Chapter 3
-Kira Carter-Wells-
I wait by the door while Dylan Drake checks me out.
The conversation over the phone line is terse on both ends from what I hear of the exchange.
The interesting part is that his gaze keeps straying over to me as he speaks, then being snatched back as if he suddenly remembers he’s not supposed to be interested.
Not that I think he is interested… More’s the pity, even if he is a tart.
He’s still drop dead gorgeous. And gay, of course.
You’d think actually witnessing him getting off might finally rid me of my desire for his squeezable buns, dimpled chin and playboy smile.
But no, apparently first hand evidence that he enjoys a nice hard dick has achieved the opposite.
My obsession has reawakened and I’m literally fighting the urge to squee as I usher him out of the door.
I over compensate when we hit the lift, standing so straight I look like I have a stick up my arse.
The thing is, being alone with him feels dangerous, and not due to any potential threat from would-be love assassins or homophobic twats.
Nah, I just don’t trust myself not to do something utterly foolish, like falling at his feet and offering to give him a far better blowjob than the one I just watched him enjoy.
Heat floods into my cheeks at the thought. Instantly, I’m hyper aware of his every movement, the scent of his aftershave and the heat of his body as he stands beside me. For every floor we descend, my feet move me an inch or so closer to him.
It’s for his protection, obviously. You never know who might be on the other side of those big metal doors when they open, and I’d never forgive myself if he were to wind up getting hurt because I was focussed on blowjobs and not the dangers lurking around us.
“What?”
“Oscar. The guy I was with.”
I dry the sweat from my palms on my thighs.
“His name isn’t Oscar, it’s Ethan, but yes, while you were in the bathroom.
No issues. Howard had already cleared and vetted him.
” He’ll have a tail on him tonight, regardless.
We’re all taking the threats on Dylan’s life seriously, even if he seems dismissive of them.
“He didn’t turn out to be the lunatic fan you’re hunting for? What a pity. That would have made things simple. You could have gone home early and put your feet up.”
“Then I’d have missed an evening of your scintillating company.”
His lips squash into a narrow line. His expression is guarded while he looks me over again “You realise the studio are blowing this whole thing out of proportion?”
“Providing you with a close protection officer post threats to end your life would seem to be a sensible move.”
“I live in the public eye. I get unsolicited fan-mail all the time, Miss Carter-Wells…Wells. It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?
I don’t see why my reaction on this occasion should be any different to normal.
The notes that have the studio in a tizzy aren’t any more extreme or fanciful than the stuff that arrives every other day of the week.
This is simply an excuse to keep tabs on me. ”
“You get death threats all the time?”
His eyes narrow to slits, making his expression seem far more guarded. “Not exactly, but I’m no stranger to receiving bizarre, and toe-curling notes.”
“But they aren’t threatening to put you six feet under.”
“Not directly. But nor were the notes that have Hyde & Le Strange Studios up in arms either. The writer simply elaborated on how they’d like to cut me up and spill my blood.”
My stomach cramps at the notion of some sick fuck crouched over him and watching blood bead and run over his skin from countless lacerations. “That sounds very much like something to be concerned about.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been sent worse. People proposition me with their insane fantasies all the time. All the stuff that they’d never dare suggest to a partner. Stuff they’d balk at doing if the opportunity actually arose to try it.”
I almost want him to elaborate and offer up specific examples, but what use will it serve me to be appalled?
“Unsolicited mail is one of the perks of the job.” He laughs at my stiffness, and dour expression.
“Yay, well then I’m glad that I’m not in the limelight.”
He reaches out, and for a moment, I swear he’s going to link our arms, only in the end he simply brushes his fingertips against the bare skin of my arm. “You’re going to be in the public glare all night. That is, unless you just happen to lose sight of me a time or two.”
“Ain’t happening.” We’re by the car now, a silver sedan with tinted windows and while said windows are wound up tight, that doesn’t mean Johns can’t hear us.
“My instructions from Howard Falchard were very explicit.” I swear it’s as if three big neon pink X signs flash above Dylan’s head when I trip over the word explicit.
“I’m not to leave your side under any circumstances.
” I take a chance, and do link our arms, so that our sides brush against one another as we traverse the last few feet of tarmac.
“Me and you, we’re going to be like this all night. ” God help me!
