Chapter 2
Less
Three years.
Three goddamn years.
And the second Amanda Perkins steps off that jet, it feels like someone drove a knife straight through my chest.
I wish I could tell her about that mission—the violence, the death, the fucking toll it took on me.
How I felt unclean afterwards. Unworthy of someone like her.
Amanda is everything good and pure and right with the world.
And me? I’m a killer. A hired thug.
She deserves more.
But the truth is I never got over her.
Never.
Fuck.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember.
Which shouldn’t be possible.
The California sun hits her hair, and the copper strands blaze like fire.
Her curves fill out the tailored cream travel suit she’s wearing, and when she moves the faint scent of jasmine drifts past me.
Same scent she used to leave on my sheets.
I drag my focus back to the job.
Because that’s why I’m here.
Not to stare.
Not to remember.
And definitely not to fall apart.
Amanda climbs into the back seat of the SUV without another glance in my direction.
The door shuts with a sharp thud that feels like punctuation.
Yeah.
She still hates me.
Fair.
I slide into the passenger seat and nod to the driver.
“Let’s go.”
The SUV rolls away from the hangar, merging onto the highway that snakes toward the Hollywood Hills.
I check the mirrors automatically. Vehicles. Distance. Blind spots.
Habit.
Behind me, Amanda sits stiff and silent.
After Miss Manfield, Carter’s assistant, invited her to dinner, and she accepted despite my objections, I clarified that wherever she goes I go.
And I can still feel the anger radiating off her.
Used to be I could read every shift in her mood by the sound of her breathing.
Now I’m betting I’ll be lucky if she even looks at me.
The irony is almost funny.
She thinks her theatre company hired Sigma as just regular protocol.
They didn’t.
It’s more complicated than that.
Two days ago the Broadway production manager called Sigma after a series of threats started coming in about Amanda’s appearance at some billionaire’s, a Mr. Carter’s, estate.
Her name.
Her travel schedule.
The catalog she’d be performing.
Details that shouldn’t have been public.
Her company wasn’t taking chances.
They requested a protection detail.
I volunteered.
Which was a mistake.
But the second I saw her name in the report there was no way in hell I was letting anyone else take the job.
Carter fought it, of course.
Hollywood billionaires don’t like being told what to do.
Especially not when they’re throwing an “exclusive private performance.”
But Amanda’s management made it clear.
No security.
No Amanda.
So here I am.
Watching the woman I never stopped loving pretend I don’t exist.
Debra is on the phone now. She could be speaking in tongues for how fast she’s talking and honestly, I don’t give a single shit what that woman has to say.
My attention is on Amanda alone.
Behind me, she shifts.
“You going to keep staring out the windshield all weekend,” she says coolly, “or do bodyguards actually talk to the people they’re assigned to?”
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s watching me.
Arms crossed.
Copper hair gleaming.
Celery green eyes focused, bright, and sharp as a falcon’s.
She is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Depends,” I say.
“On what?”
“On whether the client wants to listen.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Don’t start with me, Alessio.”
Fuck.
Hearing my real name again hits harder than it should.
“Less,” I correct quietly.
“That’s what everyone calls you,” she says. “Not me.”
Yeah.
I know.
Silence stretches again as the SUV climbs higher into the hills.
Finally, she asks the question I knew was coming.
“So, why did you take this job?”
Because I still love you.
Because when I saw the threat report my blood went cold.
Because if anything happened to you I’d burn the world down.
Instead, I say the version she’s ready to hear.
“Your theatre company requested security, and I was free at the moment.”
Her brows knit together.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did they hire Sigma? Your firm costs a fortune. And I didn’t ask for a bodyguard.”
“I don’t know, Rusty. They just did.”
She sighs, leaning back in the seat.
“Don’t call me that.”
That hurts. But I shrug it off.
“My freaking agent has been acting like I’m about to walk into a war zone.”
“Not a war zone,” I say. “But close enough.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“What does that mean?”
I wait as the driver pulls into a long driveway.
Debra hops out, one finger plugging her ear while she chatters on.
The driver exits next and moves to get Amanda’s luggage.
And I turn in my seat so she can see I’m serious.
“Look, I don’t know what they told you, Amanda, but this is serious.”
“Serious? How serious?”
Her eyes go wide, and fuck me, I want to reach out and touch her, comfort her.
I wish I still had that right.
“Someone’s been sending warnings about your performance.”
Her expression changes.
Not fear yet.
But attention.
“Warnings?”
“Two so far. Sent directly to the estate coordinator.”
“Fans do weird things sometimes,” she says dismissively. “I’ve had creepy messages before.”
“These weren’t fan messages.”
Her fingers tighten around her bag.
“What did they say?”
I hold her gaze.
“Cancel the performance.”
“Or?”
“Or you die.”
Carter’s estate looms ahead, and I clock the security cameras as they swivel toward us.
The iron gates close behind us.
The place is a fortress—thank fuck for that.
It should make my job easier.
Amanda goes quiet.
For the first time since she saw me again, the anger in her eyes fades.
“What are the chances this is real?” she asks quietly.
“High enough that your company called Sigma.”
“And you?”
She studies my face carefully.
“Did you volunteer for this assignment?”
I don’t lie.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because I never stopped loving you.
Because losing you once was bad enough.
Because if someone tries to hurt you, they’ll have to go through me first.
Instead, I say the only safe answer.
“Because I’m the best at what I do.”
She watches me for another long moment.
Then, she looks out the window at the grand estate and the California palm trees.
“Well,” she mutters.
“That’s comforting.”
She reaches for the handle.
“Wait,” I tell her and get out, placing my hand on her door.
There is security everywhere.
Lights.
Guards.
Cameras.
I open the door and she steps out. She’s close to me this time and for one split second I stare at her, waiting—wishing.
Then she clears her throat and moves her sunglasses to the top of her head.
“Miss Perkins? This way, please,” Debra says and I follow behind them after taking the suitcases from the driver.
Something about this whole setup still feels wrong.
And Amanda Perkins—the woman I once planned to spend my life with—is standing right in the middle of it.
And all I know is I’m not letting her out of my sight.