2
I was waiting in the gatehouse at five in the morning when Marc’s car pulled up in front of the towering wrought iron gates. When we’d purchased the house, I’d thought they were overdone. Now I appreciated their clear message: stay out.
I waved to the night security guard and let myself out through the smaller pedestrian gate built into the side of the twelve-foot concrete wall. I got into the passenger seat of the unmarked black sedan with dark tinted windows and threw my bag into the back seat without looking at Marc.
“How did you know it was my car?” His voice was husky, like he’d just woken up—which he probably had—and he sounded pissed off.
“Who else would it be?” Still not looking at him, I reached for my seatbelt and clicked it in.
“You can’t go around getting into cars without checking who’s behind the wheel first, Princess. It’s not going to end well.” The engine growled as he put it in reverse and swung the car out onto the street.
“For God’s sake,” I muttered and concentrated on the view outside the window. I might have to put up with him for my own protection, but I didn’t have to like it.
We drove in silence for at least five minutes, the only sound the deep purr of the engine. When we took a turn I wasn’t familiar with I twisted to face him, then immediately wished I hadn’t. His wicked good looks only annoyed me further.
If his voice sounded like he’d just woken up, the rest of him didn’t reflect that. His neatly trimmed beard matched his cropped dark brown hair. A pair of dirty denim jeans, pulled tight around his thighs, a fitted black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket completed the look. I was used to seeing him in more formal attire, but he’d obviously figured his presence at the studio didn’t require it.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He glanced at me with a look as dark as his outfit. “You think I’m not across your schedule?”
“I’m sorry?” I said, pretending like I didn’t already know what he was talking about.
His eyes returned to the road. “You’re not due on-set until six am.”
A muscle twitched in his chiseled jaw, drawing my eyes to his profile, and I looked away. There was something distinctly Roman about the man. His olive skin hinted at an Hispanic heritage but it was hard to tell, and I’d never asked if Romero was Spanish or Italian.
“I hate to be late.”
I thought I saw him grimace out of the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”
He was taking the long route to the studio, I realized as we headed into the hills. I forced myself to remain calm at the thought of being in the man’s presence any longer than I had to.
“You don’t strike me as a conversationalist,” I said.
“Have you thought anymore about someone you may have come into contact with recently, or about other people in your past that might be worth mentioning?”
And there it was. No small talk, just straight to the point.
“We’ve been through this,” I reminded him. “We’re up to stalker number five now.”
“It doesn’t matter. You need to take this seriously.”
“I am taking this seriously,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. I’d learned long ago to mask my anger. “As I said, we’ve been through this. You know everything about me, Marc. Ever since stalker number two.”
He was silent as the road tightened, concentrating on the twists and turns with intense focus. “I don’t think it’s anybody from your past,” he said eventually, reminding me that this was a man who could think on his feet. “It’s more current than that.”
“Well, obviously. It could be someone on-set. I don’t think it’s a lost love come to find me.” It was my turn to grimace. “That’s not the way I pictured the reunion anyway.”
The engine revved as Marc wound around a corner, pushing me back into my seat.
“You’ve never heard from him?” he asked.
“No.” We’d already been through this too.
Him, was Cam, a guy I’d met during my modeling days when I was nineteen. I’d joined another group of young models on an out-of-character week in the Greek Islands after a particularly grueling schedule of shows. I’d met Cam at one of the bars and we’d spent the week together. He hadn’t known it, but it was the first time I’d slept with anyone. Perhaps I was remembering it with rose-colored glasses, but it was the best sex I’d had in my life. Where first-time sex could be awkward, it had been sweet and fun, and exactly what I’d needed at the time. Cam was an easy-going Australian boy, brought up near the beach and who seemed to take everything in his stride. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, he’d had a wicked smile and an infectious laugh, and I smiled at the memory.
“He never turned up again on public records,” Marc said, interrupting my nostalgic thoughts.
My smile faded. “No.”
When we’d said goodbye at the end of that week we’d planned to keep in touch. We’d sent text messages for a couple of weeks, and I’d emailed and had one reply, but after that, it just stopped. I never knew what happened to him. I’d told myself to think of it as a holiday romance and eventually moved on with my life.
“Don’t rule it out. Stranger things have happened.”
“What? A guy I spent a week with over ten years ago turning up in my life again? Unlikely.”
“But possible. Fame attracts them.”
“Them?”
“Vermin.”
I forced myself to inhale a deep breath. “Cam wasn’t vermin. He was a sweet young guy.”
“Who you partied with for a week and slept with.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said through clenched teeth. Not that it’s any of your business, I thought, but didn't say it. The sad fact was that it was his business and fame had stripped me of my privacy when it came to Marc Romero.
“Oh come on, Lena. Don’t be naïve. A young guy gets the chance to sleep with a beautiful model? Hell, you’d have to have balls made of steel not to take that opportunity. It’s probably not even his real name.”
To my mortification, I realized he could be right. That possibility had never occurred to me. “It doesn’t matter,” I said flatly.
“What? Because you were in love? Give me a break.”
“Because it was the best goddamn sex I’ve had in my life.” I shut my mouth and turned to look out the window, angry with myself for my lack of control, and at Marc for inciting me to share personal details.
To my relief, he fell silent and didn’t speak until we were a few minutes from the studio.
“We’re running checks on all the production staff. They’ve already been cleared to work there of course, but we’re going more in-depth.”
“That’s reassuring.” It was, and it wasn’t. It was good the studios did their own checks, but disturbing Marc considered it necessary to conduct ‘in-depth’ checks.
“Try not to get too jumpy with me hanging around. And I’ll need to use your trailer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your trailer. I’ll be using it as a base so I can make phone calls in private and do some work.”
“Surely you can work somewhere else, Marc.”
His lips curled into a half-smile. “Producer says so, Princess. They want to keep you safe.”
I wasn’t stupid and knew a princess was exactly the way he wanted me to act. Like it would prove his derision of all things Hollywood.
“Fine,” I said. “Use my trailer if that’s what you want. I’ll hardly be there.”