something I should know about?”

She closes the magazine on a sigh. Her toes raise and her foot swivels back and forth on its heel as if she’s wearing stilettos instead of sandals. I’m sure she has a fancy term for them, but they look like flip flops to me.

I wait for her to collect her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she begins, “I knew I wanted to be a model from when I was very young. All the photos in the magazines, the life was so glamourous to me. When I turned fifteen and grew taller, I knew I could meet the height requirement.”

Her eyes look out the window for a few seconds, then she continues, “A few of us in school wanted to be models. One girl found an ad posted by a photographer, Wade Block, and brought it in. He promised to take all the initial photos for studio consideration for a certain amount of money. None of the other girls had the funds, so they kept on looking for other ways into the industry. However, I had saved my birthday money and contacted him. I did not tell my friends—or my family.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and falls silent. Even as a teenager, she was so independent. “Go on.”

She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. “I was very excited when the day finally came. I packed three different outfits and went to Wade’s studio in Paris.” She shakes her head. “No. Not studio. It was his flat.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, hating the direction this story is taking.

“Suffice it to say, he was not interested in the clothes I brought.” She averts her gaze and continues in a near-whisper. “I did what he said and took off my top. And bra. He took photos. When I refused to take off my panties, he got belligerent. Told me I would never be a real model and that he would blackball me in the industry.”

I force my body to remain seated, even though all I want to do is jump up and beat the crap out of something.

She sniffles. “When I got back home, Maman saw how upset I was. I confessed everything to her. The next day, she and Papa made an appointment for me with a real photographer, who had connections to the Agency. And the rest is history.”

Unclenching my fists, I ask, “What happened to the photos?”

“Years later, I found out the Agency had paid Wade off and got the photos. And the negatives, of course.”

“Good.” My hands itch to teach this asshole a lesson. “Why is this Wade Block still working?”

Her foot bounces. “Turns out, he is very talented. His photographs are beyond amazing. The industry protects those who make it money and who are well-connected.” She shrugs.

Every part of my body readies for battle. How can she be so blasé? “He needs to be taught a lesson.”

She puts her hand on my forearm. “No. You cannot. As my rep at the Agency explained, it is all in the past now, and I need this gig. I have done a few shoots with him over the years and he has respected by boundaries. But, if you see Wade getting me alone, can you please come and not make yourself unscarce?”

My blood boils. Ignoring her incorrect phrasing, I sit up straighter. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure you’re never in danger.” Wade Block is now in my crosshairs.

“Merci.” She drops her magazine into the side pouch and settles in with a blanket and pillow. Despite my anger on her behalf, I can’t stop myself from smiling as she yawns.

“I am going to take a catnap. Planes always make me sleepy.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

She smiles at me and closes her eyes. I watch as her breathing drifts off into slumber. Even though I’m exhausted from several poor nights’ rest, I know better than to try to sleep. I can’t risk a nightmare—or worse—at thirty-thousand feet. Besides, I can’t simply dismiss her hair-raising story about Wade Block. Tugging on the brim of my cap, I open the sci-fi book I picked up at the airport and start reading.

The words blur.

Jared’s lifeless body is sprawled by the back entrance to a house on fire. Roberto and I exchange a determined glance and race past him into the burning building. Clearing the first floor, we climb up to the second. Smoke clouds my vision as a gunshot rings out. I follow Roberto to the threshold, when a second gunshot fires and he crumples at my feet. Do not look down. Do not look down.

I enter a room in total chaos. Rose stands off to the side, a handcuff dangling from her wrist. Unharmed. Cole tackles a woman holding the gun, and she hits the floor. Hard. My eyes don’t leave her prone form, even as Rose begs us to leave the room.

The woman comes to and points her gun at my clients.

She killed my partners. She’s trying to kill the people I am responsible for. I’m their only hope of survival. Everything rests on me. I may not be a Marine, but I can protect them. I will keep them safe.

Suddenly Cole and Rose disappear, and Three—young and vibrant and dynamic—is in the assassin’s sights.

