I thought I’d prepared myself until the front door opens and every muscle in my body cramps. A full-blown supermodel stands in the doorway, wearing a body-hugging black dress that stops in the middle of her thighs. The dress’s sleeves have openings that reveal her naked shoulders. Her hair is loose except for little braids weaved in on the sides. Not too much makeup on her face—she doesn’t need it. Beautiful doesn’t even come close to describing her.

Deep-sixing my errant thoughts, I open my mouth and my practiced speech pours out. “I decided to take you up on your offer to join you at the club tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

No need to tell her that her Agency’s choice of bodyguard has a lightweight rep on the street. More like pretty-boy celeb wanna-be with little skill other than opening doors—usually the proverbial ones only for himself. She said she’s not in danger. I only want to confirm Neil has the chops to prevent her from tripping out of the limo. No other reason.

“Wills. I am more than okay with this. How handsome you look.”

When she rushes forward to give me her usual two-kiss greeting, my stomach clenches. I close my eyes and ignore the sizzle where her lips meet my cheeks. Maybe closing my eyes heightened the spark?

I pop them back open to see her eyes doing a quick up and down of my body covered in black trousers, black T-shirt and black blazer. The blazer was my nod toward looking presentable at the club. She opens the door wider. “Come in, s'il vous plait.”

Since her limo hasn’t arrived yet, I tilt my head and walk inside. I’m greeted by a big open and airy room, dominated by a couple of seating areas. Beyond, an archway leads to a kitchen that’s highlighted by a huge island. The scent of Emilie—lavender—runs as an undercurrent throughout the space.

The door shuts and her heels clink on the hardwood flooring. Eyes at my feet, I turn to face her. Of course she’s wearing nude high heels, with her toes peeking out. Even her toenails, painted a dark blue, are sexy. Raising my head, I take in her toned legs. And tamp down visions of them wrapped around my waist.

“Emilie,” I swallow, “You’re….” Ethereal. Untouchable. “Looking good.” Shut. Up.

Her eyes light up and I slip my hand in to my pocket to prevent it from going anywhere else like my wayward mouth did. She runs her hand up and down one of the small braids. “Thank you for the compliment. I am honored to be on your arm tonight.”

And just like that, she reminds me of our conversations when I was Cole’s bodyguard and, by extension, hers. She’s a down-to-earth woman, wrapped in a goddess shell. Much too good for the likes of me.

She smiles, showing off her perfect teeth. Everything about her is perfect. “We probably have time for a quick drink before we go. There is some wine in the refrigerator.” She starts walking toward her kitchen and throws over her shoulder, “French, of course.”

I’m more of a beer drinking type of guy. But she looks so hopeful, I can’t turn her down. “Sure.” I join her in the kitchen, all the while asking myself what I’m doing.

“Here you go,” she says, handing me a glass. Her fingertips brush mine. Even such a slight contact makes my balls tighten. I hold my breath to get myself under control and pick up my glass.

“A toast,” she gushes. “To a wonderful surprise!”

Words stick in my throat, so I simply clink my glass to hers and sip. The wine tastes of berries and vanilla, which is not altogether unpleasant. As we stand across the island from each other, her cheeks take on a pink hue.

Something dances between us.

A magnetic force pulls me toward her.

I lean away. Better quash whatever this is right now. “I didn’t want you to have to go alone tonight.”

Her hazel eyes take on a deeper green hue. “Oh, I need to get your ticket.” Setting her glass on the island, she rummages through her kitchen desk and hands it to me, then points toward the front door. “Let’s sit in the salon.”

Her French accent creates another stir in my pants. Detouring to a nice drawing hanging on the wall, I ask, “Paris?”

She comes to my side, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “Oui. It is the Avenue des Champs Elysées, a main artery in Paris. I shall drive on it myself someday, thanks to you.” She pauses. When I don’t say anything, she continues, “Maman sent it to me, to remind me of home.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Never?”

I shake my head.

She reaches out and her fingers glance across my shoulder—the one that took a bullet in front of her—and says, “You were recovering when Cole met me in Paris.”

I bring my glass to my lips and take a long drink. Lowering it, I roll my shoulder—more to shake off the electricity of her touch than for physical therapy. “I’m good as new now.”

Movement on the street catches my attention and I walk over and move the curtain. A black stretch limo has pulled up. “Your limo has arrived. Should I follow you in my Jeep?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “No. Why? Please ride with me.”

Even though I know better, I nod in acquiescence.

