Briar ignores me completely on the drive to her dress fitting. We sit in silence as her driver navigates the London streets. The memory of me walking in on her this morning hangs awkwardly between us.
I’m honestly surprised at how well she handled the situation. If she wanted, she could easily have reported me and sued the shit out of Angel Security. But she apologised to me. It’s confusing, considering her reputation.
In fact, for the past few days, she’s not really been living up to her reputation at all. She’s cold, but she’s polite enough. For the most part, she just ignores us, which suits me fine. Maybe Colette’s right, and her catty public persona really was just made up by the tabloids.
As we turn a street corner, Briar leans her face against the car window like she’s tired. I glance across at her, and a memory niggles at the back of my mind. Sometimes, when I look at her from a certain angle, I get this feeling that I’ve seen her before. I can’t put my finger on where, but I’m pretty sure it was during our time in the military. Which doesn’t make any sense. How the Hell would I have seen her face while I was serving? We didn’t exactly have regular movie nights. Without meaning to, my eyes track the soft curve of her cheek.
“Jesus,” the driver says suddenly. I blink back to reality and lean forward to look through the windshield. I see the problem immediately.
We’re just pulling up to the curb outside the designer’s address, and the street is packed with paparazzi, clutching their cameras as they see the car approach.
I turn to Briar, fuming. “Did you tweet where we were going?” I demand.
She checks her lipstick in her phone camera. “I have a stalker,” she drones. “No, I didn’t tweet my location.”
I jab my finger out of the window. “How did they all know that you’re here?”
She shrugs. “They always know where I am,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how.”
I sigh, looking out at the heaving crowd. Shit. I really should have brought one of the others as backup. We weren’t expecting this. It looks like there’s about fifty men out there, all jostling each other to get a better position. “We’re going to have to be fast,” I say. “Don’t stop to take pictures. Don’t answer questions. Stick close to me.”
She slips her phone back into her bag and squares her shoulders. “We’ll see.”
I frown. “Not we’ll see. You say yes, Matt, and do as I say.”
“Talking to the press is part of my job,” she says flatly. “I’ll give them a few shots.”
“No—”
Without warning, she tugs open the car door. A wall of sound hits us as the paps immediately start screaming. Camera flashes light up the inside of the car.
I swear, scrambling over Briar and half-falling onto the pavement. The photographers jabber around me, and I turn and block their view, offering Briar my hand and helping her out of the car.
“What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?” I hiss as she steps onto the pavement, fluffing up her hair.
She shrugs. “Just testing your reflexes.” She raises her voice. “You get one shot each,” she calls. “Make it count, boys.”
“Very funny,” I growl, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and ploughing us through the crowd.
The noise is incredible. Bodies crowd all around us, shoving, elbowing, grabbing. Flashes burst in our faces, half-blinding us. The men start screaming questions as we push through them.
“BRIAR! TELL US ABOUT YOUR NEW MOVIE!”
“HAVE YOU GAINED WEIGHT, BRIAR? BRIAR, ARE YOU PREGNANT?”
“IS IT TRUE YOU SLEPT WITH HARRY STYLES?”
Briar poses as she walks, pouting at the lenses and blowing kisses. Gritting my teeth, I tighten my grip on her shoulders and push her forwards. A bald guy in his twenties throws himself in our path.
“BRIAR!” He shouts, right in our faces. We both wince as spittle flecks our skin. “WHAT’S YOUR RESPONSE TO ELLIOT WHITE CALLING YOU A STUCK-UP COW?”
Briar pauses, right in the middle of the street. I try to shove her along, but she’s surprisingly strong. She considers, biting her lip. “I suppose I’d tell him to shut his mouth, brush his teeth, and pay the taxes he’s been evading for the last five years,” she says thoughtfully.
“Stop,” I say in her ear, pushing her forward again. More people are joining the crowd now; passersby attracted by the commotion. I start getting worried. Briar suddenly seems very small and delicate, surrounded by this heaving group of men.
“Get the fuck back!” I call, warding them off. “Step away. You’ll crush her, for God’s sake!”
They ignore me. One guy lunges forwards, grabbing her arm. I reach for him, but Briar moves faster, shoving him away. He staggers back a few steps, staring at her.
“You can’t fucking push me!” He sputters.
“Grab me, I’ll grab you back,” Briar says, sounding bored.
“I’ll report you!”
“Whatever.” She flips him off. “Get a real job, loser.”
I grit my teeth. “Briar,” I growl in her ear. “Stop provoking them.”
She looks up at me innocently. “What? It was self-defence.”
Sighing, I manage to crowd Briar across the pavement and up to the entrance of the building. Just as we’re about to step inside, one last pap, a dark haired-guy in a baseball cap, hops up onto the steps next to us, shoving his camera in Briar’s face.
“BRIAR! WHY DID YOU CHEAT ON THOMAS PETTY?” He shouts.
Briar freezes, the blood draining from her face.
I frown. I know this story. I stumbled across it when I was reviewing her case files this morning. Apparently, when Briar was a teenager, she dated a co-star on her show, Thomas Petty. The two went out for a few months, then she broke his heart when she cheated on him with another teenage boy.
Why the Hell is this middle-aged guy asking a woman about her sixteen-year-old sex life? That’s just plain creepy.
