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“In Paris? I guess so.”
“Why?”
“Look around you.” She gestured down the small rue di Antoinette, smiling as a little girl stumbled down from a chair in the pursuit of a pigeon. “It’s so beautiful.”
Noah scanned the buildings that surrounded them. “Yes.”
She laughed. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
He grinned, surprising her, pulling at something in the region of her heart. “You want me to burst into song about it or something? I think that’s been done already.” To her surprise, he began to sing the Ella Fitzgerald ballad, so beautifully she stopped walking.
“You have a stunning voice.”
He laughed. “That’s something I’ve never heard before.”
“Then you mustn’t sing for people often because it’s not really subjective.”
“I don’t, actually. Ever.”
It was ridiculous that such a throwaway comment should set her heart on fire like that. She felt…special.
She began to walk again, and at the corner, pointed to a boulangerie. “Coffee?”
He lifted his shoulders. “It’s your walk, your choice.”
Her heart extinguished quickly. They were not two lovers strolling the streets of Paris. He was there out of duty, protecting her, indulging her wishes, not living out his own.
Darkness spread over her mood but she acted as though she were completely fine. “I’ll get it. You can wait outside.”
He opened his mouth to object but she shook her head. “I’m sure you’ll be able to keep me safe from the footpath, just this once.”
He frowned, but did as she wished, remaining outside while she ordered their drinks and got her rioting nerves under control. She bought a couple of pastries as well, and a cupcake, then pushed out onto the street. He stood, completely alert, his body tense, his eyes wandering in every direction, underscoring just how much this was work for him, not pleasure.
It was something he’d pointed out to her again and again, but seeing him like this just made her realise what a ridiculous fantasy she’d somehow been concocting.
“I got pastries too. Let’s eat them on the flight.”
Suddenly, she just wanted to be back in London.
Chapter 6
THEIR SECURITY BUSINESS had a private jet, but it was nothing like this. It was more utilitarian, a tool to get them from A to B in a hurry, as needed, generally just around the States. This beast of a jet was like a sky palace, from the white leather lounge suite to the chandelier decorated dining room, a master bedroom that looked like it belonged in a Manhattan penthouse, a cinema, and a gym. He toured the plane in a professional capacity, checking for safety, but even as he did so he was awash with awe at the sheer grandiosity of it.
Even compared to clients he’d worked for in the past, this was next level.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, except Gray was never showy. In Iraq, Noah hadn’t even known Gray was a multi-billionaire; he’d acted like any other guy, getting his hands dirty, messing around, going through the stress, loss, adrenalin and fear in all the same ways. Max wasn’t showy either, but living up close and personal with her he couldn’t ignore the obvious, out of this world wealth she had at her fingertips. And had done since birth. To her, this must have all been very ordinary.
It was a
short flight – just over an hour – and Max read the Virginia Woolf book the whole time, pausing only to nibble the cupcake, then meticulously wipe her fingers on a moist towelette before returning to the book. He worked – or pretended to work – when he wasn’t letting his eyes stray to her and the feline grace she exuded as she sat, legs curled beneath her, body relaxed yet graceful.
From the jet, it was straight into a waiting car, her usual driver Felix behind the wheel. Everything in Max’s life went like clockwork, thanks to Rachel, her assistant, who he knew was paid well above the odds but in exchange worked whenever Max needed her.
Noah sat in the front, dark glasses in place, so she wouldn’t know how often he looked at her in the side mirror. Almost as often as she looked at him.
Hell, this was the last thing he needed.
He forced himself to focus, to run through the data he had on her stalker, the incidents she’d logged, the access points to her life, the people in her life, the forensic evidence – none – which had him spiraling into a whole other thought process. In order to be able to leave such clean spaces, her stalker must have some kind of forensics knowledge. Time spent in a police force, a scientific or laboratory background, something that gave them the skills necessary to evade regular detection.