Her face relaxes. “Bien. Let me get my coat.”

I follow her to the hall closet and take the lightweight pink coat from her hands, holding it open for her to slip into. When she’s encased in pink, my hands stray to her shoulders. Before I’m aware of what I’m doing, my nose is almost in her hair. Her body relaxes in my hands and she tilts her head to expose more of her neck. I could close the gap and kiss her.

Quashing the impulse, I ask, “Ready?”

I feel, rather than see, her throat move as she swallows. “Oui.”

A knock on the door makes us jump apart. While she meets her new bodyguard, I silently berate myself. When I’m again in control of any wayward reactions to this angel, I extend my hand to Neil. He’s about my height. Jacked. His less-than-firm handshake doesn’t bode well, however.

We proceed to the limo. Seeing her glide into the long bench seating reminds me of our differences. She’s a supermodel, living in a multi-million-dollar house and I’m a soon-to-be gym owner renting an apartment. With enough baggage to fill the closets in both our abodes.

Before following her into the vehicle, I lower my voice and grip Neil’s forearm. “Do we have a Code 10?” This is universal security speak for danger ahead.

His eyebrows knit. “I don’t know what that means.” He smooths out his forehead. “But I do know the party’s going to be filled with A-listers.”

This guy’s an idiot. He probably wouldn’t know a warning sign if it bit him on the ass.

Biting my tongue, I get into the vehicle. When Neil puts his large frame through the doorway, I slip into a spot on the plush bench next to Emilie instead of the seat opposite.

Bodyguards never ride with their clients. His place is in front with the driver.

My scowl doesn’t deter him as he settles into the seat across from us. Neil’s eyes dart to the bar. “It’ll be my pleasure to guard you, Emilie. Would you like something to drink before we get to the club?”

My body tenses. If he pours himself a drink I won’t be able to restrain myself.

Emilie places her hand on my rigid thigh and smiles at me. Now I’m strained for a whole other reason.

“No, I am good. We had a drink before.”

Neil nods and reaches over for a bottle of water. At least that’s okay. When she removes her hand to check on something in her purse, my body melts against the seat.

Neil spends the trip chatting up Emilie. She tries to bring me into the conversation by asking about my bodyguarding days, but neither him nor I is interested in pursuing the subject.

Arriving at the strobe-lighted mayhem, I turn to Emilie. “I’ll stay in the background while you walk the red carpet.”

“But I would like you to walk it with me.”

Aware of our audience, I lean in and whisper, “Tonight’s your night. Your gig.” I don’t fit the image of a guy that belongs with her. More than that, I’m not with her. Never will be. I need to remind my body of this fact.

Again.

The limo stops and the door opens. Neil, exhibiting proper security detail for the first time all night, exits first. I shift to the seat Neil vacated so that Emilie can get out of the limo next.

Before she extends her shapely leg out the door, she asks, “Are you sure? You could talk up your new gym.”

I shake my head, although more than impressed with her marketing bent. “I’ll meet you inside.”

Midway up the red carpet with Neil next to her, she turns and finds me among the other unknowns in the background. Our eyes hold for a few seconds before I look away. I’m only here to vet Neil.

Emilie walks the gauntlet like the pro she is, stopping for photos and speaking with reporters. While she’s stopped by the last couple of reporters, I show my ticket and slip inside the entrance.

The floor is crowded with people dancing to club music being played by a DJ from his booth suspended above the floor. A light show swirls around the DJ booth and bounces off the bodies gyrating below. At least three different bar areas are in use, with some hi-top tables strewn around them. No one seems to be a threat, although being in such a cramped space has me on alert.

Even though I’m inside the club proper, I feel the air shift and know Emilie’s entered the building. Turning, I watch as she hands her coat to a club member and glides into the main area in front of Neil. Her eyes roam the crowd, once again landing on me within seconds. Her ability to find me, even in such crowded rooms, is uncanny.

Before Emilie can take a step toward me, she’s directed over to the Grand Opening banner to pose for more photos. While she’s working, I order us drinks. A beer for me and vodka tonic for her. Frowning that I remembered her favorite drink, I recheck the area—still nothing seems suspicious. Glasses in hand, I make my way closer to her.

When she finishes with her duties, Emilie turns toward me. I raise her drink and her smile morphs into one that’s more natural. Her progress toward me is cut short by a rather round man dressed in a black suit. He says something to her, then kisses her hand and motions her toward a modern-looking staircase with open treads, on the right. She twists to face me, inclines her head to the staircase and I nod. I’ll be right behind you, Emilie.

