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My heart starts to drum at a hundred miles an hour because how does he know? I was being stealthy, wasn’t I? I even pretended to work out in order to blend in.
But apparently, I’m not as good at being shady as I thought I was. Shit. This could be bad. If my editor finds out, I’m screwed, not to mention the legal ramifications of what I did. Is it possible to go to jail for taking illicit naked pictures of someone? Ugh. I need to do some serious damage control, so I take a deep breath and smile winningly at him.
“Okay, yes, I was taking photos of you. I’m a celebrity photographer and my magazine wanted to do a spread of you working out. It’s one of those ‘celebs are just like us’ pieces.”
He gives me a pointed look.
“So you’re paparazzi.”
I smile weakly.
“Well, sort of. I mean, I’d never chase Princess Diana down a dark tunnel or anything—”
“But you’d take photos of a man in the shower?” Talon asks with one eyebrow raised. “Is that any better?”
I smile weakly once more.
“Um no, not really. But you know, our audience loves to see celebrities do normal things, and what could be more normal than showering?” I know my reasoning sounds ridiculous but I manage to smile again while turning on my ignition. “So if we’re done here, I’ll just leave you be—”
One big hand catches my door handle and opens it a few inches.
I swallow hard. “Hey now, that’s not necessary…”
“Melania, you know that what you did is illegal. You can’t take pictures of someone in a private moment like that, especially when they’re trying to take a shower.”
My heart pounds in my chest. That’s not true, is it? I don’t have any formal training as a photographer and I definitely don’t know the legal ins and outs. I hope my tabloid has a good lawyer on staff. But in the meantime, what if I end up in jail because of this? I’ll never recover, either financially or emotionally.
Tears spill from my eyes and my voice cracks. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Creighton. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I know what I did was wrong, but I just wanted to get the photos because I’m in a bind at work.”
He raises a black brow at me, totally unmoved.
“You got them, I assume.”
“I did, but I shouldn’t have,” I sob. “I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t have me arrested because I can’t go to jail. I’ll lose my job if I get into any trouble and I’m already in financial hot water as it is.”
He takes his hand off my car door, but his expression is still ominous. “I don’t know, sweetheart. It seems like maybe you need to learn a lesson.”
I clasp my hands together over my breast and beg then. “I swear, I’ll do anything if you promise not to report me. It would be a disaster and I’d die if I was locked up in a maximum security prison. Please, please, please. I’ll do anything.”
Talon quirks an eyebrow.
“Anything?”
My heart is beating so hard that I barely hear the word slip from Talon’s lips. I’m struggling to steady my breathing and to stop with the ugly sobs so that I don’t pass out.
“Yes anything,” I gasp as tears pour down my cheeks. “Whatever you like.”
OMG, I have to fix this. My life and career can’t be over because I followed some guy into the locker room! It doesn’t matter what Talon requests of me, I’ll do it. I’ll happily take professional headshots of him, or clean his bathroom if he wants. I’ll even empty my bank account if that’s what it takes, but I just can’t go to jail.
Then, the MMA fighter’s eyes meet mine and I’m struck by just how intelligent they are. Once again, I’m reminded that pictures can only capture so much. The real Talon is obviously gorgeous, but he’s also really smart and not just a muscle-bound hulk without a brain.
“Okay,” he says in a casual tone. “You’re going to service me then.”
I stare at him in confusion through my tears.
“What does that mean? Service as in service your car? I don’t get it.”
The cocky man’s grin widens. “It means you’re going to take care of me, sweetheart.”
I stare at him, still stumped.
“Like cook and clean for you or something? Do your laundry? Sure, that’s no problem. I’m an old hand at the stove and my lasagne is really good.”
He lets out a low chuckle.
“Not exactly, sweetheart.” Then, he pulls a card from his back pocket and hands it to me. It’s a business card, with his address and phone number printed on the front in a clean font. “Swing by my house tonight at six p.m. sharp. Don’t be late. I’ll explain everything then so that we can hammer out the details of our agreement.”
