He tried to scowl at her, to be angry with her, but when Alexa and Blaise started giggling at the apt description, he couldn’t help joining them. Damn, Wyntir was feisty. He liked that.
Maybe a little too much.
Chapter Three
Wyntir seethed. Every cell in her body was white-hot with prickly irritation and no amount of deep, cleansing breaths would cool her jets. Usually, she was pretty good at containing her emotions. Her job required her to be on her A-game at all times, always vigilant and in control. She didn’t have a particularly short fuse, but something about Stark Bradford made all of her emotions feel out of whack.
As the two movie stars headed back to where the filming was taking place, Wyntir followed with bitterness flooding her mouth. She hated to admit it, but they made a beautiful pair. Stark’s wavy blond hair and old-Hollywood, high-wattage smile was the perfect complement to Alexa’s sleek black hair and almost feline features. Any tabloid worth its salt would have killed for a photo of such a stereotypical glam couple walking so close together. Their heads naturally tilted toward each other, speaking in low, conspiratorial tones—like they were sharing their deepest secrets—and Wyntir didn’t like it at all.
And that just pissed her off even more.
Everything pissed her off, it seemed. The fact that Stark insisted on referring to her as the nanny. The fact that Alexa fawned over him like they were a real-life couple. Worst of all, the fact that Wyntir was the least bit interested in their personal history. She knew she had no real reason to be angry. It wasn’t like she was dating Stark. She was his bodyguard, for goodness sake, not his girlfriend. And certainly not the nanny. Why the hell did she care in the first place?
Because it was her job, she decided. Stark had glossed over the stalker issue, and it made her wonder what else he was hiding. She couldn’t do her job effectively if her clients refused to cooperate.
At least one Bradford Boy wasn’t thwarting her at every turn, and it wasn’t the adult who should know better. Blaise followed along behind Wyntir, softly humming under his breath while fully absorbed in a bright, flashy game on his phone. When he caught her glancing at him, he smiled.
“Could we go back to craft services?” he asked meekly.
“What?” she teased. “Didn’t you just have some ice cream?”
He broke into an irresistible grin and shrugged like the cutest damn kid ever. “Hey, I’m a growing boy.”
“Can’t argue with that kind of logic.” Wyntir smiled and led him back to the food table, only slightly irked that it was time to play nanny again.
Every third or fourth step, he would take a little skip or jump, almost as though his excitement was so great it had to be vented. Even though she still resented the idea of being seen as his babysitter, Wyntir had to admit that he was a good kid. If she had to pretend-nanny someone, she couldn’t have chosen anyone better than Blaise. He kept close by, just chattering happily about which junk foods he planned to gorge on. Wyntir had a feeling he wasn’t usually supposed to partake in quite so much sodium and sugar, but that wasn’t her problem. Bodyguards didn’t police their clients’ diet, even if they were only seven.
They passed through the big, wide expanse of the parking lot where the actors’ individual trailers were parked. Wyntir marveled at the fact that life on a film set was pretty much exactly what she expected, only calmer. There was even a pleasant sense of routine about the place that made her feel a little less awkward. Like everyone who worked on set had the inner peace of a Tibetan monk. These people were in the groove of their work, settled in their routines. It was a strange comfort.
Stark had shown her his trailer when they’d first arrived that morning, and she’d been wholly unimpressed. It appeared to be no more luxurious than a mid-level motorhome. Nice enough, but cheaply built and outfitted. The mere knowledge that this was the best a studio could come up with for one of the biggest stars in the world gave her even more comfort.
When the time had come for Stark to report to the set, she’d checked that all of the windows were locked before they left the trailer and then watched as he locked it behind them. He’d informed her that only a few people on set had keys, and she had a list of their names so she could run background checks on them later—when she wasn’t busy playing nanny.
Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention, but when she turned her head, she saw nothing out of place or suspicious. Then the door to Stark’s trailer clicked shut and alarms started ringing in her head. Stark and Alexa had gone to the set to film their next scene while she and Blaise had wandered off in the other direction, where craft services was located.
Wyntir tried to convince herself not to worry, that it was probably just a production assistant delivering the next day’s script pages or something else totally benign. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Her instincts were usually pretty spot-on, and this was a high-profile assignment, so it was better to be safe than sorry. Especially with a potentially dangerous stalker out there just dropping by whenever she felt like it.
Stark could say what he wanted about his super-fan, Becca, but Wyntir had lived in LA long enough and protected enough well-known public figures to know that even the most seemingly innocent admiration could quickly escalate to rage and even self-righteous vengeance when a mentally unstable fan didn’t receive the attention they wanted. In her line of work, anyone could be a threat, but especially those who were apparently obsessed. And until her assignment was over, she had every intention of keeping this Becca chick as far away from Stark and Blaise as possible.
Luckily, Stark’s trailer was within eyesight of craft services, so she set Blaise to graze freely while she headed to the trailer to investigate. At last glance, the boy looked ecstatic as he piled his paper plate high with gourmet snacks. That would keep him busy long enough for her to make sure all was well inside, but before she even reached the door, it popped open and a tiny little brunette with a pixie cut and an eyepatch bounced down the steps. Becca stopped cold at the sight of Wyntir standing so close to Stark’s trailer and then broke into a brilliant smile.
“Hi, I’m Becca,” she chirped, her voice grating on Wyntir’s last nerve.
“Ah, the woman of the hour,” Wyntir growled, taking a menacing step closer.
The woman’s dark eye widened as her brow furrowed. Caught like a bunny rabbit! The barely restrained rage that had been building in Wyntir’s chest all day reached a boiling point and her dragon instincts kicked in. Hard.
Her arm shot out so fast Becca didn’t even see it coming. As Wyntir hoisted the girl up by the scruff of her hoodie, Becca released a squeak of terror but otherwise hung there like a limp noodle.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” Wyntir demanded, but before she could further interrogate the woman, a big meaty hand landed on her shoulder. She spun around and craned her neck back to meet the gaze of a very big, very burly, very angry bear shifter.
“It’s our little secret,” Alexa whispered to Stark with a conspiratorial smile as they made their way to their marks.
Before Stark could reply, a commotion broke out near the trailers. They both leaned far enough to see the train wreck unfolding not far away. Poor little Becca was dangling from Wyntir’s outstretched arm. If it hadn’t been for that, he might have admired his protector’s vicious glare or that she looked so elegant and powerful she might have been carved from marble.