Neil ascends the steps with her, checking out every lady who passes him. “Fucking A,” I say aloud to no one—no one can hear me over the music—and I take the steps two at a time.

Striding into the room marked “VIP,” I make my way next to Emilie. Not that I’m her date or anything.

When I reach her side, Emilie takes her glass from my hand, smells the liquid and runs her tongue over her lips. “You remembered.”

Everything. I tilt my head, but don’t say anything.

After a sip, she lets out a small squeak and points. “There’s Lizzie! Let me introduce you to my mentor.”

Lizzie Chase. My boyhood fantasy, in the flesh. Of course she’s Emilie’s mentor. While I’m processing all the implications of this meeting, Emilie grabs my hand and leads me over to a sofa where the supermodel sits.

Coming to a halt in front of her, Emilie says, “Lizzie! I am so happy you are here tonight. You look great! How are you feeling?”

The woman floats to her feet, long blonde hair curled just as I remember her from my youth. Her arms open wide and Emilie drops my hand to embrace her. Lizzie steps back and replies, “I’m all recovered. The flu was nasty, though. Thanks for asking.”

“I am glad.” Emilie points at me and says, “I would like to introduce to you Wills Sumner. He owns a gym on Mulholland.”

“A pleasure,” I say, extending my hand.

Lizzie waves my hand away and brings me in for a hug as well. This is surreal. “A gym?”

Stepping back, I manage to say, “Yes. Complete Gym.”

She nods.

Emilie looks at me and gushes, “Lizzie has taught me so much about the modeling industry. And beyond.” Returning to her friend, she continues, “I saw another commercial for your furniture line.”

Lizzie laughs. It’s a pleasant sound but doesn’t rock me the way Emilie’s does. Wait. Stop thinking like this. I force myself to check on Neil’s whereabouts—he’s standing back among other VIPs, with one eye on Emilie and his other on a different model. My opinion of him doesn’t improve.

Lizzie’s voice draws me back to the conversation, “In our business, it’s always a good idea to keep looking forward and your options open.” Her entire demeanor transforms when a guy in his forties, wearing a button down opened at the collar and no blazer, approaches us.

“Grady. There you are.”

He kisses her on the lips and whispers something in her ear that causes her to tap his chest. “This is my fiancé, Grady.”

We exchange pleasantries. He seems like a nice, normal guy. He runs a travel agency. I wonder how he deals with having the world’s elite supermodel on his arm. After a few more minutes, they go to the sofa to snuggle. Doesn’t seem to bother him much.

Emilie takes my half-empty glass from my hand, puts it with hers on a nearby table and urges me toward the dance floor.

Oh no. Not happening. Planting my feet, I shake my head. “I don’t dance,” I shout above the music.

“That is okay,” Emilie shouts back. “I do!”

She shakes her shoulders in front of me. My heartrate picks up with her antics, my eyes following her movements. She’s magnetic. When she pulls my arm again, I can’t stop myself from giving in and follow her to the dance floor.

The DJ changes the track to a huge hit by Ozzy Martinez, Cole’s friend, from a few years ago. Emilie moves in time to the fast rhythm, throwing her arms around my shoulders while I shuffle to the beat, count to ten and try to ignore all that’s going on in front of me. She moves to stand back-to-back with me, wriggles her hips and then turns to face me. Her hands are always touching me—my arms, fingers, chest.

Damn.

The song changes to “Prowling,” my favorite one of Cole’s. Our smiles are for our friend. During the chorus, I can’t stop myself from pumping my fist in the air with Emilie and all of the other dancers on the floor.

Lost in the music, I grab her hand and spin her around, holding her back against my front. My hands run up her sides and down both arms. Sparks fly where our skin touches. Or is that the DJ’s light show? Emilie turns around and faces me, her pupils dilated.

My breath catches. We stand stock-still while everyone dances around us. Her hazel eyes draw me in.

Until someone shoves me from behind, jolting my sanity. I shout, “Drink?”

Her face falls but she nods and I gesture for her to leave the dance floor. We return to where we were talking with Lizzie and Grady, but they’ve moved to the other side of the bar and are chatting with a group of people, so I steer Emilie toward an empty hi-top table. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Neil’s off to the side, watching Emilie. He’s chatting up another woman, but at least has eyes on his client. One of the several bartenders takes my drink order. While I’m waiting, Grady joins me. “I hope I’m not out of line, but you give me the impression that you’re into Emilie. Not because of what she does, but in spite of it.”