I put my hand on Briar’s back, preparing to shoulder her through the doorway, but she digs in her heels and gives the pap a bright smile. “Honestly?” She raises her eyebrows, leaning in. “I’ll give you the scoop.” She pauses for effect. “Because he was shit in bed. I’ve never met a man so utterly incompetent. Getting eaten out by him was like getting licked by a Saint Bernard. He kissed like an iguana catching flies. And his prick was about an inch long, and always stank. I think he had some sort of fungal issue, or something.” She tosses her hair back. “Quote me on that.”
With that, she breezes right past him into the building.
“Bit harsh,” I mutter, stepping in behind her and closing the door. The thick glass immediately shuts out the noise, although flashes still flicker behind us.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
We step into a ridiculously luxurious reception area. The walls are papered in pale gold, and the floor is tiled with marble. A massive crystal chandelier hangs down from the middle of the ceiling.
“Hey, Anna,” Briar flounces up to the front desk. “I have an appointment with Michel?”
The receptionist smiles and checks her computer. “Good afternoon, Miss Saint. I’m afraid he’s currently meeting with another client, they’ve run a bit overtime. If you’d just take a seat in the waiting area, I can get you some bubbly—”
A nearby door flies open. I whirl around to face it, automatically moving in front of Briar as a man dressed all in white bursts into the room. He’s tanned and dark-haired, with a peroxide-white smile and a tape measure dangling around his neck. “Briar!” he exclaims. “God, you look stunning today, babe.”
“Hello, Michel. He’s fine, Matt.”
“You the designer?” I ask, ignoring her.
The guy nods. “Michel Blanc, at your service.”
I wave him over. “I need to pat you down.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to be touching my client, I need to confirm that you’re unarmed.”
“You know he’ll be using needles and scissors, right?” Briar drawls. “If he wanted to stab me, he wouldn’t need a concealed weapon.”
“It’s fine, love,” Michel assures her. I give him a quick pat down, then slap him on the back.
“You’re good to go.”
He winces, rubbing his back, then flits over to Briar, kissing her on both cheeks. “Come in, come in!” He starts to shepherd her to the studio. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”
“B-but what about your current appointment?” Anna squeaks from behind the desk.
Michel waves a hand dismissively. “He can come back some other time. ALAN!” He calls over his shoulder. “YOU NEED TO LEAVE NOW.”
A red-faced man scuttles out of the room, shirt unbuttoned. “But I still need a pocket square!” He complains, trying to fix his cufflinks.
“You can make your orders on my website,” Michel says, not taking his eyes off Briar. “I always have room for my favourite client. We’re fitting your dress for the gala, right? You are going to love what we came up with for you!”
Briar nods. “And my bodyguard needs a suit.”
The designer flicks his eyes over me dismissively. “Big boy, huh? I’m not sure we’ll have any pants that fit you. Spin for me.”
I stare at him. “No.”
He sighs. “Well, judging by your thigh size, I guess you probably have a pretty big ass, too. We’ll get to you later.” He turns on his heel and heads for the open door. “Come on, then.”
I rub my forehead, following Michel and Briar into the fitting studio. This is why I like working for politicians. Don’t get me wrong, most of them are unbearable, but at least no one ever comments on my ass.
The inside of the studio is big, with overhead lighting, plush sofas, and huge floral arrangements on every flat surface. The walls are lined with racks stuffed with dresses and shirts and suits. I eye a flamingo-pink tuxedo decorated with sequin pineapples.
“Like it?” Briar asks. “It’d look cute on you.”
“Try it. See how fast I quit.”
“Right,” Michel sings, leading Briar to the centre of the room and setting her in front of a wall-to-ceiling mirror. “Let’s get you sorted. How many lives have you ruined today, babe?”
Briar examines her nail beds. “Depends. Matt, is your life ruined?”
“It’ll take more than you could ever give me, princess.”
She sighs. “Then I guess I haven’t ruined any. But it’s only early.” She tilts her head. “What have you got for me?”
“So much gossip,” Michel chirps. “I swear, people tell me everything when I’m getting them done up. It’s like they think I have some kind of confidentiality policy.”
They both laugh. I grimace, crossing to the window. It’s facing away from the street, and looks out over a large square courtyard filled to bursting with bushes and flowers. I scan the foliage. I can’t see anybody down there, but the plants are too dense to be sure. I grab the white curtain and drag it over the windowpane.
There’s a gasp from behind me. “What are you doing?” Michel cries.
“She’s going to be changing. I’m closing the curtains.”
“We need the natural light! How else am I going to correctly match the shade of her nude pump?!”
My head is starting to ache. “I’m sure you’ll work something out,” I mutter.
“Leave them open,” Briar orders. “He needs light to work. I’m not coming back here and doing all of this again.”
I can’t hide my irritation. “And what if paps get down there?”
She shrugs. “I’ll beat them up.”
I snort. “Yeah? You know how to fight?”
“I do all of my own stunts. I’ve been trained in four different martial arts.” She pauses. “I’m also great at kicking men in the nuts. That’s my speciality.”
“Somehow, I don’t doubt that,” I mutter, watching as Michel heads to one of the racks, pulling out a dress. It’s a silver flapper dress, with long, glittery tassels sewn into the fabric.
“Here you go, love.” He hangs it up next to the mirror.
“Thanks.” Briar reaches behind her neck and unties the back of her shirt. It’s a tiny thing; it looks more like a silk handkerchief tied over her chest than an actual piece of clothing. As it falls away, I catch a glimpse of her pale pink bra reflected in the mirror, before I spin on the spot, turning to face the wall. Blood thumps through me. I can feel myself getting hard.
Fuck.
