12
A strange thing happened after our conversation.
I let Marc do his job.
I wasn’t sure if it was because the image of Martin’s face haunted me, or knowing for certain that Marc was acting in my best interests.
Ally kept telling me Marc had been doing that all along, but stupidly I’d refused to believe her.
And maybe he was right. Maybe I did want to think of him as the bad guy. After all, every time Marc appeared in my life it wasn’t because something good had happened. It was because another crazy person had decided to fixate on me. And maybe I’d been subconsciously directing all my pent-up anger, fear and desperation onto the one person I thought didn’t matter: Marc.
But he did matter. It mattered that he was able to do his job and keep me safe. Instead, I’d been acting like a stuck-up princess and making his life harder.
On-set, I found myself checking he was there. He was so good at being unobtrusive I’d occasionally find my heart beating faster when I couldn’t see him. Then, when I located him, we’d make eye contact and he’d nod. Just nod. But it was enough to make my heart rate settle.
And he was right. I kept looking for Martin. When there was crew around that I didn’t recognize, I’d grow tense until I made sure no one looked like him. The face I’d seen on Marc’s laptop appeared in my nightmares. I’d been having bad dreams ever since the stalker had broken into my house, but now I could visualize someone it made them so much worse.
Another thing that bothered me after our discussion that night was Marc’s certainty that I not get to know him. On the surface it made sense. An investigator didn’t need his clients knowing him on anything more than a professional level. But the way he’d said it made me think it was more than that. Like it was better no one got to know him. And of course that made me curious.
“I can ask Mom if you like,” Chloe said to me a few days later.
We were sitting in her trailer, both nursing steaming styrofoam cups—coffee for Chloe and tea for me—in an attempt to make the unearthly hour remotely bearable. The autumn mornings were growing cooler. Actually that wasn’t entirely accurate. Outside the trailer window it was still pitch dark and the sun hadn’t even begun to appear on the horizon. While it might technically be morning, as far as my body clock was concerned it was still night.
“Why do you think your mom would be able to help?” I asked.
“She’s been in the industry a long time and I sort of mentioned you might have been having some issues.” Chloe’s expression turned sheepish. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said anything but she was there when I found out about the stalker getting into your house and I was pretty upset for you.”
“It’s alright. So long as she keeps it quiet.”
“Don’t worry. She remembers what it was like to have her marriage break up all over the news. She won’t say anything.”
“So she knows Marc?”
“Not personally, but when I said you had an industry security specialist working for you she nodded knowingly. When I pressed her on it, she said a colleague of hers had worked with him and that he’s very experienced.”
“That’s reassuring. I guess.”
“No, I mean like his experience is second to none. There are rumors he worked for the FBI or something like that.”
I didn’t say anything, but was secretly impressed.
“Hopefully I might be able to find out some more for you,” she said.
I tried to shrug but my shoulders felt stiff from the cold. “See what she knows. It can’t hurt.”
“OK.” She took another sip of hot coffee. “So, ah, how’s it going with Marc living under your roof?”
“There’s only one more night until Jay’s back.”
“That bad, huh?”
I set my cup down because my fingers were throbbing from the heat. “No. It’s fine. He’s staying out of my way.” I wasn’t going to elaborate on my own stalking behavior several nights ago. “I actually think it’s the only time he has to get any real work done.”
“Do you think he has any idea who it might be?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “He’ll tell me if he does when he’s ready. It’s how he works. Come on,” I said, standing up. “We’re due for make-up.” I’d had enough talking and thinking about Marc for now. All it did was remind me how little I knew about the man who knew nearly everything about me.
*
Instead of retreating to my room when we arrived home, I sat by myself with a glass of wine in the kitchen. I’d left the lights off. There was a full moon and I liked the way it cast a cool glow across the marble tiles.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there when I heard footsteps approaching.
Rather than being alarmed, I sat quietly, knowing it was Marc before he entered the kitchen. His steps were quiet, but deliberate—much like the man himself.
I heard him swear softly when he reached the doorway. “What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” His tone was gruff.
“Relaxing.”
He reached over to turn the lights on.
“Don’t,” I told him. “Please.”
The two lines between his eyebrows deepened but he did as requested. He went to the fridge and grabbed a can of Coke. When he opened it the pop and fizz echoed around the kitchen. After a long sip, he leaned against the counter and regarded me.
“The dark won’t protect you.”
I lowered my wine glass to the table. “Why would you say that?”
“It will just make it harder for Jay or me to figure out where you are if you’re in trouble.”
I frowned, annoyed that I was that transparent. “Maybe I just like the dark.”
