1
Izzy
Agirl knowswhen she is being followed. Just because the man was more or less my boss—my insufferably arrogant and oh so hot boss—didn’t mean I should allow it. In fact, I considered myself quite solicitous in reigning in my urge to knee him in theballs.
I jerked to a halt in the middle of theRue Des Barresand spun to confront him, but he must have stopped before I did. He now stood near a café, looking quite at home in his couture black Sandro suit, despite the casual tourist crowd oohing and ahhing over freshcroissants.
Any other day, I might have ignored his presence and continued to the theater, but today, I had been pushed to my limit. He was always watching me, and he’d no doubt witnessed me dump an entire espresso down the front of my cream blouse. So instead of heading straight to work, I drew myself up, made sure my red lipstick was smooth and my pixie cut ruffled just the right way before taking practiced steps across the cobblestones toward him. I could break an ankle on some of them, even inflats.
He stayed and surveyed my progress, making me doubt he had been the one trekking behind me since I left my apartment, until the innocence on his face caused a sense of foolishness to descend as I finally reached him. I skipped the pleasantries. “Why are you followingme?”
His perfectly arched eyebrows rose a millimeter, and I had to resist the urge to lick my thumb and muss them up. I also needed to get the name of hisstylist.
A few weighted seconds passed, and then the look of intense study on his face cleared to one of suave charm. It was so smooth, I wondered if he kept masks in his back pocket to rotate. Or maybe he had practice at concealing his emotions. Or maybe he didn’t haveemotions.
He answered before my brain went too far off the rails. “I think perhaps we were going in the samedirection.”
No. I shook my head with all the dignity I could muster against that knee-bender of a smile. “You’ve been following me for two months. Ever since I took over the production of Romeo and Juliet. I know who you are Mr. Gray. I’m not anidiot.”
His smile silkily shifted into something else which caused the hairs on my arms to stand on end. “Mon Coeur, I very much doubt you know me atall.”
Standing face to face with him was very different from seeing him hovering at the back of the theater, or passing him on a staircase. He wasn’t much taller than my five-foot eight, but his presence seemed larger somehow. His golden hair and deep blue eyes spoke of a man much older than the mid-twenties I thought him tobe.
His voice broke my study of him now. “You did consider that we work in the samelocation?”
It sounded like a question but also a statement. One of those billionaire tactics to make people think they have achoice.
He was often at the theater overseeing my show. To his credit, he never interrupted or tried to overrule my authority with the cast or its actions. If he had, then we might have had this come-to-Jesus moment a lotsooner.
Instead of releasing the tirade I’d prepared the week before, I narrowed my eyes, hopefully imparting my feelings about him and his BS suggestion, and turned back toward thetheater.
He followed after a minute. The tip-tap of dress shoes matching my pace alerted me to the moment when he caught up. Today, he very well might have been going to the theater, so I wouldn’t press further. But if I saw his face on any of my city walks, he and I would have more thanwords.
It was Friday, so the cast would be off. I usually spent the day working with set design and behind-the-scenes production. Gray’s presence on a Friday wasn’t unusual but I rarely caught a glimpse of him on days the staff tookoff.
He slipped through the side door at the back of the theater a few minutes after I did. This time, I laid in wait. He stopped and straightened his suit jacket when he caught sight of me. In all the time he’d been watching me, I’d also been watching him. He straightened his lapels and the bottom of his coat whenever he got the tiniest bit ruffled. I was beginning to think it cute. Nottoday.
“We meet again so soon, MissVale.”
“Why are youhere?”
He gave me a dismissive shrug. “Protecting myinvestment.”
“Is there some doubt about my ability as a producer ordirector?”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. I have a personal interest in thisproduction.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he remained silent. “Are you going to tell me what itis?”
He chuckled, an infectious laugh which pounced on my nerves, as none of this was funny. “No, of course not, where’s the fun inthat?”
I rolled my eyes and headed up the stairs to my office. He followed on my heels. “You may have a personal interest in the production, but you have no business in my office,” I said, as made it to the top, holding tight to the worn woodenbannister.
He called out from a few steps below. “I do have a question foryou.”
“Are you going to tell me what interest you have in myplay?”
“Come to dinner with me and Imight.”