God help us both.
Dylan wriggles his arm free of my grasp. “What about if I could hook you up with someone good? Someone you might actually have some fun with for the evening. Someone like Dare Wilde, perhaps?”
I shake my head. “No thanks. Never been a Wilde fan.”
“Not your type?” He squints as he assesses me. “Really? Are you a robot, Ms. Wells?”
“It’s Carter-Wells, or Kira,” I correct him.
“Yeah, but come on, what woman doesn’t get wet panties over the notion of cosying up with Dare Wilde?”
“Me,” I reiterate.
He considers this with his eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a moue. “So what, are you into women?”
“No.” If there’s a sharpness to my tone that causes him to flinch, then it’s no less than he deserves. “I just don’t happen to find irresponsible playboys terribly enthralling.”
Unless they happen to be irresponsible playboys who are also gay and happen to be called Dylan Drake.
I’ve always found him more interesting than Dare, right back to their first movie outing together in Sunsetters.
“It’s going to be a serious drag having you lurking about all night. Though I’m sure you’re a lovely person, you’re totally going to cramp my style.”
“Yeah, well get used to it, buddy. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be doing exactly what I’m being paid to do, until Howard Falchard says otherwise.”
“Fucking Falchard,” he mutters under his breath as he wrenches open the rear door of the sedan. He ducks inside, while I open the front passenger side door. Johns already has the engine running.
“Ride with him, Kira.” Falchard barks at me through my earpiece.
He must be up in the surveillance room to know where we are.
“I need you right beside him, stuck to him like you’ve been No Nails-ed to his bloody sleeve.
This isn’t just about keeping a sicko at bay, there’s a multi-million dollar contract with the studio riding on how well we look after him tonight.
You don’t just need to keep him safe, he needs to stay scandal free. ”
Sounds as if Dylan’s belief this is more about studio meddling than a genuine threat might not be too far off the mark.
Though what sort of scandal he’s supposed to create at a charity dinner, I don’t know.
It’s not as if his orientation is news. His sexual preferences are a matter of public record, and it’s not like the studio can stuff him back in the closet and then go, “Surprise! Guess what, he’s still gay. ”
I close the front passenger side door, and reach for the rear handle. I was banking on a little distance between us on the journey to get my wayward thoughts together. So much for that.
“Hurry it up,” Howard barks in my ear. “Get going now.”
It becomes apparent why as I settle in the rear seat. There’s a lone man approaching across the dingily-lit concrete tomb. A man I’m guessing is top of Howard’s keep-Dylan-away-from-that-shit list.
To be fair, Adam Bask is a controversy waiting to happen.
His career has tanked spectacularly over the last eighteen months, but a nice tasty bit of gossip about a relationship with Dylan will get him a lot of talk show airtime.
Johns hits the central locking, the moment I close the door, before Bask attempts to carpool.
“Buckle up,” I order Dylan. The fucker ignores me, his gaze fixed on the figure of Adam Bask as he strides towards us, in his Terylene shirt.
“Get us moving, Johns.”
I lean over Dylan in order to grab the belt and strap him in. He jerks to attention when I get up close, and stares at me aghast, like he can’t believe I’m touching him. “Your seatbelt.”
“I’m not fucking six.”
“Tell me that after you’ve taken a dive through the windscreen onto the asphalt because we’ve had to brake suddenly.”
“We’re doing under five miles an hour.” He wrestles the belt from my fingers, and pushes me away. “I can manage. Thanks.”
“Sure you’re not too distracted by Bask’s cherry buns?”
Shit! I didn’t mean to say that aloud, even though I know it’s what he was thinking.
His gaze is still fastened on the guy, which is why he hasn’t managed to lock his belt into place yet.
I expect a whiplash response, but he surprises me by turning his head and instead of biting mine off, he levels an appraising look in my direction.
“I see how it’s going to be. Is Bask top of the studio’s “shit to ensure I avoid” list, or are there higher rankers? ”
“I… There isn’t a list, Mr. Drake. Obviously you’re free to interact with whomever you wish.”
“So if I tell yon driver here—” he nods towards Johns, “—to pull over and let my friend in, he’ll do that?”
Johns raises the partition glass between us, making Dylan snort.
“Figures. You know this is bullshit?”
Sure, I know it. It doesn’t change a thing.