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“I know I’m going to regret this,” Chiara muttered.
“I’ll arrange for him to move in at the end of the week,” Odele responded brightly.
“The guest bedroom, Odele!”
Four
Rick roared up on his motorcycle.
Since he was in temporary digs, and most of his stuff was in storage, he didn’t have much to bring to Chiara’s house in the affluent Brentwood neighborhood. Instead, he’d had a taxi deposit his suitcases and duffel bags at the foot of Chiara’s front steps shortly before his arrival midafternoon.
Looking up, he eyed the house. It was a modest size by Tinseltown standards. Three bedrooms and three baths, according to the write-up on a celebrity gossip site. Reminiscent of an English cottage, it had white stucco walls, an arched doorway and a pitched roof with cross-gables and a prominent chimney. Lush gardening added to the atmosphere of a place that might be featured in Architectural Digest.
He’d taken Odele’s advice and planned to say nothing about being a bodyguard. As far as Chiara was concerned, he was here only as a pretend live-in boyfriend. He had no idea, however, how Odele had convinced Chiara to let him move in.
By the time he’d taken off his helmet, Chiara was standing on the front steps.
“Of course you’d ride a motorcycle,” she commented.
He gave an insouciant smile.
“I thought it was an earthquake.”
“I rock your world, huh?”
“Please.”
He looked at her house. “Nice digs. I should have guessed a typical English-style cottage for you, Snow. But where’s the thatched roof?”
“Wrong century,” she responded. “Where do you call home?”
He gave a lopsided grin. “Technically a small apartment in West Hollywood, but my heart is always where there’s a beautiful woman.”
“I thought so.”
He couldn’t tell what she meant by her response. Still, he couldn’t resist provoking her further. “Shouldn’t we kiss for the benefit of the paparazzi and their long-range lenses?”
“There are no photographers,” she scoffed.
“How do you know? One could be hiding in the bushes.”
She eyed his suitcases. “I’ll put you in the guest bedroom.”
“Relegated to the couch already,” he joked. “Are you going to do a media interview about our first lovers’ spat?”
The temperature between them rose ten degrees, and even the planted geraniums perked up—they apparently liked a good show as much as anybody.
“Hilarious,” Chiara shot back, “but it’s a perfectly fine bed, not a couch.”
“And you won’t be in it.”
She cast him a sweeping look. “Use your imagination. A make-believe relationship means pretend sex. But something tells me you have no problem with letting your dreams run wild.”
“Will you still awaken me with a kiss, Snow White?”
She huffed. “You’re hopeless. I don’t do fairy tales, modern or otherwise.”
“That’s obvious.”
