Dangerously Protected by My Bodyguard (Dangerously Protected #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Waste My Time

Simone

I don’t like him.

But honestly, it isn’t even about him. It never is.

It’s the performance. The pretending. The way every one of these setups reminds me that I’m just a pawn in someone else’s perfect picture.

Conventionally, he’s attractive in a boyish kind of way. Good-looking, even. Straight blond hair pressed back with so much gel I could probably see my reflection in it. Everything about him looks straight—straight nose, straight teeth, straight-looking cheekbones.

I didn’t even know that was a thing before I met him.

He’s everything I should want.

But he’s nothing like the man I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

Quiet. Dark. Impossible.

My date’s mouth keeps moving, his lips occasionally flattening when he realizes I’ve zoned out yet again.

He clears his throat for the tenth time in six minutes, leans forward, and clasps his hands before apparently deciding against it and separating them again. His lips lift, revealing distractingly perfect, pearly-white teeth and unusually sharp canines.

Straighter than mine, and I’ve had enough work done on mine.

“So…” He gulps an obscene amount of wine. “You’re an artist.”

Honestly, I blame my father for this bullshit.

Francis Rochefort is the most caring man I know. He’s also the most relentless man to walk the face of the earth.

No matter how many times I tell him I have no interest in these absurd matchmaking attempts, he insists. He doesn’t call them blind dates, even though a blind man would know that’s exactly what they are. He calls them connections. Networking opportunities.

Sometimes I think he believes I’m thirteen instead of twenty-three.

And that’s why I find myself here, taking heavy sips from a glass of Chateau Margaux—the only good thing about this date—while sitting across from yet another wealthy heir and feigning interest as my mind drifts to my guitar waiting for me in the studio.

Adrien Belcourt is nice enough to look at. He has the whole son-of-old-money thing going for him—tailored suit, polished shoes, and a vintage watch that probably belonged to his grandfather.

But that’s where the appeal ends.

He talks like he’s reading from a script.

I spent last summer in the South of France… I have a yacht in Monaco… My family owns three vineyards in Tuscany…

Blah, blah, blah.

More word vomit.

All I’ve done is nod—barely—while his voice dissolves into background noise and I drink more wine.

I’ve played this game too many times. The dinner. The restaurant reserved exclusively for the two of us. The meaningless conversation. The expectation that I’ll smile prettily and giggle at all the right moments.

But I don’t care about his yacht, his summers in France, or whatever trust-fund nonsense he’s rattling off.

I want to be in the studio, where the only thing that matters is music.

My music.

Music doesn’t expect anything from me. It doesn’t care who my father is or what I wore to some stupid gala. It’s the only place where I don’t have to smile when I don’t feel like it.

And what’s worse is that I can’t even slip away unnoticed.

My father has someone watching me. He always does. Some poor guard assigned to report back and make sure I entertain my suitor for an acceptable amount of time.

I wonder whether he’ll report it if I abruptly get on my knees and give Adrien a blowjob.

But looking at Adrien now—and the strain between his brows as he tries to make this work—I have a feeling he’d be too terrified to let me.

“What?”

He gestures a lot when he speaks, flinging his hands around whenever the mood strikes him. “I said you’re an artist.”

I resist an eye roll. “Yes.”

“I’ve heard your songs.”

I lean forward, resting my arms on the table and unintentionally giving him a generous view of my cleavage.

His cheeks turn beet-red.

Oh, wow.

We’ve got a virgin here, everyone.

Or maybe he’s just shy. The shy ones are usually the most fun.

I should probably give him another chance.

“Have you?”

He nods, keeping his gaze firmly on my face as though he’ll burst into flames if he looks anywhere else. “A few of them.”

I shouldn’t notice how tense his jaw is.

I shouldn’t wonder what it would take to make him look.

Really look.

But I do.

And I hate the little thrill that races down my spine.

“Did you like them?”

I’m still waiting for his answer when I notice something out of the corner of my eye.

A familiar figure stands outside the restaurant near the car, arms crossed and posture stiff.

But it isn’t Mark.

It’s him.

Luca Moreau.

Even with those dark sunglasses covering his eyes, I can pick him out from everyone else.

Dread coils through every curve of my stomach. The wine on my tongue suddenly loses its flavor.

What the hell is he doing here?

He isn’t supposed to be here. Mark is.

Mark drove me here. Mark is the one who’s supposed to report back to Dad about how my date went.

And honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he were replaced by anyone else.

Anyone in the world besides Luca.

Watching him glance at the watch on his wrist, his lips pressed into a displeased line, instantly pisses me off.

That’s the thing about him.

He always finds a way to piss me off.

Someone should have warned me that Mark was being replaced by an asshole like Luca.

“—magical and very romantic, and I thought—”

I interrupt Adrien in the middle of his rambling. “Excuse me, Adrien, but I need to take care of something.”

I’m already pushing my chair back and rising to my feet.

Adrien looks up at me and nods quickly. “Of course. Is everything okay?”

My smile tightens. “Not really. I just need to take care of an anomaly. I’ll be right back.”

Then I make a beeline for the door.

The evening air is cool and crisp, immediately sweeping through my hair and sending loose strands flying as the glass doors close behind me. It’s particularly cold for a June night, but the chill does nothing to cool my temper as I march toward Luca.

I shouldn’t be this angry.

At the end of the day, he hasn’t done anything to deserve the irritation prickling across my skin. He’s just doing his job as one of my father’s many bodyguards.

But maybe that’s why I’m angry.

Because I don’t like him, but I’m still not immune to his face.

I don’t like Luca Moreau.

I don’t like his face, his body, or anything else about him.

I don’t like that he still works for my father, forcing me to remember he exists.

I don’t like that he’s more than one of Dad’s employees.

I don’t like that he’s my brother’s best friend and practically part of the family.

But most of all, I hate that I bother.

That I waste any energy thinking about him when I shouldn’t.

I hate that he doesn’t see me.

And I hate that I still care.

I can’t believe I was obsessed with him until I was eighteen. That I convinced myself I was in love with him. That his rejection still slices through me, vibrating deep in my bones every time I’m unfortunate enough to run into him.

Yes.

That’s exactly why I’m angry.

Because I still give a shit, even though he’s nothing to me.

Luca barely moves as the click of my heels against the pavement announces my arrival.

He’s stupidly tall. In fact, he’s the only man I’ve ever met who can still tower over me when I’m wearing heels.

At five-ten, I’m as tall as—or taller than—a good number of men.

But Luca makes me feel short.

I stop in front of him, leaving a deliberate amount of space between us.

He continues staring straight ahead, as though my presence is nothing more than a gust of air that will eventually blow away.

I arch a brow. “Well? You wanna tell me why the hell you’re here?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious that I’m doing my job.”

I resist the urge to scoff.

Even his voice infuriates me.

It baffles me to remember all the times I pressed my ear to a door whenever I heard him talking somewhere in the house, wishing he would speak to me instead of seeing me as nothing more than his best friend’s little sister.

“I’m not blind, Luca,” I say. “Mark brought me here, not you. So what is this?”

“Mark had more important things to do.” His answer is flat, and he continues staring past me.

He’s watching the restaurant. Watching Adrien, who is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t curious about why his date abandoned him to confront a bodyguard.

“And if you can’t already tell,” Luca continues, “I’m not thrilled about wasting my time while you play tea party. But I have a report to make. So you could do us both a favor and wrap this up as soon as possible.”

I clasp my hands together and pout. “Oh, poor you. Stuck babysitting me instead of doing whatever thrilling job Mark escaped to.”

Luca removes his sunglasses, and I’m immediately assaulted by the full force of his deep emerald gaze.

His eyes are bored, his expression the living definition of Why do I have to endure this?

His pink lips—the lower one slightly fuller than the upper—flatten as he folds the glasses and slips them into his pocket.

His hair is as black as the night sky, with one stubborn strand falling over his forehead. His brows are the same color, thick and full, matching the unfairly long lashes framing his eyes. His nose is slightly crooked, his cheekbones high, and his jaw so sharp it looks capable of cutting glass.

Sometimes I can’t blame my younger self for falling for him.

With that face, anyone would.

“Go back to your date, Simone.” He dismisses me with his eyes. “He’s going to break his neck if he turns around one more time.”

At this point, I should make an actual list of everything I hate about Luca Moreau.

Number one would be the way he pronounces my name.

And the fact that I still let it affect me.

Once in a while, his French accent makes itself known, even though he’s lived in America long enough to be considered American. But whenever he says my name, it emerges in that spine-curling way that puts every nerve in my body on edge.

“You’re right.” I take a step back and smile sweetly. “I was having so much fun until the sight of you ruined it.”

I hate that he sees straight through the lie.