Even though I’m in four-inch heels, my eyes hit about level with his chin. It’s a strong chin, square and solid like the rest of his jaw. The bridge of his nose mighthave been equally rigid at one time, but it jags a degree to the right, aftermath of an obvious break. And now that I’m looking, I notice an odd dent in the cheekbone below his left eye. It’s slight, but I fixate on it for a moment, wondering what happened to him, and how.
He clears his throat. “Ma’am, I said you can’t stay here. This vehicle needs to move. Now.”
“Ma’am. Really?” I scoff under my breath. In spite of his hard face and the assessing, serious gaze that seems to add years to his appearance, I place him somewhere near thirty, like me.
“Don’t worry about my car,” I tell him. “I’m only going to be here for an hour or two, and anyway, my brother won’t mind that I’m in his spot.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of Andrew’s first initial and last name stenciled in black letters on the wall in front of my parked Volvo.
He looks skeptical. And he still hasn’t moved to allow me past him. “Your brother?”
“Yes.” I release an impatient sigh. “I’m Evelyn Beckham.”
“I’m not aware that Mr. Beckham has a sister.”
“Well, now you are.”
I stare at him, awaiting the moment when this heavily-armed Boy Scout realizes his mistake. That not only am I, indeed, related to one of Baine International’s chief executives, but that for a short time some eight years ago—before my spectacular fall from grace—I couldn’t go anywhere without being instantly recognized as one of the most photographed, highest-paid fashion models in the world.
I was someone else back then. I’ve gained a few pounds and a whole lot of mileage since those runwaydays when it was all I could do to survive being the perpetually hungry, utterly exhausted and ruthlessly exploited twenty-two-year-old called simply, mononymously, Eve.
But the man studying me now doesn’t seem to know that.
If he does know, maybe he doesn’t care.
Either way, I can’t deny the wash of relief that pours over me in his silence. I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget my time in the harsh glare of the spotlight. I’ve spent even longer than that trying to defend myself against opportunists and sleazeballs of all stripes who tend to see me only as a sexual conquest, or worse, an inanimate object for them to acquire as a means of bolstering their own twisted definitions of manhood or success.
The fact that this man is treating me like a normal human being—albeit a potentially suspicious one—is a welcome reprieve.
Rather, it would be, if he wasn’t standing here keeping me from my meeting with Avery Ross.
“Are we done here? I think you’ve held me up long enough, don’t you?” I sound like an epic bitch, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. His coolness has the opposite effect on me. “In case I didn’t mention it, Nick Baine’s fiancée is waiting for me inside.”
I deliberately use the nickname reserved for the billionaire’s close friends and trusted colleagues. But all it earns me is a grunted acknowledgment from the Boy Scout. “I assume you have some identification?”
“Are you serious?” I gape at him, and I swear I see a trace of wry humor in the tilt of his sculpted lips.
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Again with the ma’am. This guy’s a real charmer. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes as I prepare to show him my ID. And then I remember I don’t have my purse. “Shit.”
“Problem?”
“I lost my purse today.” I close my eyes, giving a faint shake of my head. “My driver’s license, wallet, phone . . . I don’t have any of it on me right now.”
“You’re driving around without your license? You do know that’s illegal, right?”
I glower up at him. “What are you going to do, officer, arrest me?”
“I’m not a cop,” he mutters. As if he’s insulted at the suggestion, his brows rankle in a scowl. He takes his phone out of his jacket pocket and touches the display. His hard gaze remains fixed on me as he brings the device to his ear. “Lily? Yeah, it’s Gabe. I’m doing just fine, darlin’. How’s everything on the top floor?” A grin tugs the edges of his all-too-fine mouth as a cheerful feminine voice sounds on the other end of the line. “Listen,” he says, “I’ve got somewhere I need to be right now, but there’s someone down here in the garage who says Ms. Ross is waiting to meet with her. You know anything about that?” He grunts in response, a low note that doesn’t seem to carry much surprise. “No shit. Andrew Beckham’s got a sister, eh?”
I tilt my head and narrow an annoyed look on him, but the arrogant Boy Scout has the audacity to wink at me while he thanks the other woman for the information, then ends the call.
“Satisfied now?” I ask as he slips the phone back into his jacket pocket.
He holds me in a stare that’s closer to amused thancontrite. “Ms. Beckham, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here today.”
“I’ll say.”
A smirk flashes across his sculpted lips, arrogant and sexier than I care to acknowledge. He extends his hand to me in an apparent attempt at a truce. “So, let’s start over, then. I’m Gabriel Noble, Corporate Security for Baine International. Most people call me Gabe.”
