Star Crossed (13 page)

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, sounding unimpressed with the pair of them.

She’d broken some speed record, because she was dressed again, her fingers doing up the final button under her white collar. The one beneath it was missing, a victim of her recent impulsiveness.

“Sorry,” she said to Martin, which greatly offended Luke. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

At a loss for words, her coworker shook his head.

“A.J.—” Luke began.

“No,” she interrupted. “If we really have to, we can talk about this later. Right now Martin and I have business to discuss.”

If they really
had to
talk about it? Martin wasn’t the only one gobsmacked then.

A.J. grimaced, possibly with remorse, because she touched his arm lightly. “I mean of course we’ll talk about it. If you want to. I’m just on the clock right now.”

He coughed out a startled laugh. If Kev had seen this, he wouldn’t call him Casanova. Discarded boy toy, more like.

“Later,” she promised, already on her way. “I’ll send the flight attendants back for your lunch order.”

So he was supposed to stay in the cabin? While she and Martin discussed their important things? She might as well have told him not to worry his pretty head!

“I’ll be
out
,” he said tersely. “I don’t need to be waited on.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sorry.”

He glared at her but only caught Martin’s eye.

He told himself he imagined the other man pity.

*

A.J. tried to behave as if her thoughts weren’t overwhelmed by curse words. Why had she succumbed to Luke? She knew better. Luke was a player, and she didn’t have time for games. Not at work. Not in front of her coworkers.

She headed for a pair of seats. They weren’t near Kevin Reyes, who she’d just as soon didn’t overhear. Her body hummed as she lowered herself into the chair farther from the window. She’d have preferred the molded leather not be so comfortable. The plush upholstery cradled her pussy. Her panties were damp, and her clit pulsed in double time. Her and Luke’s encounter had been so quick she was only a bit sweaty.

Maybe, if she were really lucky, she didn’t reek of sex.

Martin cleared his throat as he sat beside her.

You’re supposed to be in charge
, she reminded.
Don’t apologize again
.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she blurted.

Martin rubbed his jaw with his thumb, his silver-flecked stubble rasping beneath his nail. He seemed unsure what to say. “You’re a grown woman,” he settled on.

“I knew Luke before this job.”

“Your father mentioned that.”

Of course he had. Martin rubbed the arms of his chair, a nervous gesture he wasn’t usually prone too. Crap, this was awkward.

A.J. blew out her breath. “You had something to tell me? When we first came aboard?”

“Right.” Since she was pulling herself together, Martin did as well. “It’s about Christy James. I found this out while I was guarding Naomi Davis. I thought I ought to tell you face-to-face and not in a report. It’s sensitive.”

She turned toward him in the seat, propped her cheek on one hand, and prompted him wordlessly.

Martin didn’t keep her in suspense. “James and Davis are having an affair. Not a casual one—on James’s side at least. Neither of the interested parties said so in so many words, but I got the impression America’s Sweetheart only plays one side of the net.”

“Huh,” A.J. said. A slightly uncomfortable bit of gossip came back to her. She told herself the discomfort meant nothing. “I thought Christy and Luke were supposed to have had a fling.”

“Apparently that was wishful thinking among the fans. In real life they don’t get on, though I’m pretty sure he and Naomi Davis used to be intimate.” Martin shook his head. “That one strikes me as game for anything.”

He sounded admiring. The supermodel must have batted a lash or two once she recovered enough to notice the man guarding her. That didn’t surprise A.J. Her father’s partner was attractive. Plus, Martin could flirt with the best of them—and didn’t cavil to use the talent as an investigative tool.

She asked the question that mattered. “You think James’s sexual preference is relevant to the shooting?”

“Hard to say.”

“She presents as completely straight. Not that I’m an expert.”

“I’m not sure anyone is. Bottom line: we’ll have to be careful with the information. I wouldn’t want our firm to accidentally out someone.”

“Luke knows?”

“I believe he found out when James showed up to sit at Davis’s bedside.”

A.J. sat back and tapped her lips. As she did, she
almost
didn’t remember Luke kissing them. How many women’s mouths had he worked his magic on? She shook herself and focused. “The shooting couldn’t be a jealousy thing. Weren’t Luke and Naomi an item years ago? James wouldn’t be threatened by him now.”