How did he glean all that from our brief meeting?

And I cannot be into her. For her own sake.

Ignoring my silence, he continues, “Take it from someone who knows. She may look like she has it all going on, but she needs you as much as you need her. Remember, what you both do is not who you are. Took me a while to learn that.”

“Well, ah—”

Grady barrels forward. “I love everything about Lizzie. And she gets me, ugly-ass warts and all. Don’t be afraid to let Emilie get you.”

“It’s not like that.”

He chuckles. “That’s what I used to say.”

I can’t let her see all of my warts. They’re not just ugly. They’re grotesque. Relieved when the bartender returns with our drinks, I nod at Grady and make my way back to Ems.

Emilie.

Emilie Dubois, supermodel.

She’s deep in conversation with another woman, so I remain in the periphery.

I hear the name “Rinaldo” and my stomach hardens. Her ex-boyfriend. The Spanish soccer player is the perfect match for Emilie. Same high profile, same circles. She met up with him during recent shoots according to the tabloids—not that I’ve picked them up, but they’re always in the supermarket check-out lines.

Overriding my original decision to let the women talk, my feet take me to her side in less than five strides. Extending a vodka tonic to her, I say, “Here you go.” My eyes land on Emilie’s friend.

“Merci.” Pursing her lips, she says, “Wills, this is Belinda.”

I raise my own glass to her. “A pleasure.”

Belinda looks me up and down as if I stowed away to the VIP Room on the bottom of a server’s tray. From my bodyguarding days, I’m used to being treated like hired help. I bet Rinaldo’s never treated like this. Emilie never made me feel this way, though.

Emilie barrels forward. “Well, it was … interesting seeing you again, Belinda. Enjoy the evening.” After taking a rather large swallow of her drink, she grabs my hand and drags me to a secluded spot across the room. “I do not like Belinda,” she says, grimacing.

Her reaction makes me chuckle. I take a sip of my drink.

She eyes my glass. “Martini?”

“Yes. Vodka, dry. I usually stick with beer, but this is my favorite mixed drink.”

At my rather mundane admission—although why did I share it?—she breaks into a full-on grin. I place my thumb on her lush bottom lip, rubbing it away from her teeth. “What’s this for?”

“I am so happy. Like I just won a MOTY.”

My eyebrows pull into a frown and I drop my hand. Why is she so happy? And what the hell is a MOTY? “A what?”

“A MOTY. The Models.com Model of the Year Industry Award.”

I shake my head. “I really don’t know your model lingo.”

She reaches up to bring my head closer to hers. In her sexy-ass high heels, I’m barely taller. “I will be happy to brush you up.”

Her English translation mix-up is adorable. Our bodies face each other, almost close enough to touch. Like a gravitational pull, I cannot stop myself from closing the gap between our foreheads. “Not a good idea,” I mumble.

She pulls her head back and looks directly into my eyes. “Au contraire. I think it is a very good idea.” She plucks my glass out of my hand and deposits it onto a nearby table, next to hers.

Her French accent. Her lavender scent. Her positive attitude. Everything. Her.

Ripped from the bottom of my soul, I utter, “Ems.”

My hand cups her cheek and directs her lips toward mine. Inches apart, I freeze. Coming in strained gasps, our breaths mingle. Hot wisps of air kiss my cheek.

The music pounds around us, a living creature urging us forward.

She darts her tongue over her bottom lip.

With a groan, my body overrides my brain. Pulling her to me, my mouth covers hers, molding her lips to mine. Lips I haven’t tasted in nearly a year. Like a lightning bolt hitting water, the positively charged particles in my body detonate and obscure the DJ’s music. Nothing exists outside of our kiss.

My hands plunge into her loose hair and run over the little braids, all the while my lips learn hers. Her palms connect with my chest and travel upward, over my shoulders and encircle my neck.

My tongue touches the line of her lips and she opens for me. Barely a breath later, our tongues intertwine with a heady mixture of want.

When someone brushes by us, our kiss breaks. I bracket Emilie in my arms to steady her on her feet. My chest expands at the private knowledge that I was the one who made her unsteady.

“Do you want.” I clear my throat. “To stay or go?”

She whispers, “Go.”

Her whisper slices through my overheated body. The kiss we shared here far exceeds my buried memories from before. She is so sweet, so giving. I don’t deserve such goodness, but maybe just once won’t hurt her. “Then go it is.”

