Part of me marveled that Jack actually looked different in my dreams. That was one of many things that baffled me about them. Every shifting scene had him wearing something unexpected, something new. It was backwards from my expectation. Why did my subconscious want Jack to change his clothes so badly? Was it just that I empathized with his frozen state and wanted him to find some freedom? Or was it something more?
If Jack noted my extra-hard staring at him, he graciously ignored it. Instead, he pointed to the far right screen and answered my question.
“The kind of problem that wears a black leather jacket and carries a long lens,” he said.
Sure enough, there was a man creeping through the trees and brush to the left of the house, a large camera with a telephoto lens clearly visible. Not to be judgy, but it did seem as if the man’s large lens was compensating for his bald head and doughy middle.
Ugh.
Paparazzi.
It hadn’t taken them long to track Jack here. How had they found him? I scowled, thinking about the ridiculous number of phone calls I had received this week from news outlets and paps. Phone calls that anyone with access to the right corrupt government official could trace.
Grrrr. I hated the thought of Jack’s privacy being invaded like this. Despite my teasing, I knew he was one of the good ones. He deserved so much better than the half-life he was currently living.
“Will he go away, do you think?” Jack asked.
Sure. Once thepaparazzogot the photo he was looking for. Namely, a shot of the handsomely mysterious Jack Knight-Snow. But the guy was about to discover that trespassing was an extremely bad idea.
All my frustration with the current situation spilled over into red-hazed rage.
“He’s going to get a piece of my mind.”
“Pardon?”
I stomped out of the room.
“Chiara, are you insane? You can’t march out there. The man could be anyone with any intent.” Jack caught up with me. “The lens could simply be a ruse, a gun in disguise. A way to lure you out and kill you.”
“Seriously?” I stared Jack down. “I think you’ve watched one too many James Bond films. You know those gadgets aren’t real, right?”
Jack darted around me, planting himself between me and the door. “You’re not going out there.”
I smirked, met his gaze, held it . . . and then walked right though him.
“Chiara!” His voice thundered behind me.
Still smirking, I paused long enough to fish a can of mace out of my purse in the entryway. “Feel better?” I waved it in Jack’s irate face.
“No. This is madness.”
Meh.
A little neurotic, but hardly full on madness. Trust me. I was a D’Angelo. I knew madness. This wasn’t it.
The guy was a nosy pap, not a hit man. And no one was going to harass Jack on my watch. Harassing Jack wasmyjob.
Ehr . . . or something like that.
“Stay inside, Chiara. Call the authorities.”
“You’re not talking me out of this, Jack.” I walked toward the front door.
“Madam! He must be three times your size.”
I froze. And then sloooooooowly turned around.
“What did you say?” My voice soft, deathly quiet.