“I admit it seems unlikely. Christie James was on the red carpet too. Even if she hired the shooter . . .”

“It’d be crazy nuts,” A.J. said, anticipating his train of thought. Not that actresses couldn’t be irrational. “Say Christie James is in love with Naomi Davis. If she killed Luke, she’d be risking her meal ticket. Nobody heard of her before the
Final
films. Without him, wouldn’t the franchise be kaput?”

“You’d think. But it’s in the mix, so we have to take it into account.”

“Huh,” A.J. said again.

She turned her head, noting in a glance that Luke hadn’t emerged from the private cabin. Kevin Reyes was staring out the window with the script Luke had given him face down on his lap. He looked morose, so if he liked the story any better this time, it didn’t show. She wondered if water bottle that sat beside him was spiked with more. “You start digging into that one yet?”

Martin didn’t need to be told who
that one
was. His lean face split into a grin. “Do bears bring Charmin into the woods?”

She didn’t get a chance to ask what he’d found. The flight attendant rolled up with the lunch choices. She and Martin both took fish. They didn’t eat heavy on the job. No bodyguard wanted to be lethargic if he had to spring into action. Light or not, the meal was stellar. Luke, evidently, didn’t do second-rate anything.

Eating might have relaxed her too much. She’d assumed the topic of what Martin walked in on was tabled. The adage about assuming belatedly sprang to mind when he set down his fork and sighed.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, but your dad isn’t here so I have to ask. You’re gonna watch yourself with Glamour Boy, aren’t you? Luke Channing is used to getting his way—and not by accident. Guys like him can charm women in their sleep.” Martin’s face was earnest, the lines around his eyes etched deeper by concern. A.J. was touched and annoyed at the same time.

“I’m not most women,” was all she could think to say.

“You’ve got me there,” Martin said, with a ruefulness she didn’t understand. “You’re one of a kind, for sure.”

NORMALLY, a big celebrity like Luke would be mobbed at LAX—especially after surviving an attack. To A.J.’s satisfaction, no press or fans had gathered to greet their landing. Their security measures were functioning.

Kevin Reyes went his own way after deboarding. A.J. didn’t say so, but she was glad. She preferred to avoid the complication of his presence.

Hoping their luck would hold, she pulled a favorite trick by borrowing a jacket and hat from one of the pilot’s spare uniforms. Putting them on Luke worked better than sunglasses to disguise him from the airport’s smartphone-wielding visitors. That and her team’s discreet guarding style got him to the agency limousine unnoticed.

As she’d requested, the LA branch sent an escort car as well. Martin peeled off and went with them, lending his experienced eyes to surveying the route ahead. Slightly rumpled but now awake, Szymanski stayed with her and Luke.

Their client seemed disconcerted not to be recognized. She read wistfulness in Luke’s gaze as he looked around one last time before ducking into the car.

He turned sheepish when he saw she’d noticed. “I know. Stupid. Guess I’ve gotten used to the paps hounding me. Not seeing them makes me feel forgotten.”

“You’re still famous,” she assured, checking their six before following him into the roomy interior. “More than ever, unfortunately.”

Luke laughed at that—though she’d meant it non-ironically. She hoped he wasn’t too addicted to attention. They didn’t need him making Freudian slips to the media.

His phone rang a moment later. Talking to the studio kept him occupied for the drive to Malibu.

Because it was her business, she monitored his conversation with half an ear. She gathered Galaxy decided to move
Final Death’s
opening back a week. The theaters would still be booked, and those owners who desired could put extra security in place. To A.J., the change offered pros and cons. On the pro side, she and her team could get more organized. On the con, if Luke’s attacker wanted a second crack, he or she would have seven more days to plan.

Twice she heard Luke catch himself before sharing information she’d rather he didn’t. He was learning. That would definitely be helpful.

Also helpful was the cushion of acreage surrounding his estate.

Situated on a bluff overlooking blue water, his home was part of an exclusive coastal community. By necessity, this meant his neighbors were rich and/or industry bigwigs. Bounded by a wall whose security arrangements she’d reviewed already, Luke’s property was among the grandest. Per her orders, Hoyt-Sands’ LA branch had taken over manning the powered gatehouse. As the guard swung open the iron bars to admit the limo, he and A.J. exchanged the firm’s standard “A-OK” hand sign.