I seal our departure with another blistering kiss, exploring her mouth. When she sucks on my tongue, the top of my head nearly explodes. I have to get us out of here, fast, before I can’t stop my hands from pulling her tight.

Step back, Wills. I hold my breath and break our contact. Unfocused hazel eyes that appear more green than brown call to me. I allow myself one more quick peck and then take her hand to lead her back downstairs. Neil’s engrossed with some woman across the room, but I manage to catch his eye and he walks toward us, smirking.

“Enjoy the evening with your … toy.” Belinda’s whiny voice cuts through the club music.

Next to me, Ems stops. I bend to her ear and say, “She’s not worth it,” then place the delicate shell between my teeth and close softly.

She shudders, takes a deep inhale, and we continue our exit without looking back.

The stairs are filled with people. This must be a fire hazard, but fire marshals aren’t around. Stepping back, I allow Ems to go in front of me, my fingers rubbing my lips where hers just were.

Slowly, we descend from the VIP Room. At the bottom of the stairs, she points toward the coat check. I nod and track her progress while staying in the background. Paparazzi are huddled at the door. Her exit will be chronicled as part of her contracted job for tonight, and I don’t belong in those photos.

While keeping tabs on Neil, who has now joined Ems at the coat check, I watch as she’s being assessed by many of the club’s patrons. No red flags wave danger. The women eye her with envy, mostly fixated on her shoes and dress. The men, on the other hand, undress her with their eyes and check around to see if she’s with anyone. A couple of them look like they’re going to act on their desires. I better move around the room to get a closer look.

“Excuse me,” I say to a group of ladies blocking my path.

One in the group squeezes my tricep. “Ohh, strong. Me likey. Want to come inside with me?” Her head gestures toward the first floor of the club. The other women snicker and look away from their drunk friend.

“Thanks, but I’m on my way out. I’m with someone.” Why did I say that?

She smiles and says, “Lucky girl.” Before I step away, she’s already looking for her next victim.

Ems, in her pink coat, makes her way to the front door. A crush of paparazzi and club patrons engulf her. Mostly male. Unlike before, the energy has changed and my lust-filled body switches over to high alert. Neil is back a few rows, talking with yet another woman. He should be next to her. I can’t waste time on his failings as a bodyguard—my gut tells me to clear the area.

I gulp shallow breaths, rubbing clammy hands on my pants. My eyes rove over various men eyeing her like red meat. Assessing. Discarding the safe ones.

There.

One red-headed man seems to be fixated on her. Now, I’m fixated on him.

Skirting a bunch of people jamming up the lobby, I track Emilie’s movements out the door. Neil managed to get alongside of her and they both smile for the cameras. Redhead ducks into the throng of paparazzi at the exit.

My already shallow breathing accelerates. My eyes don’t lose his red hair, which gets closer to Emilie. Purposeful movements, not by chance.

He’s after her.

Getting closer to her.

My eyes roam his frame for weapons. No bulge of a gun. His hands are empty. But some weapons can be hidden.

Grunting my apologies, I slip my way through the maze of cameras—the red-headed man my single focus. About ten feet separates him from Emilie. Another fifteen between him and me.

Emilie smiles at the photographers. Stay in the light, Ems.

Unintelligible shouts turn attention to the exit, where the next celeb is leaving. Flashbulbs abandon Emilie in favor of the next departure. Emilie and Neil head to a side street where the limo waits, in almost near-darkness.

Redhead closes the gap. I’m behind you, fucker. I inhale deeply to quiet my thundering heartbeat.

He steps right behind her, his arm outstretched.

History will not repeat itself on my watch. My vision narrows as I spring forward. Grabbing the perp’s arm, I twist it upward and behind his back. Fast. Hard.

He grunts in pain.

I corral him to the ground, ramming my knee into his back.

Under me, the red-headed guy half-moans, half-yells, “What are you doing, you lunatic?”

“Wills!”

I refuse to look up at the woman shouting my name. She’s safe. I swivel my knee to keep the red-headed guy immobile. The cops will take the writhing asshole away, and I can rest easy knowing that I got to him before he was able to get to my Ems.

Next to us, Emilie bends down and picks up a Sharpie. She places her hand on my shoulder. The only word I can make out is “Autograph.”

What the hell?

Oh. My. God.

I jump off the red-headed guy as if scalded. You dumbfuck.