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“Who are you?”
Years of training kicked in, and Growler had the person’s arms twisted up and behind their back before they could even squeak out a protest.
“Who the fuck are you?” He kept his voice low, but menacing, annoyed at himself that he’d been lost in his thoughts he hadn’t been aware of the person approaching him.
Not a good look for a bodyguard. At least he’d reacted in a manner that would suggest he’d been aware of everything going on around him.
“Whoa! Let me go! I work here!”
Even though Growler had been quiet, this guy wasn’t, and attention from the set was now firmly on them and not on Astrid.
Basil came marching over. “Leon, what the hell is going on?”
The second the director said the guy’s name, Growler loosened his hold but didn’t let him go entirely. “You know this guy?” Growler asked.
“I said his name, didn’t I? Of course, I know him. He’s a junior cameraman on the show. Can you let him go now?” Basil demanded.
“Callum?”
Shocked at hearing his name from Astrid’s lips, he let go of Leon and strode over to where she stood. “You good?” he asked, running his gaze over her. He couldn’t see anything wrong.
“I’m fine. But are you?” She canted her head over to where Leon stood rubbing the arm Growler had twisted.
“Totally.” Nothing more needed to be said about the situation. “All good here.”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “You expect me to believe that? You almost broke Leon’s arm and interrupted our shoot. How about you try again?”
Where had this sassy woman come from?
Growler liked it. He liked it a lot. “He came up behind me, and I just reacted. It’s what I do. What I’ve been trained to do.” He glanced over to where Leon and Basil were conversing quietly. “Maybe he’ll know not to come up behind someone without their knowledge.”
No way was he going to admit that it was because he’d been lost in his head that he hadn’t noticed the other man approaching him.
“Well, next time, try asking before reacting.” With that, Astrid strode back to the set.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He’d known Astrid possessed an inner fire. That the woman he’d met in the office earlier that day wasn’t a true representation of the woman that she was. The one who’d given him a dressing down was the real Astrid, and he would do whatever was necessary to eliminate the asshole who threatened to take that fire away from her.
Pedro loitered beneath a tree opposite the studio where Astrid Conway shot her show. Snatching her off the street in front of the complex wouldn’t be a good idea. Not only did they have a guardhouse, but there were cameras everywhere.
What he needed to do was follow her to find out where she lived. Although, again, not the greatest idea because every fucking person now had doorbell cameras or other cameras up to protect their properties. Before, it was only the rich and famous who had security cameras. Alarms, bah, they were easy to disarm and never posed much of a deterrent.
Why the fuck did everyone have to follow trends?
Life before everyone had cameras was so much easier. Deals were done easily on the streets, and people would walk by and not give a shit. Now everyone had a phone, and they could record just about everything if they wanted to—and most did.
What he needed the bitch chef to do was go back to Skid Row and do her goody two shoes routine, then it would be easy to get rid of her.
Well, not rid of entirely. He planned to have a little fun with her before he handed her over to Mr. Rook. After that, he didn’t care what happened to her. Whatever Mr. Rook wanted to do with her was his business. She could be his personal chef and sex slave for all Pedro cared.
All that mattered to him was that she wasn’t around to be able to link him to the murder. He had more business to take care of. More goals to achieve. He was going to make his mark in Mr. Rook’s organization.
Yes, he’d shown his face to her at that home goods store. He’d had to sit through three hours of her, first talking about her cookware—like he cared about that. Then all those stupid people wanted a selfie with her and for her to sign her cookbook. A cookbook, for fuck’s sake. Who got a cookbook autographed?
He wanted to know if she recognized him. She hadn’t, but he’d taken perverse pleasure in seeing the fear in her eyes. Instead of taking her, he’d walked out.
Movement at the gate caught his attention, and he stood a little straighter. He recognized her car from the parking lot. He still couldn’t believe she drove it to Skid Row. She was asking for trouble with that thing. The late model BMW was probably one of those electric ones. She seemed like the type to have one.
“What the fuck?”
