Less (Sigma International Security #4)

Chapter 1

Amanda

The private jet smells like champagne and money.

Which, frankly, is the only reason I agreed to this ridiculous trip in the first place.

Well, that and the six-figure performance fee.

I smooth my hand over the curve of my hip as I step down the narrow jet stairs into the warm California sunshine.

The late afternoon light glitters off the massive hangar windows, and somewhere nearby a helicopter thumps lazily overhead.

Hollywood, California.

Lord help me.

“Miss Perkins? Excuse me,” a woman—the big shot’s assistant, maybe—chirps beside me.

I turn to find a woman in a headset and beige power suit smiling like she just swallowed a lemon and decided to enjoy it.

“Yes?”

“Welcome to Los Angeles. Mr. Carter is thrilled you accepted the invitation to perform this weekend. I’m Debra Manfield, Mr. Carter’s personal assistant.”

I flash my best Broadway smile.

The one that wins over critics and donors, and cranky stage managers.

“I’m thrilled to be here.”

Which is mostly true.

Broadway may be my home, but a private performance for one of Hollywood’s richest producers is exactly the kind of exposure my career needs right now.

The assistant gestures toward a sleek black SUV waiting just beyond the hangar doors.

“We’ll take you directly to the estate. The stage is already set up, and the rehearsal space is yours whenever you're ready.”

Perfect.

Smooth.

Professional.

Exactly the kind of luxury arrangement I expected when the contract came through.

This kind of gig should be no problem. I’m used to performing on stage, although this audience is a lot smaller than the norm.

It should be fine.

I’ll be fine.

Then I see him.

At first, it’s just a shape leaning against the SUV.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark suit.

Familiar.

My stomach drops.

No, it can’t be.

But then he straightens.

And the world tilts.

Alessio Figueroa.

Less to his friends.

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He looks exactly the same.

Maybe bigger. Harder.

His chestnut hair is longer now, clipped close at the sides but shaggy on top, and his jaw is shadowed with rough stubble.

The California sun catches the sharp angles of his face and the golden tan of his skin.

But it’s his eyes that undo me.

Those dark, quiet eyes that used to look at me like I’m the only woman alive.

For a moment I can’t breathe.

My brain tries to pretend this is some kind of hallucination brought on by jet lag and too much in-flight champagne.

Then he pushes away from the SUV.

And starts walking toward me.

Oh hell no.

My pulse roars in my ears as he stops a few feet away.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t even look surprised.

Just studies me slowly, like he’s cataloging every change.

Like he remembers every inch.

“Hello, Amanda.”

His voice is the same, too.

Low.

Rough.

Dangerous.

And just hearing it again cracks something open in my chest that I spent years trying to bury.

I swallow hard.

Because the last time I saw Alessio Figueroa he was kissing me goodbye in the doorway of my Jersey City apartment.

Promising he’d be back after a short job overseas.

Then he vanished.

No calls.

No messages.

No explanation.

Three years of silence.

Three years of wondering what I did wrong.

Three years of forcing myself to hate him just enough to move on.

And now he’s standing here like no time passed at all.

“What,” I manage finally, my voice sharp as broken glass, “are you doing here?”

The woman beside me brightens.

“Oh! Yes, it seems your theatre company insisted on enhanced security for the event. Mr. Carter agreed to it.”

Security.

Less is here as my bodyguard.

The words land in my stomach like a stone.

“This,” Debra continues cheerfully, “is Alessio Figueroa from Sigma International Security. He’ll be handling your protection while you're here.”

My gaze snaps back to him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Less doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even blink.

Just watches me.

Like he’s waiting for the explosion.

“So, you’re my bodyguard?” I say slowly.

“Yeah.”

The single word is infuriatingly calm.

I laugh.

A short, bitter sound.

“Absolutely not.”

Debra blinks nervously. Her gaze switches from me to Less and back again.

“I assure you, Miss Perkins, Mr. Figueroa works for one of the top security firms in the world—”

“I don’t care,” I cut in. “It’s unnecessary.”

My eyes stay locked on Less.

“I’m sorry, but it’s in the contract we negotiated with your agent and the theatre company. They’re only allowing you to be here with the understanding you will be protected,” she explains and looks about two seconds away from having heart failure.

“Fine, but can’t they send someone else? I’m not spending the weekend with him.”

Something flickers in his expression then.

Not anger.

Not surprise.

Something deeper.

Regret.

“Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “I’m not here to make your life harder.”

“Funny,” I shoot back. “As I recall, that’s a specialty of yours.”

Silence stretches between us.

The assistant looks like she’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

Less finally exhales slowly.

“Amanda—”

“No.”

I hold up a hand.

Whatever explanation he thinks he’s about to give?

I don’t want it.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever.

“It’s fine. I came here to sing,” I say coldly. “Not to relive old mistakes.”

His jaw tightens.

But he nods.

“Understood.”

Debra clears her throat nervously.

“If we could please head to the estate? Mr. Carter is expecting you.”

I climb into the SUV without another word.

But as the door shuts behind me, I feel it.

That familiar awareness.

The one I used to feel every time he walked into a room.

Less slides into the front passenger seat. He exchanges some words with the driver.

Even without looking at him, I know exactly where he is.

Three years ago Alessio Figueroa broke my heart.

Now he’s supposed to protect me.

I turn my head to the window and slide on my sunglasses.

Everything inside me is telling me to run away.

To protect myself.

But I can’t.

I have to be professional about this.

“Miss Perkins, Mr. Carter hopes you’ll join him and his guests for dinner after the concert,” Debra says, passing me a bottle of water.

I smile noncommittally.

“Any changes to Miss Perkins' plans will have to go through me first,” Less interrupts, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Dinner will be lovely, Debra. Thank Mr. Carter for the invitation,” I say immediately after his objection.

He frowns at me, and I swear I feel sparks ignite.

Score one for Amanda.

No matter what, I can’t afford to allow any leftover emotions I might have for an old boyfriend to complicate this job.

“Fantastic, I’ll let the staff know to add one more place setting,” Debra says, and begins typing out a message on her cell phone.

“Two,” Less says. “Where she goes, I go.”

And that, right there, is the problem.