a bodyguard or nothing,” her father warned her. “We can’t be following you off to God-only-knows where every time you make a movie. So, you tell that producer of yours that you get your own personal bodyguard or you won’t be making any more films for him!”
Her father, a short, wiry man with a temper that could skyrocket, wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“That’s right,” her mother had agreed, as she did with any of Dad’s rules. “You listen to your father.” Her mother had winked broadly. “No reason to give up your career. Just have the studio hire a guard. I’ll talk to them myself.”
Kaylie didn’t argue. She loved making films. Her first picture had been mildly successful—a teen horror flick that made the studio more money than had been expected. Her second film was meatier, as she played a teenager who fell for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks and had to deal with unsupportive parents and pregnancy. Her third movie, Carefree, was a teen comedy that surprised the critics and earned the director, as well as Kaylie, glowing reviews. The film had grossed over a hundred million. Triumph Studios was ecstatic. Barely sixteen, Kaylie had become a household word, a budding star who received fan mail and was asked to do interview upon interview to promote her forthcoming projects. She was compared to other young actresses of the time. People sought her autograph. And the fan mail kept pouring in. Letters of undying love, proposals of marriage, and a few not-so-kind missives from a few tortured fans.
Soon the powers-that-be at Triumph Studios agreed with her father and insisted she retain a bodyguard.
But, at seventeen, she hadn’t expected anything like Zane Flannery to walk into the offices of Triumph Pictures and announce that he would be looking after her. Not by a long shot! She had thought she’d be protected by some husky ex-football player with a couple of teeth missing. Or by some man with a huge belly and unshaven jaw who had once been the bouncer at a bar. But, oh no, Flannery was nothing like either man she’d envisioned.
He was younger than she’d expected—in his early twenties, by the looks of him, and much cuter—well, more handsome than any of her costars. His hair was longer than stylish and sable brown, curling over his collar and falling over his forehead in shiny, windblown waves. His face, though rough-hewn, took on a boyish quality whenever he flashed a rakish, devil-may-care smile that turned her inside out.
“Miss Melville,” he said, extending a work-roughened palm. They were seated in the cluttered office of Martin York, the producer of her latest film, Someone to Love.
Flannery’s large palm dwarfed hers as he shook her hand, then released her fingers. Wearing only a leather jacket, jeans and a T-shirt, he looked as if he were one of the stagehands or construction workers on the set, but his eyes gave him away. Gray and penetrating, they seemed to take in all of the office at once as he turned back to the producer.
Martin tossed his Dodgers baseball cap onto a chair behind him. Grinning beneath his beard, he reached over a desk piled high with scripts, reels of film and overflowing ashtrays, and clasped Zane’s outstretched hand. “How the hell are you?”
“’Bout the same,” Zane drawled, dropping into the chair next to hers and slouching low, his jean-encased legs stretched out in front of him.
“That bad, eh?”
Both men laughed, and Kaylie repressed the urge to giggle. Their easy camaraderie caused her to feel like an outsider, and when she was nervous, she often giggled. But she didn’t want Zane to see her as the least bit girlish. He looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t easily suffer fools, and she didn’t want to get on his bad side.
“I’ve known Flannery here for more than a few years,” Martin said, looking at her as if suddenly remembering she was in the room. “We knew each other in the navy. So don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s the best in the business.”
Kaylie trained her gaze on the man who was to be her protector. The best in the business? So young?
“Zane’s worked on some top-secret stuff for the armed services, then he landed a job at Gemini Security. Now he’s starting his own company—right?”
“That’s the rumor,” Zane replied lazily. He glanced at Kaylie again, and his smile faded. “I’ll take care of you, Miss Melville. You can count on it.”
“Kaylie,” she replied with a shrug. “And I’ll call you Zane. Okay?”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
She looked from Zane to Martin, but Martin, too, lifted a shoulder. “Whatever works.”
Kaylie grinned and tried not to be lost in the power of Zane’s gaze. But she felt giddy and conspicuous and—What was wrong with her? He was just her bodyguard. No big deal. Or was it? This man—well, he looked as if one hot look from him could melt a glacier.
“Okay, okay,” Martin said, handing Zane an address book. “Now, here’s Kaylie’s address. She still lives with her folks and her sister, and she’ll be working here as well as on location in Mexico and Australia. Her folks won’t be going along, so Kaylie will be your responsibility. She’s been getting a few crank letters….” He tossed a stack of mail, bound by a rubber band, to Flannery just as he finished copying her address into his own book. “I want you to check them all out—”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Kaylie cut in, surprised. “That’s my mail, right?”
Martin nodded, his expression growing peevish.
Objecting, Kaylie reached for the small bundle. “Don’t I get to read it?”
Martin waved off her request. “Don’t worry about it. The secretary will respond.”
“No way. I always read—”
“You don’t have time,” Martin said, obviously irritated. “You’ve got a plane to catch in three days and—”
“And it’s mine,” Kaylie said, hoping not to sound too petulant. But she wasn’t going to let this new guy think he could boss her around. She’d agreed to the bodyguard but that was all. To Zane, she said, “If there’s something else you want to know about me, just ask.”
He arched one dark brow, and a smile tugged at the corners of Flannery’s lips, though he tried to keep his expression grave as he slapped the stack of envelopes into her hand. “When you’re done with them, I’d like to see them again.”
Martin was fit to be tied. “We don’t have time—”
“It’s cool,” Kaylie assured him, and Martin rolled his eyes.
“Women,” Martin muttered under his breath, but Kaylie, cheeks burning, jaw tight, refused to rise to the bait. She just wanted this bodyguard to understand that she wouldn’t be treated like a little kid. As for Martin’s bad mood, he’d get over it.
From that point on, Zane was all business. He was with her constantly, but never obtrusively, and she began to relax around him. He helped her with her studies and taught her card games and even ran through her lines with her. Once in a while he’d show her a different side to him—a side that proved he did have a sense of humor. While going over her lines, he’d ad-lib, all very seriously, and she’d foul up her lines and they’d both end up laughing. Once in a while she’d catch him looking at her intensely, his eyes darkening, and she’d feel a tightening in her stomach, a warmth that seeped through her whole body.
When they were together, she felt secure. Even when they went out at night, he was cool and calm, almost relaxed. But at the slightest hint of danger, if any fan got too close and he sensed her unease, every muscle would flex and his eyes would glint with warning.
Being so close to him, closer than she was to any other male, she began to rely on him and fantasize about him. He was as handsome as any of her costars and seemed much more virile and worldly. He didn’t party, nor try to impress the stars. He was just there—steady as a rock—with his sexy smile that turned her insides to jelly.