“Award-winning actresses who are used to the limelight don’t usually lurk around their own homes like a nocturnal animal when everything’s normal.”
“Define normal.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out with an edge of bitterness.
Marc picked up his Coke and came around to sit on the stool next to mine. “Your normal, anyway.”
I sighed, the bitterness fleeting. “Because that’s so normal.”
He lifted his shoulder in an offhand shrug. “You’re a big girl. You’ve learned to deal with it.”
I eyed him suspiciously over the top of my glass. He was right. I loved my job and I’d adjusted to the fame as best I could, but he’d made it sound almost like a compliment. If I knew him better, I’d say he wasn’t letting me enjoy my pity party. Feeling sorry for myself was pretty rare, but tonight I was tired. Besides, who said I couldn’t feel down now and then? Fame and success didn’t buy happiness—I ought to know. “You think I’m a princess.”
He dropped his gaze to his drink. “Plenty of women are.”
“But I’m a Hollywood princess,” I accused.
“You said it. Not me.” He tilted his head back and drank from the can.
I watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. There was something sensual in the movement and I looked away. “But it’s what you think,” I said flatly.
“Why does it matter what I think?”
I frowned again. He was right and wasn’t that just annoying? I decided honesty was the best response. “It doesn’t. I guess I’m just trying to figure you out.”
He looked across at me in surprise. “Why?”
I gave him a small smile. “Why not? It takes my mind off, you know . . .”
“Right.” He nodded and released a long breath. “What would you like to know?”
I put my glass of wine down on the counter. “Really?”
“Yeah. I figure it’s your turn to ask a few questions.”
I stared at him. His eyes were unreadable—as usual. Unsure of the unexpected turn in our conversation I decided I might as well take advantage of it while I could. “Why do you do this?”
“What?”
“Protect celebrities.”
He thrummed the fingers on his left hand against his thigh. “It pays well.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. “We’re a paycheck?”
“You don’t exactly have budget constraints.”
“So you’re doing this for the money?” I pressed.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing. You were quoted saying you did modeling because of the financial security it gave you.”
I continued to stare at him. Yes, he was right. I had said that. Nor did it surprise me that he knew about it. “I said that after my mother had just died and I was estranged from my father. I needed to support myself.”
“I’m not criticizing. I’m merely pointing out that money can be a factor.”
“True, but I didn’t hate modeling,” I clarified. “Not like you.”
“I know. I can’t stand modeling. It’s hell on the feet.”
I covered a small laugh with my hand at his unexpected humor. Gosh, this man was hard to keep up with.
“I don’t hate my job,” he added.
My smile faded. “You don’t have to be a mind reader to know that you don’t love it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not everyone can live their dreams like you Hollywood types.”
“Why not just admit you don’t like this industry?” I replied quietly. There was no shame in it, even if I was currently his client.
Marc stood and at such close proximity I was reminded of how tall he was. “My opinion of Hollywood has very little bearing on my ability to do my job.”
I looked up at him and my stomach twisted at the defensiveness in his eyes. Way to go, Lena. And we’d been doing so well. I’d finally accepted he had a job to do and he seemed to be getting on with that job with minimal frustration levels. Until my curiosity had gotten the better of me.
“I never said it did,” I said carefully. “All I’m trying to figure out is why you do something you don’t enjoy.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “In my line of work, enjoyment and job satisfaction don’t always go hand in hand.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. While I was curious about him, it hadn’t been my intention to criticize. That curiosity reared its head again and the next words were out of my mouth before I could think any better of it. “Can I ask what you used to do? Before Hollywood?”
“No.”
I laughed lightly, not the slightest bit offended. So much for being allowed to ask questions.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re better at questioning people.”
Marc’s shoulders relaxed and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Yeah, I’m told that.” He was still standing, looking down at me, and his expression turned thoughtful. “Money’s a factor in every job. Don’t tell me you would put up with what you do if it weren’t for the money.”
“You know, I think I would.”
“Then you’re lying to yourself.” He went to walk away but I grabbed his hand.
It was like being hit by an electric shock. I dropped his hand immediately but the energy remained buzzing through my fingers and arm. Marc flexed his fingers like he’d felt it, too.
“I’m not lying,” I said. “I don’t care about the money. So long as I make enough to survive, that’s all that matters to me.”
“Easy to say when you’re sitting here in this fancy house.”
“It might surprise you to know I don’t care much for this fancy house. As soon as this stalker business is done I’m selling it.”
There was that wry smile again. “The sacrifices we make, hey?”
“Haven’t you made sacrifices for your job?”
He blinked and nodded slowly. “Too many, Princess. Too many to count.” He picked up his drink and walked from the room.