“Cheese-Louise,” Szymanski murmured as they got their first line of sight on Luke’s residence. “That’s what I call a Hollywood palace.”

The Mediterranean-style house was flamingo pink and huge. Sprawled across a somewhat incongruous drought-resistant landscape, it boasted an old-school Spanish tile roof, multiple graceful terraces on multiple levels, plus an artistic scattering of date palms.

“It was built in the 1920s,” Luke informed them, having detached his phone from his ear at last. “One of the silent movie era moguls commissioned it. It was amazing when the grounds were green, but I think it still impresses. My gardener is a genius.”

Luke was leaning forward to look out the windows too. He seemed pleased by Szymanski’s awe. Hell, A.J. was awed right along with her coworker. This was a different level of affluence from what she was used to.

Though she wasn’t prone to gushing, it seemed stingy not to offer a compliment. “Helluva pile for a former Minnesota farm boy to land on.”

“You aren’t lying.” Luke laughed. “I get a charge every time I drive up to it.”

“I’d worry if you didn’t,” Szymanski said approvingly. “My wife says if people don’t count their blessings, they shouldn’t bother being rich.”

A.J. tended to agree but couldn’t encourage too much familiarity between personnel and clients. Familiarity bred relaxation, and relaxation was not useful. Fortunately, Szymanski didn’t take offense at her mild warning glance.

She wished she could get herself to behave that easily.

“Right,” her coworker said as the limo rolled to a halt at the broad front steps. He began to open the door then paused. “Mr. Channing, if you wouldn’t mind, please stay in the car a minute while I get the sitrep.”

A.J. remained with Luke—to his dismay, apparently.

“This is my home,” he protested.

“It’s just a precaution. Szymanski needs to make sure our people are in control of the house and grounds. You’ll be able to move freely, without me glued to your side, once he confirms everything’s been vetted.”

Luke expressed his displeasure—or perhaps it was disbelief—in an under-the-breath mutter.

As she expected, Szymanski trotted back out to them shortly. “Everything’s cool. Martin made it here ahead of us. He collected Mr. Channing’s staff in the kitchen for you to brief on new procedures. He says they’ve been worried about Mr. Channing, so he might want to stop in with you and say ‘hello.’”

“I
would
like to do that,” Luke said crisply.

She sensed he thought they were being highhanded. Not wanting him to get prickly and resist sensible suggestions, she touched his arm as they both got out. When he turned to her, she spoke softly. “Our methods are designed to increase everyone’s safety, not just yours.”

Luke’s expression grew cooler.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said matching her muted tone. “Always pushing the right button.”

“As your bodyguard, that’s my job. I need you to cooperate.”

His gaze narrowed and probed hers, reminding her how close their eyes had been when they’d stupidly had sex on his private jet. The clear California sunshine lit his irises like gems.
Like the sea
, she thought dreamily, caught in their sparkling spell. Any woman with hormones would want to dive in. Her body tightened, the flesh between her legs tingling dangerously. She prayed the blood that stung her cheeks wasn’t visible.

“I wonder how much you need my compliance,” he murmured.

She blinked. He couldn’t be suggesting she bribe him with more sex. That would be incredibly unprofessional—not to mention contrary to what she knew of his character.

Her shock must have shown. His mouth twitched at one corner.

“Buttons,” he said with pretend gravity. He tapped her shoulder with one finger. “You’re not the only one who’s good at pushing them.”

Damn it
, she fumed. He’d been teasing her. As if he were aware he’d succeeded but was too mature to gloat, he strode unhurriedly up his mansion’s pink outside steps. The temperature was classic for summer in LA: balmy mid-seventies. Luke had removed his custom tailored jacket and slung it over one broad shoulder. In the sunny light, his hair shone more golden than ever.

Luke was effing Gatsby . . . without the neediness.

All right, maybe he had a bit of that, but if a romance novelist had written Fitzgerald’s story, for sure it would have ended with Luke paired up and happy.

Not that she knew anything about books like that.