The paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside their window table snapping photos lapped it up like starving kittens. His crackerjack publicist had arranged for them to have dinner at the celebrity hot spot du jour—Craig’s in West Hollywood—after sending out a press release spinning the altercation on the set into something more palatable than his trigger-happy bodyguard overreacting to an eager fan.
“Really?” she droned, peering at him over the rim of her wine glass. “And exactly how will a personal security specialist benefit from publicity? Or are you suggesting I give up my life’s work to become a nanny? Or maybe I should start a fake girlfriend service. Either way, I’m gaining lots of experience and by the end of this assignment, I’ll expect a glowing letter of recommendation.”
Stark leaned back and drank in his dining companion. She was just as beautiful as ever, but her sultry evening makeup had transformed her into a runway-ready supermodel. And the skimpy periwinkle dress that hugged her exquisite curves quite literally made him drool. And not for one of Craig’s world-famous rib eyes.
“I’m thinking the latter,” he said with a slight eyebrow waggle. The spurt of flashes from outside nearly blinded him.
Wyntir pulled her hand free, grabbed the tail of a jumbo shrimp from the appetizer they were sharing, and gave him a fetching, yet ice-cold smile that froze the blood in his veins. More flashes as she raised the shrimp to her perfectly glossy, plump lips.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured, never breaking eye contact with him, and then viciously tore the shrimp in half.
Stark nearly choked but managed to maintain his composure in front of the paps. Damn, she really was a firecracker and the tent in his slacks was proof of that.
With a sigh, she dropped the shrimp tail into the little bowl next to the plate. To her credit, she didn’t turn toward the photographers, but the look on her face was less than amused.
“Exactly how long do we need to be on display like this?”
As far as Stark was concerned, the more photos he had with Wyntir—ones in which she wasn’t scowling at him—the better, but the limelight could be a little overwhelming for a newbie. Wanting to put on a good show for the paparazzi, he leaned in, cheating a smoldering smile toward the window.
“I’m sure someone far more interesting than me will come along soon enough, though I can’t guarantee the paps will follow with you dressed like…that.”
Some women might have glanced down to see what was wrong with their outfit and feigned humility, but not Wyntir. She knew she looked good and wasn’t shy about it in the slightest.
“Who could blame them?” she asked, a sparkle of humor in her eye. Finally! “You’re just lucky you look good in that suit and are behaving yourself.”
Stark’s chest puffed out a little at the compliment and he decided to play along with her teasing. “Oh, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. Pretty sure I could give those guys out there some photos that would earn them one helluva payday, so you’d better show me a good time tonight.”
The waiter stopped by the table to refill their wine glasses and let them know their meals would be out shortly before moving to the next table. Wait staff often earned extra money by feeding tips to the paps, so Stark made sure to keep up the cover story his high-priced publicist had concocted, including the fake name Wyntir had insisted on to protect her identity—Summer Glacies.
“Trust me, Summer,” he said, allowing every ounce of honesty to pour into his voice, “I would like nothing better.”
Wyntir’s cheeks pinked up at that and she couldn’t maintain eye contact. That sent a thrill of hope through Stark that maybe she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Unfortunately, the waiter continued to linger. Stark figured he was waiting for something juicy, so he decided to feed a tidbit to the guy.
“I just can’t get over how brave you are, Summer. I mean, you believed Buster was attacking poor, sweet Becca and you took him down like a sack of potatoes. Not many women would—or could—manage that. Very impressive.”
He shot a pointed glance over her shoulder at the waiter, who was leaning toward them very inelegantly, and she quickly followed his lead.
“Me? I’m just glad I didn’t hurt him or dissuade him from proposing to Becca. But you, Stark.” She shook her head and smiled at him so warmly he almost thought it was real. “You paid for their honeymoon to make up for my mistake. That was incredibly generous of you.”
This wasn’t a total fabrication. While Buster hadn’t actually proposed to Becca, nor had he been intending to, Stark had arranged for a romantic weekend getaway to Big Bear—pun totally intended—to make up for Wyntir’s actions. Honestly, it was the least he could do for Becca, whose kind gratitude toward him had truly lifted his spirits during some very dark times, but regardless, the press had eaten up the story with barely restrained glee.
The waiter finally got what he’d wanted—whether it was the other table’s order or a juicy nugget from Wyntir—and moved on, but Stark couldn’t resist continuing the game. Stabbing the last shrimp with a fork, he held it out to her with a suggestive smile. She glared daggers at him for a moment but then leaned forward and took a bite as the cameras captured the moment. Stark made a mental note to email one of the guys—he was on a first-name basis with most of them—for a copy.
He made a second mental note to send a gift basked to his publicist. Sitting so close to Wyntir, touching her in a way that would be completely inappropriate for a bodyguard, was sheer joy. He only wished she didn’t look like she hated it quite so much.
Another celebrity couple pulled up to the restaurant and the paparazzi spun around to capture their entrance, leaving Stark and Wyntir behind like day-old bread. He gave her a relieved smile that the show was finally over and leaned back in his chair.
“You’re a good actress,” he said quietly.
Another sweet blush crept up her cheeks and her smile looked sincere. Winning it made Stark’s body tingle all over. He reminded himself she was still his bodyguard and that a professional relationship should remain just that—professional.
Right.
“Hey, any excuse to finally break out this baby,” she said, smoothing her hands down the bodice of her skin-tight dress. That didn’t help Stark’s frame of mind in the slightest.
“As long as the internet is eating up my bad-ass girlfriend, by all means, keep doing what you’re doing. Hopefully we look convincing.”
“Of course, we do,” she said just as she turned her head to look out the window, a smile so faint playing at her lips that he wasn’t sure if it was real.
The waiter delivered their meals—rib eye for him, scallops for her—and quickly left them, apparently having collected enough dirt for a decent payday. Stark would leave him a memorable tip as well, just in case the guy was thinking about feeding the paps a negative spin.
“Cover story or no,” she eventually said after the first few bites, dabbing the corners of her mouth. “I’m certainly happy my personal style finally works with my job for once.”
“Thank god you brought it up,” he said, swallowing a hunk of tender meat. “I’ve been wanting to ask but didn’t dare piss you off, after what you did to poor ol’ Buster.”