This ends now. I aim my gun directly at her heart. And squeeze the trigger. She collapses on her back, the gun falling from her hand with a thud.

Inanimate eyes look directly into my soul. And find. Nothing.

I startle awake.

Turning my head on the seat’s headrest, other passengers are either sleeping or otherwise ignoring me and my heavy breathing. Good. I ask the flight attendant for another soda and begin the painstaking task of putting the nightmare away. Again.

A couple of hours later, back in control after watching back-to-back episodes of “Ninja Heroes” on the in-flight entertainment, I touch Emilie’s cheek. She’s all soft and sweet and innocent wrapped in the blanket. A sleepy voice with a French accent asks, “Are we there yet?”

“The pilot announced that we’re landing in about thirty minutes,” I respond, pitching my voice low.

Her sleepy smile zings at my heart. I ignore the sensation and go over protocols for the airport and getting to the hotel while she prepares for landing. Of course, her Agency tipped off the paparazzi that she’s on this flight. After all, she needs to maintain a high profile. With me as her muscle.

By the time we taxi to the gate, Emilie looks as if she just walked off the runway rather than a sixteen-hour flight. I grab our luggage from the overhead bins and we make our way through the airport, side-by-side.

The airport is crammed with people. My eyes roam over the crowds, not finding anyone who’s giving off warning signals. Once through customs, I prepare us both for showtime. “Ready to meet the Brazilian cameras?”

“Oui. They are a bit pushy but very nice.”

I remind myself that she’s done this before, several times. All without me. And never with an incident. I’m here for show. I slip my baseball cap off and tuck it into my backpack, exchanging it for a pair of sunglasses. It’s easier to scan the crowd when people can’t see where I’m looking.

Beside me, Emilie stops. “The cameras are going to want to know who the model is on my arm,” she giggles, her eyes dancing.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “They’re around the corner. Just keep walking, okay.” Let’s get this over with.

Her posture straightens and she forces her cheeks to inflate. Her eyes lose the mischievous glint of only a second ago. “I am ready.”

After we turn the corner, a group of paparazzi start screaming for Emilie’s attention. She appears calm and her steps never falter. More like she glides through the throngs. Next to her, my eyes never stop assessing. My heart pumps faster and faster while my mouth gets drier.

Someone reaches out. I block their arm. They’re holding a poster and a Sharpie. Fuuuuck. It’s just a fan.

Next to me, Emilie stops and takes the pen. After signing the picture, she smiles for a selfie and we continue moving forward. Get a grip, man. My heart pounds faster the longer we’re in this unrestricted area, even with the airline’s rep walking beside us.

Paparazzi blind us with their cameras. We press forward toward the exit, where our limo awaits. One hundred yards. At least one hundred people, with more joining every second. My vision tunnels to the door and the obstacles of us getting there.

Emilie stops again and says some words to the paparazzi in Portuguese. I can barely speak English, and right now, not even that.

She poses for photos.

Okay, that’s enough. My hand on her arm, I push ahead. Just fifty more feet.

That dark-haired guy to my left. Is he looking at my client funny? A woman grabs his arm and his attention is diverted. What about the skinny guy up ahead? Oh God, get us out of here.

Twenty more feet. Where are all these people coming from?

Christ, I’m having a veritable panic attack. The red-headed man in LA pops into my head. How can I keep my client safe if I’m seeing threats where none exist? It must be that fucking nightmare from the plane. Get a grip, man. Now.

Five more feet and the automatic doors open. A man wearing the universal chauffer’s cap and holding up a sign marked “Price Agency” stands at the curb. We can get to him. And then we’re out of here. I swallow, yet no saliva’s in my mouth.

A few more steps and we’re at the limo. Before she climbs in, Emilie turns and waves to her fans. So many of them. Too many. I usher her inside and slam the door to her safety.

Rubbing my clammy hands on my thighs, I take a deep breath and join the driver in the front seat. Exhaling whatever air is in my lungs, I close my eyes when we pull into the nighttime Rio traffic.

Safe. We’re safe.

At least for now.