Page 2 of Charmed by You

He’s not as hot as some of the men I’ve been cast opposite,but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed. Of course, as far as every ridiculoustabloid-style website is concerned, I never kick anyone out of my bed.

“Careful,” I say, nodding to the mess. “The tiles areslippery when they get wet.”

“Especially in those shoes,” he says, glancing at my feet.I’m wearing silk slacks, a tank, and a matching jacket. A semi-casual poweroutfit designed to convey that I’m in charge. And, naturally, I’ve paired itwith my favorite heels. I look elegant and in control.

Unfortunately, he’s absolutely right.Slip on the OJ, and I’ll look like a fool, not like a confident woman who’staking control of a bad situation by hiring a bodyguard.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

His brows rise with what I can only assume is surprise. “I heard the glass break. I came to check on you.”

“You can see that I’m fine,” I snap, then immediately wantto kick myself. I wish I could take back the words. At the very least, I shouldapologize for the tone. But I don’t. I have a reputation for being strong andin control. I drive hard bargains in my movie deals, and publicists know betterthan to try to push me around. Maybe I do need a bodyguard—but I do notneed to lose control of the situation or show anyone that I’m scared.

I lift my chin, making sure my fear and embarrassment arehidden. That much, at least, is easy. I’m an actress, after all. “You can go,”I say. “I’ll just put a towel over it. Deb can clean it later,” I add, referringto my housekeeper.

He doesn’t go, and I’m about to order him out when he takesone long stride toward me.

“You shouldn’t be in here at all. You said you were goinginto the staging area. Not the kitchen.” His voice is hard and harsh, and Irecoil from this unexpected intensity.

“There wasn’t anything to drink in the staging area’sfridge,” I explain. “So I headed the rest of the wayinto the kitchen. It’s hardly like I breached the Pentagon.”

The swinging doors off the dining area enterinto a small corridor where staff can keep drinks, extra napkins,appetizers under warmers, and all the other necessities that make a formaldinner party flow smoothy. That staging area is like a short hallway, withanother set of swinging doors that open onto the massive, commercial qualitykitchen, which is where we are now. This room is huge and airy, with a massivegranite island and walls of picture windows that look out over the property.And that, of course, is the problem. Which I know. But which I wasn’t thinkingabout because all I wanted was an excuse to leave that table before I brokedown and revealed to the entire team how scared I truly am.

He rubs his temples and sighs. “I thought you understood.The team is upgrading your security system right now,” he continues. “Thatmeans it’s partially off. That means that anyone could have slipped onto theproperty, lifted a gun, and shot you through that window.”

“But they didn’t.” The moment I say the words, I realize howidiotic they sound. I know I should call them back, but that would be admittingthat I screwed up. That I lost control of the situation.

“Is that really the argument you want to make to justifyyour behavior?” His voice is tight, and when he speaks, it’s as if he’s talkingto a naughty five-year-old. I might have been scared and contrite a few momentsago, but now I’m just pissed. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The man assigned to keep you alive,” he says at the samemoment I remember his name.

“Mr. Barré,” I say. His name is Simon Barré. I make a show oflooking him up and down. He and all the others might be in my house because I’mscared for my safety, but there is no way I’m going to let this guy look at meas if I’m some simpering fool. Even if I was acting like one.

Damien and Ryan had told me this agent has incredible skillsand years of training, and I give him a slow, thorough once-over, taking in hiswind-ruffled hair, faded jeans, and the long-sleeved scoop-neck shirt that hugshis pecs in a way that suggests he has some serious muscle.

He doesn’t react to my inspection—which, honestly, impressesme. Most men are intimidated by me. It’s a perk of the job.

“Dining room,” he says. “You’re holding up the show.”

My brows rise. “It’s my house.”

“It’s my time.”

I cock my head, not sure if I’m annoyed or amused. But thereis no way I’m losing this battle. “You were late getting here in the firstplace.”

“I wasn’t late,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches,and my always-fast temper ratchets up a notch. “I was walking the perimeter.”

“On my time,” I repeat.

He takes a step toward me, and I have toresist the urge to back away. Like most men, he’s a few inches taller than me.Usually, that doesn’t matter. Usually, I always feel like the tallest person inthe room.

With Simon Barré, that isn’t the case.

“The time is mine,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Atthe end of the day, time is all any of us have.”

I take a step back, surprised. I wasn’t expecting thosewords. That thought. The same words, more or less, thatI’d thrown at my manager when I turned down a piece-of-crap blockbuster thatwould have paid enough to buy my own island. No private island is worth thosehours I would never get back.

I swallow, then speak despite my suddenly dry mouth. “It’smy money that’s paying for your time.” Despite all my theatrical skills, thewords do not come out with the intensity I’d intended.