1
MATEO
I've babysat them all in this line of work. Rich kids who party too hard, tech moguls with more money than sense, musicians drowning in groupies. But models? They're a special kind of nightmare.
"This is the place, huh?" I mutter, absorbing the sprawling property through floor-to-ceiling windows. Nestled among Topanga Canyon's trees, the house rises like a bohemian fever dream: wooden beams and glass walls blending seamlessly into the wild landscape.
Ethan paces the living room while we wait for our next assignment. His eyes methodically catalog every corner, exit point, and potential security weakness. We're all trained to assess spaces, but Ethan elevates it to an art form.
"So, what's up with this one, Boss?" I pull up the file on my tablet again. "Just another spoiled celebrity needing a glorified babysitter?"
"This isn't just another celebrity babysitting gig, Kid." He stops pacing, expression serious.
Kid. The nickname I've been stuck with since joining Cross Security. At thirty-two, I'm hardly a kid, but when your business partners and best friends are both thirty-six and built like brick walls, you learn to pick your battles.
I glance over at Declan, the final member of our security trio. Unlike me, he's already in full bodyguard mode: back to the wall, eyes on the door, legs spread wide for stability, hands clasped in front, face unreadable. He never wastes time getting comfortable. Still waters run deep with that one.
Morning sun filters through gauzy curtains, flooding the spacious living room with warmth. Light catches on the stone fireplace and furniture in neutral tones. Nothing like the gaudy mansions most celebrities favor.
"You read the file?" Ethan peers through the windows, assessing the exterior.
"Yeah, I read it." I make no effort to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
Jade Sinclair. Twenty-three. Not just any model, but the model of the moment. At her young age, she's reached that rare one-name-only celebrity status. Just "Jade."
I don't follow celebrity gossip unless I have to work for them, but even I know her story: discovered as a pre-teen, crowned "the most beautiful girl in theworld," skyrocketing to become one of the highest-paid models in the industry.
Lately, though, that fairy tale has crumbled. Rumors of diva behavior, club incidents, rehab stays. And now, apparently, she has a stalker.
Not your run-of-the-mill creepy letter writer, either. Someone attacked her at a hotel pool in New York, struck her across the head, and left her to drown. Thankfully, someone pulled her out in time.
Ethan shoots me a look. His eyes say he's not in the mood for my attitude. "This is a legitimate security concern. Someone tried to kill her."
"Or someone was trying to get her attention," I counter. A familiar tension tightens in my chest as I remember my last celebrity client: Melissa Walker, indie film darling and absolute nightmare. The woman who tried to drug my drink just to add another bodyguard to her list of conquests.
"Not all clients are like Walker." Ethan reads my mind as he often does after years of working together. "Keep an open mind."
"Hard to have an open mind about someone who's been in and out of rehab and throws tantrums when her champagne isn't perfectly chilled." I scroll through thetabloid headlines I pulled up last night.
"We don't know her." Declan's deep voice rumbles from his position by the wall, like distant thunder breaking silence.
"The media knows her plenty." I turn my tablet toward them both. "Jade Sinclair, the Ice Queen of the runway. Refuses to talk to reporters. Stormed off a photoshoot because they didn't have her preferred brand of water. Had to be carried out of a club in Milan last year."
Ethan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're not the paparazzi, Mateo. We're here to do a job. Professional assessment and protection."
"Fine, fine." I raise my hands in surrender. "I'll be on my best behavior. But when she starts demanding we fetch her lattes at 3 AM..."
"Then you'll politely inform her that your job is to keep her safe." Ethan cuts me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You understand why it's important to do a good job?"
"Yeah! I do understand..." I mimic his serious tone. "Starting security company, yada, yada, yada, plenty of competition... Jesus! Lighten up!"
Needing air, I crack open one of the windows. Warm California breeze carries the scent of sage and eucalyptus into the room. I scan the property, professional instincts kicking in despite my reservations about theclient.
"Pretty isolated up here," I comment, noting the considerable distance to the nearest neighbor. "Good for privacy, bad for security."
"Exactly." Ethan joins me at the window, blue eyes narrowing. "Too many blind spots. We'll need to set up additional cameras."
Footsteps draw our attention as a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair enters the living room. This must be Gloria Hayes, Jade's manager. She wears a crisp blouse and slacks, the universal uniform of someone who means business.
