Dana Marton - The Socialite and the Bodyguard

Greg’s voice filtered in from the den. She glanced that way. Back already? She wished Nash would finish their question-and-answer session so she could talk to her brother. But Greg seemed to be leaving again with a quick wave to her. He’d probably come back for something he’d forgotten. He was often absentminded.

“The corporate jet would give me a smaller environment to control. It’d make my job easier,” Nash was saying.

Obviously, he expected her to rearrange her life to his specifications. She knew bodyguards like that. Her aunt had fallen prey to a similar man when Kayla had been a teenager. The guy had come in, made Aunt Carmella completely paranoid, got her to where she wouldn’t trust anyone but him. She ended up leaving Uncle Al and marrying that man. He left her after a year, taking half of the family fortune with him.

“Your job is to protect Tsini. My job is to live my life, not to make yours easy,” she spelled it out for Nash.

He considered her with a lazy look that she was pretty sure hid fury. “As you pointed out before, you’re paying me to protect you—” He cleared his throat. “Your dog. Are you going to fight me on everything I recommend?”

He didn’t seem like a guy who was used to taking no for an answer. He probably scared the breath out of the average person. He would have scared the breath out of her, too, if her life hadn’t been in constant jeopardy in the past year.

She flashed her best debutante-millionaire-heiress smile. “Of course not, just when we don’t agree.” Then she thought, shouldn’t have said that.

He looked in control, but she wasn’t sure whether it was the kind of control that would easily snap. For all she knew, he was getting ready to strangle her for standing up to him. Her father had been like that. Bore no opposition from anyone. How quickly she’d forgotten.

But Nash threw his head back and laughed.

The sound was warm and genuine, reached right across the distance between them. The harsh lines of his face crinkled into a look of mirth. Not staring with her jaw hanging open took effort. The man was beyond belief good-looking.

“You’re not like I expected,” he said, his demeanor turning friendlier.

“And you think you know all about me now after what, five minutes?” She didn’t want to admit that he was quickly disarming her.

“I know that spunk and a sense of humor rarely accompany an empty head.”

Score one for Nash. He was more observant than ninety-nine percent of the people she usually met.

“Imagine that.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm, but for the first time in a long time, she wanted to.

He didn’t seem to take offense. “I want you on your own plane because I can control a ten-person team easier than I can a commercial flight with hundreds on it.” He considered her for a long moment, the look on his face turning serious. Then he seemed to have reached a decision at last and leaned forward, his voice dropping as he said, “I think you’re in danger.”

The slew of emotions that washed through her was bewildering. She’d been saying that for how long now? And nobody had ever believed her.

He was a complete stranger. She didn’t trust him yet, might never trust him. He was the last person she wanted knowing about her personal problems. He could easily take them to the press. Confidentiality clauses tended to be forgotten when tabloids offered tens of thousands of dollars for any gossip about her.

She wanted to act as though she didn’t know what he was talking about.

Failing that, she wanted to act like “yeah, I’m in danger, but I’m cool with that.”

Failing that—She would have wanted to do anything but what she did do.

She burst into tears.

In front of a total outsider.

Who was probably beginning to think she was certifiable.

She didn’t dare look up at him. God, she was a mess.

“Five-minute warning,” Fisk, her agent, called out behind her.

She didn’t turn, only lifted a hand to indicate that she heard him.

“All right, guys, let’s get this party started. She’s coming in a sec,” he said to the producer in the kitchen as he walked back.

Nash was by her side the second Fisk left the den.

“We’re going to talk someplace private,” he said, then took her hand and gently pulled her up from the pod chair.

The line of potted palms between the living room and the den kept them out of sight of the staff as he led her to her bedroom, his hand at the small of her back as if he were her escort at some posh party, walking her down the red carpet.

He steered her to her reading chaise, plucked the box of tissues off the bookshelf and dropped it in her lap, then went back and, after letting Tsini in, closed the door.

She blew her nose then drew Tsini onto her lap.

He stood between her and the door, scanning her bedroom. He made no disparaging remarks, although the place currently looked like a movie set. Her uncle’s interior decorator had had it redone a week ago, in time for a magazine shoot. The cooking show was making a major promo push, highlighting their special angle that the celebs would be filmed in their homes, some for the first time. Her bookshelves and chaise had had to be taken out for the pictures. They’d finally gotten dragged back that morning, after she’d repeatedly asked.

“I think there are things you need to tell me.” Nash stood tall and strong, as if standing between her and the world.

At the moment, the thought was incredibly comforting, even if it was only a fantasy.

“We don’t have much time before they call you, so go ahead.” His voice was steady, his gaze attentive, his demeanor calm. His stance radiated self-confidence.

The power structure had shifted between them. When he’d shown up, she was the boss and he was a hired man. Now he was—

She couldn’t find the right word, but the man was clearly in his element.

“Do you know who’s after you?” he asked.

“Tsini—”

“You,” he corrected with a stubborn look.

She shook her head.

“Other than the death threats involving the dog—” He looked at Tsini. “And I want all of them, with the exact circumstances of how and when they were received. What else happened?”

Here came the part where she told him, and he would think her crazy, just as the police had.

“I felt at times that I was being followed.” She waited for him to roll his eyes.

He listened without giving his opinion away. “What else?”

She drew a deep breath. “A couple of times, I thought someone might have been in the apartment when we were all out. Things were out of place. I don’t think it was Angie, the woman who cleans.”

“You asked?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk to her. I want to talk to your whole staff.”

Just what she didn’t need. “Mike and Dave are going to hate that.”

Her bodyguards were protective of her and their jobs. They’d been with her for close to three years.

“What extra security measures have they put in place since you told them all this?” Nash’s gaze was direct, his tone honed steel.

Point taken. Mike and Dave agreed with the police that the stress of the paparazzi was getting to her. They all thought she was getting paranoid as a result of living under constant stress.

Still, Mike and Dave were not going to let Nash walk all over their work and start to interfere. Yes, she was probably in danger. But she had a strategy and she was working it. And, so far, nothing had happened.

Except that now she was getting those death threats for Tsini. Which really was unacceptable.

“Maybe you could snoop around under the radar. Without them noticing that you’re checking into things.” She didn’t need a power struggle among her staff.